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 SKETCHES FROM LIFE; 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 LAMAN BLANCHARD 
 
 ?!Ktth a iilcinotr of the Author, 
 
 BY 
 
 SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON, BART. 
 
 EMBELLISHED WITH A PORTRAIT, AFTER A DRAWING BY DANIEL MACLISE, R.A. 
 
 AND SEVERAL WOOD ENGRAVINGS, FROM DESIGNS BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK, 
 
 KENNY MEADOWS, AND FRANK STONE. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. III. 
 
 46935 
 
 LONDON: 
 HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 
 
 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 :;•... ,',; 1849. ;;;-,'. r-^:
 
 *. *. I, *^ 
 
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 R 
 
 V.3 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. III. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Record of the Police-Office ....... 1 
 
 Jack Gay, Abroad and at Home 12 
 
 Passionate People 20 
 
 People who " always keep their Word " 31 
 
 Persons whom Everybody has seen . . . . . .51 
 
 1. — Persons who have " got a Spiint." . . . . . 51 
 
 2. — Persons who never have enough of a good Thing . . 55 
 3. — Persons who " know all about it " . . .58 
 
 4. — Persons who are never without an Excuse ... 64 
 
 5. — Persons who Joke at their own Expense . . . . 71 
 
 6. — Persons who " don't know what to do " . . . 77 
 
 Deceased People whom we meet Daily 79 
 
 Every-Day Lying 89 
 
 The Man of High Notions 98 
 
 The Ideal and the Actual. — An Artist's Anecdote . . . .113 
 
 The Mutual Piecc-of-Plate Presentation Club 118 
 
 Everybody's Visitor and Nobody's Guest ..... 132 
 
 Portraits of Notorious Characters . . . . . . 139 
 
 The Theatrical Lessee 139 
 
 "The Oldest Inhabitant" 142 
 
 The Editor. (By One.) 744 
 
 The Police Magistrate 147 
 
 The Borrower 149 
 
 The Man who belongs to no Party . . . . . . 154 
 
 The Aiiti-Punster .157 
 
 The Penny-a-Liner 160 
 
 The Creditor 162
 
 IV CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Man who is always Consistent 168 
 
 Keeping it Up 185 
 
 Women and their Masters 194 
 
 People who Pay Double . . . . . - • .215 
 
 Anything for a Quiet Life ........ 223 
 
 An Essay — on Legs ......... 233 
 
 The Thief of Time 243 
 
 Having One's Own Way . . . . . . . . 253 
 
 The Advantages of being too Late 272 
 
 Nothing Certain in Life . . . . . . . .283 
 
 Suiting the Action to the Word 296 
 
 Female Arithmeticians ........ 308 
 
 Wanted a Neighbour 316 
 
 Symptoms of the Mind Diseased : considered in Relation to the 
 Characteristics of Hamlet ........ 326 
 
 My Dream at Hop-Lodge ......... 338 
 
 The Ninety-nine Good Turns ....... 348 
 
 Sentences on Similes ......... 354 
 
 Antipacification . . , . . . . . . .363 
 
 Society for the Encom-agemeut of Hearts ..... 370 
 
 "Talk of the Devil !" 387 
 
 The City of the Virtues.— View the First 403 
 
 The City of the Virtues. — View the Second .... 409
 
 A RECORD OF THE POLICE-OFFICE * 
 
 " You mustn't be defacing the waUs hereabouts : 
 you 're old enough to know better : move on/' was the 
 warning addressed by a police constable to an old man on 
 whom toil as well as time had pressed heavily, but who yet 
 seemed less bowed down by these than by some great 
 and bitter trouble. He appeared to have been writing 
 
 * The incident here related is not an imaginary one. It is taken from 
 the London police reports published in the newspapers: perhaps ten years 
 ago. It passed mmoticed at the time, or with but a moment's commi- 
 seration. 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 B
 
 Z A RECORD OF THE POLICE-OFFICE. 
 
 with a piece of chalk some unintelhgible words on the 
 wall. On he moved without a remonstrance, unless a 
 deep sigh might be so interpreted. 
 
 It was a bleak, raw evening in autumn. Heavy rain 
 succeeding to the dust of a fortnight's dry weather, had 
 had made the streets wet and slippery as after the 
 breaking up of a frost. Thick lowering clouds, through 
 which not a star struggled, threatened yet more rain. 
 Wandering on apparently without any settled course, 
 the old man stopped in another street (it was somewhere 
 in the extreme west of the metropolis) with the same 
 intention as before. His chalk was already applied to 
 a dwarf garden-wall, over which, among some leafless 
 trees, hung a lamp; when he was again interrupted by 
 a constable on duty, who charged him with a design 
 of leaping the wall ; a harder task to him of the bent 
 frame and shrivelled limbs than scaling the walls of 
 Newgate would have been to his sturdy questioner. 
 But it was the constable's business to be suspicious, and 
 the wanderer seemed to feel that it was in the nature of 
 his task, whatever it might be, to excite suspicion. 
 Again he moved on as directed, with the admonition 
 not to be again found lurking in that neighbourhood. 
 
 The wind, as he traversed the streets, seemed to oppose 
 his progress at every turn; and the rain, which now 
 began to fall, was sure to beat in his face, whether he 
 moved north or south, east or west. The poor old 
 wanderer soon came to a standstill once more. The 
 spot was lonelier and darker, and while the shower beat 
 fiercely against him he had recourse to his chalk, and 
 contrived to scrawl upon some rough boards that en- 
 closed the scaffolding of an unfinished building, amidst 
 bricks and rubbish, a sentence or two, formed in Hues 
 anything but parallel, and of letters of many shapes 
 and sizes. He laboured hard to make every letter dis-
 
 A RECORD OF THE POLICE-OFFICE. O 
 
 tinct, and connected tliem as well as he could in the 
 uncertain light; but the rough surface would have puz- 
 zled an abler penman to write legibly. What he at last 
 managed with such pain and difficulty to chalk on the 
 boards few could have deciphered in broad daylight ; 
 even supposing that the pelting rain did not wash the 
 inscription away before day dawned. 
 
 Having finished it, he threw upward to the heavens, 
 now entirely obscm'ed by chilling and dreary vapour, a 
 look in which a feehng of hope temporarily struggled 
 with anguish and despair ; and the smile with which he 
 turned to proceed on his comfortless and weary way, 
 seemed to tell of something Hghter at his heart than 
 a • dull and stifling sense of the utter uselessness of 
 persevering. 
 
 For three or four hours he continued to wander on, 
 stopping at intervals, as often as opportunity offered, to 
 chalk upon the enclosures of new buildings, on dead 
 walls, or on the doors of outhouses or stabhng, words 
 which he could not spell, and had barely a chance of 
 making legible. Patiently did he repeat the essay, and 
 slowly did he labour to give distinctness to what he 
 Avrote. Often interrupted, he constantly resumed his 
 endeavour when the interruption ceased; as though 
 unconscious of any difficulty that could thwart his pur- 
 pose, or of any pain, insult, or outrage, that would not 
 be far more than compensated by the bare chance, 
 the mere possibily of ultimate success in his sad and 
 strange adventure. 
 
 As the rain fell without intermission, and the wind 
 dashed it with sharp and sudden force against all whom 
 necessity doomed to traverse the streets of Loudon on 
 that miserable night, few passengers, even if they 
 chanced to note the old man loitering by the door of an 
 empty house, or chalking on some closed window-shut- 
 
 B 2
 
 4 A RECORD OF THE POLICE-OmCE. 
 
 ter, troubled themselves to pause and observ^e Ms pro- 
 ceedings. But although most of them hurried on, 
 mindful of nothing but themselves, and the frequent 
 pools created by the torrent that descended upon them , 
 some passenger would now and then stop to gratify an 
 impulse of curiosity, or of benevolent feeling it might 
 be, to see what he was about ; and many were the cha- 
 ritable warnings that he was in imminent danger of 
 being sent as a vagabond to the treadmill, many the 
 kind inquiries whether he had been employed by a 
 quack doctor or a blacking-maker to chalk the walls of 
 the metropolis, many the insolent and unfeeling jeers 
 from a rabble of big boys (generally the worst tormentors 
 misfortune can come in contact with in the streets of a 
 great city) that the old man had to hear and to brave in 
 the course of his desultory and painful perambulation. 
 
 Every now and then, moreover, he had to experience 
 more legitimate and effectual interruption. The police, 
 then recently established in the metropohs, were a body 
 of men very different from the force in existence at the 
 present day; far less disciplined, instructed, and con- 
 siderate — plentiful as examples of a contrary character 
 may be even now. The wretched old man had to endure 
 all the rashness, insolence, and brutality of an unweeded 
 and newly-raised constabulary, and frequent and fierce 
 were the assaults to which his perseverance exposed 
 him, as he slowly and silently crawled on his way, and 
 then recommenced the seemingly forlorn and crazy 
 experiment with his piece of chalk. Not with harsh 
 and threatening words alone, but often with rude and 
 violent thrusts, was the aged pedestrian driven along ; 
 but he renewed his attempt when out of sight, and 
 raised his eyes every two or three minutes to the starless 
 and unpitying sky, in muttered and inarticulate prayer 
 for a blessing on his endeavour. 
 
 He had now threaded his way through a vast number
 
 A RECORD OF THE POLICE-OFFICE, 5 
 
 of streets, generally avoiding tlie leading and crowded 
 thoroughfares, when he found himself in one of the ob- 
 scurer parts of Marylebone. Sick at the very heart, 
 weary to a degree that under less stimulating circum- 
 stances would have been utter exhaustion, the shops 
 nearly all closed, and the streets scanty of passengers, 
 while the rain, descending less fitfully with abated gusts 
 of wind, gave sign of its continuance, — the old man did 
 now feel desolate almost beyond endurance ; when, as 
 he passed a house that stood somewhat backward in a 
 quiet comer of the street, a sound of merrymaking, of 
 jocund, laughing, screaming, human voices broke upon 
 his ear. The wanderer suddenly stopped. What a 
 contrast between their noisy shouting revels, and the 
 blank and dreary silence of that old man^s aching 
 heart ! But his heart now beat, gently at first, and 
 then more strongly and more quickly — beat with a 
 pulse that owned a keen and penetrating pleasure for 
 its mover, as his ear caught in those sounds of unre- 
 strained and riotous rejoicings the voices of children. 
 
 There is no music like the human voice, and in that 
 voice there is no music like the joyous prattle and the 
 ringing laughter of children. So seemed to feel the 
 old listener as he drew nearer to the house, and bent 
 his ear to hearken to the mirth that, more than the 
 wind without, appeared to be shaking the very roof to 
 which it rose. Coarse as might be the clay of which he 
 was formed; commonplace as in all else he might be; a 
 being born with no more mental gifts than may be 
 enjoyed by the meanest of his fellows, placed on earth 
 apparently to drudge away their days, with minds 
 hardly raising them above the brutes that di\4de with 
 them the duty of labour; there was yet a feehng of the 
 utmost possible refinement, a profound sense of sweet- 
 ness and beauty, stirring in the old man, as he bent 
 forward with his ear close to the Anndow-shutter to
 
 6 A RECORD OP THE POLICE-OFFICE. 
 
 catch the broken exclamations, and the bursts of 
 laughter, loud and clear, that rose from the little re- 
 vellers within. 
 
 It was a holiday -making, a birthday celebration, and 
 they were sitting up late, with sparkling eyes that 
 seemed as if they were never to know sleep again, to a 
 genuine snap-dragon, anticipating Christmas. The old 
 man felt the rain less than ever, though it poured fast 
 upon him from the ledge over the shutters, while he 
 listened intently to discriminate the various voices of 
 the shouters, and catch them separately as they broke 
 forth and blended into one wild tumult of delight. Each 
 in succession he seemed to note and dwell upon ; from 
 the low, inward, bubbling, heart-shaking laugh, intensely 
 joyous, and struggling to escape into the relief of loud- 
 ness, to the high-pitched, long-breathed, uncontrollable 
 scream of rapture that terminates, only just in time, in 
 tears and pantings. The same happy voice and the 
 same wild laugh he recognised again and again ; yet the 
 pleasure within him died away, and his heart shrunk 
 up, and lost its glow, and felt still, and cold, and deso- 
 late as before. He had heard them all, all the little 
 voices one after another : he was certain that his ear 
 had not missed a single sound: but it had recognised no 
 tone that was familiar to it, no music like that it craved ; 
 no, nothing hke it; for among the sounds of earth 
 there was no resemblance to the sweet, low music of 
 that one voice for which his soul, rather than his sense, 
 was evermore hstening night and day, in the wild 
 visions of sleep, as in the desert haunts, the (to him) 
 unpeopled streets of the thronged and tumultuous city. 
 
 But might there not be among the crowd of happy 
 faces round the table, one silent child, one sad quiet 
 gazer, one pale and gentle beholder of happiness in 
 which she couldn^t entirely participate, although she 
 could not quite shut the sense of it from her heart, one
 
 A RECORD or THE POLICE-OFFICE. / 
 
 whose breathings were of stifled regret more than of 
 active joy, of fear, surprise, and thoughts of tears shed 
 recently, and to be shed again too soon, rather than of 
 pleasure in the rude and novel liveliness of the scene. 
 It was fooUsh, very fooHsh, he knew ; it was vain and 
 useless; yet something, it seemed to be a whisper in his 
 heart, told him it might be. Should he knock; and 
 pray, not in the name of humanity, but of Heaven that 
 put divinity in it, for the charity of a kind answer to 
 one fond and silly question ! Should he risk the sharp 
 repulse, and trust for his excuse to those beautiful 
 sympathies, to those exquisite emotions of nature, 
 which linking the old to the yoimg, parents and children, 
 in that common dwelling, were converting it into a 
 temple of concord, charity, and love ! 
 
 Such were his thoughts; though they wore, as they 
 awoke within him, a homeher garb. He sat down on 
 the doorstep to wait. After a time, a coach came for 
 some of the children ; he saw them, one by one, but 
 they were strangers. Half-a-dozen went, and then 
 more. He scanned their features as though he half- 
 hoped to see some face he knew. At last all were gone. 
 The fancy that even into that fold of luxury (compared 
 with his own home), amongst that gay and fortunate 
 flock, one shorn lamb might have strayed and found 
 shelter, was indeed idle. The door closed, driving back 
 the shivering old man upon that desolate prospect and 
 despairing task, from which he had been thus attracted 
 by sudden peals of childish laughter, and the associa- 
 tions to which they had given rise. 
 
 Now once more he journeyed onward, shaping his 
 dreary course eastward, and taking occasionally in pre- 
 ference the principal streets; Avhich he had hitherto 
 shunned, as unfavourable by the lights in shops and the 
 throng of passengers, to his object. The lateness of
 
 8 A RECORD OF THE POLICE-OFFICE. 
 
 the hour now precluded all fear of such interruptions ; 
 and the only impediments he had to expect were from 
 the police, and such midnight wanderers as vice, or 
 destitution, or habits of prowling, still kept from 
 needftd shelter. 
 
 And thus the hours rolled on, no star breaking 
 through the wet and murky night, to cheer his way, or 
 supply an image of that vague and feeble and far-off 
 hope, whatever its nature might be, that struggled to 
 keep ahve its melancholy light amid the darkness of 
 his thoughts. 
 
 Over scarcely less than the fourth part of the im- 
 mense metropohs; through spacious streets and squalid 
 alleys, amidst meanness and magnificence, all alike 
 dreary to him; had his old and tired limbs draggingly 
 borne him. Of his " looped and windowed raggedness," 
 exposing him to the drizzling shower and the chilling 
 blasts, he had for hours ceased to feel the effects ; the 
 severities of the night had no further power to subdue 
 him j nor did fatigue admit of much increase, for once 
 thoroughly weary and sore of foot, he felt that he could 
 still drag on without great additional pain. Every now 
 and then, while feebly endeavouring to guide, with his 
 numb and aching fingers, the chalk he could just con- 
 trive to hold between them, he would start, and feel the 
 blood rush warm into his very hand, as he fancied he 
 heard in the wind that whistled past, the waOing of a 
 child, hungry, deserted, and in peril. Occasionally, too, 
 he would cast a glance up at a solitary window, which 
 showed that a light was burning in the chamber of the 
 sleeping, and feel that in that room might youth and 
 innocence be nestled warm, and cradled in loving arms ; 
 yet not with less care and affection might his own enfold 
 the innocence his heart doted on, though theirs were 
 comforts far beyond any his poverty could supply — com-
 
 A RECORD OF THE POLICE-OFFICE. 9 
 
 forts, wliich, scanty as they were, that heart sickened 
 with anguish to think might at that very time be denied 
 to the object of its love. 
 
 He had rested two or three times since his wander- 
 ings commenced; but from such drier nooks and 
 sheltering comers as he could find, he was driven by 
 the patrol under pain of being committed to prison for 
 the crime of houselessness, known to the law by the 
 name of vagrancy. He had now sunk for a few 
 minutes on a step in the vicinity of Charing-Cross, 
 when the streaming light from a policeman *s lantern 
 aroused him from his reflections. Sternly warned of 
 his having been seen loitering about the spot on two 
 previous mornings, and that if caught there again he 
 would find no favour, he bent his steps (the clock warn- 
 ing him that it was near daybreak) to his wretched 
 home, in one of the poorest districts of Westminster. 
 Advanced but a little way, he stopped to make one final 
 trial with the friendly chalk, the last piece of which was 
 now reduced to a size so small, that it was with difficulty 
 he could hold it. It crumbled away before he could 
 finish the few words ; what he had written was useless 
 without the rest; and a presentiment came over him 
 (for sorrow is ever superstitious), that this last attempt, 
 if completed, would be fortunate — that the writing would 
 not be eff'aced, that it would be seen and read — that it 
 would be successfid when all the rest failed. Close by 
 lay a heap of lime and rubbish. He searched among the 
 dry mortar and chips of stone for something that might 
 enable him to fulfil his wish ere he returned home ; he 
 groped within the wooden fence in front of the building; 
 — when once more the long-darting rays of a lantern were 
 turned upon him, a strong hand dragged him over the 
 mass of rubbish, and hurried him, spent and exhausted, 
 to the nearest station-house. 
 
 B 3
 
 10 A RECORD OF THE POLICE-OFFICE. 
 
 The next morning he was carried rather than led 
 before a magistrate. The charge against him was 
 estabhshed; he had been detected chalking on walls 
 and doors^ and qualifying himself for the House of 
 Correction. Thither he was about to be committed, 
 when it occurred to the magisterial mind that the culprit 
 might have been writing treason on the walls. 
 
 " I don ^t think it was treason/^ said one of the con- 
 stables, " ^cause he don 't seem quite right in his mind. 
 He complains of having lost his little gal ; his gran- 
 child leastways." 
 
 The magistrates having obser\^ed that all respectable 
 persons, when they lose their grandchildren, put them- 
 selves into decent mourning, instead of chalking walls; 
 
 " He don 't mean dead," returned the constable ; 
 " he 's lost her ; she ^s stolen or strayed," 
 
 The old man^s feelings here overcame him ; he sobbed 
 as if he had been but the little weak -nerved creature 
 he bewailed. His story was told in a few simple words. 
 
 The child's mother, his only daughter, had deserted 
 him before she was seventeen years old. A \dcious life 
 ended in a miserable death ; but in the midst of that 
 vice and misery grew into being that delicate flower of 
 humanity, which he had hoped, so long as he drew 
 Heaven's breath, to guard from the rude storms of the 
 world. More, far more than a daughter to him, was 
 that hapless and innocent being. As the child of his 
 child, she seemed to bear a double life, and to claim a 
 double love. Scant even to extreme poverty were his 
 means; he was too feeble to pui'sue his occupation as 
 a day-labourer, yet her wants he contrived to supply. 
 And one day lately, while he had been employed out of 
 doors, the fair, prattling, sweet-tempered girl, who was 
 to him not more a thing that he should protect with his 
 life than an angel watching over and sanctifying it.
 
 A RECORD OF THE POLICE-OFFICE. 11 
 
 suddenly disappeared. The lodgers in the house had 
 seen her playing in the sunsliine at the door; then a 
 neighbour observed her at the end of the court listening 
 to "some musicians ;" and another noticed her looking 
 into a "picture-shop^^ two streets off: beyond this there 
 was no inteUigence. She might have wandered into 
 the wilderness of streets, been kidnapped, or crushed 
 under waggon- wheels. 
 
 The old man was too miserably poor to pay for the 
 printing of handbills ; and for three long nights had he 
 paced the streets of the city, east and west, chalking on 
 the walls the statement of his loss, the name of the 
 little wanderer, and a description of her person. He 
 described the eyes and the hair of his beloved grand- 
 daughter : 
 
 " Lost, a little girl, name Mary Rose, six years old ; 
 had on a gi'een spotted frock ; blue eyes, and light soft 
 hair, long, and curled on the neck; tall, and speaks 
 quick, with a sM'eet voice. Wandered from her grand- 
 father. Green-arbour-court," &c. 
 
 Such were the words, though not so spelt. I know 
 not how the incident may affect others : it may seem 
 very trifling : but to me it appeared not undeser^dng a 
 place among those chronicles of real life that record 
 what is most profound and beautiful in natural affection. 
 What a heart of love had that old man ! and how im- 
 potent such words — " blue eyes," " soft curled hair," 
 and " sweet voice " — to speak the sense of beauty that 
 made part of its overflowing fondness ! How impossible 
 by such phrases to make the stranger see in the lost 
 child, the image of loveliness on which his soul hung 
 until the earthly became as something heavenly ! What 
 a lifetime of anxiety and dread must have been com- 
 pressed into tliose tlu-ec nights and days, so spent in 
 threading the endless maze of London !
 
 12 JACK GAY ABROAD AND AT HOME. 
 
 Everywhere but to his home he had gone; there he 
 scarcely dared to go; the dark^ silent, empty room looked 
 like a grave that had been dug for him. And thither, 
 as to a grave, when dismissed by the magistrate, he 
 repaired ; to find, that had he returned sooner, the past 
 night would have been one of transport. The dove 
 had flown back to the ark. The little creature had 
 been awake all night long ; but now she slept, uncon- 
 scious of the loving, rapturous, half-blind eyes that 
 dropped tears of joy as they watched beside her. 
 
 JACK GAY, ABROAD AND AT HOME. 
 
 Who that had once met Jack Gay at dinner, where'er 
 the feast of venison and the flow of port prevailed, ever 
 forgot him ? What lady, the luckiest of her sex, ever 
 experienced his " deUcate attentions" at a quiet evening 
 party, a quiet concert, or a quiet dance, without speak- 
 ing of him from that moment, not as the most charm- 
 ing of acquaintances, but as a very old friend ; without 
 feeling quite sure that she had known him all her life, 
 though she had never seen him but that once ? 
 
 What spirits he had ! Other men had their jovial 
 moods, but Jack was always jovial. To be lively by fits 
 and starts, to be delightful when the humour sets in, to 
 emulate the fair exquisite of Pope, 
 
 And make a lover happy — for a whim — 
 
 is within anybody's reach. But Jack had no fits and 
 starts ; the humour flowed in one unebbing course, and 
 his whim consisted in making everybody as happy as he 
 was at all seasons.
 
 JACK GAY, ABROAD AND AT HOME. 13 
 
 His joviality never depended upon the excellence of a 
 dinner, the choice of wines, or any accident of the hour. 
 His high spirits and invariable urbanity were wholly 
 independent of the arrangements of the table, the selec- 
 tion of the guests, and the topics of conversation. He 
 discovered pleasant things to hearken to, and found 
 dehghtful themes to chat upon, even during the dreary 
 twenty minutes before dinner. Yes, even that was a 
 lively time to Jack. Whenever he went out it was to 
 enjoy a pleasant evening, and he enjoyed it. 
 
 - The fish was spoil'd, the soup was cold, 
 The meat was broil'd, the jokes were old, 
 The tarts were dumps, the wine not cool, 
 The guests were pumps, the host a fool. 
 
 But for all this Jack cared about as much as a flying- 
 fish cares for a shower of rain. No combination of ill 
 omens and perverse accidents ever proved a damper to 
 him. 
 
 He is in\T.ted to meet (say) Johnson and Burke, and 
 is greeted, on his entrance, with the wcU-known tidings 
 that Johnson and Burke " could'nt come." Does Jack 
 heave one sigh in compliment to the illustrious absentees, 
 and in depreciation of the company who have assembled ? 
 Not he. No momentary shade of disappointment dims 
 his smiling face. He seems as delighted to meet the 
 Uttle parlour-full of dull people, as though the room 
 were crammed with Crichtons. He has the honour of 
 being presented to little Miss Symebody, from the 
 country, who seems shy ; and he takes the same pains 
 to show his pleasure in the introduction, and to tempt 
 the timid stranger to talk, that he would have exerted 
 in an effort to interest Mrs. Siddons. He sits next to 
 a solemn ignoramus, who is facetious in expounding the 
 humours of Squire Bog, his neighbour, or didactic in 
 developing the character of Dogsby, the great patriot
 
 14 JACK GAYj ABROAD AND AT HOME. 
 
 in Ms parish; and Jack listens as complacently as 
 though his ear were being regaled with new-born 
 bon-mots of Sheridan's, or anecdotes of the Earl of 
 Chatham. 
 
 Jack, like some statesmen, was born to be out ; and 
 to him, as to some other statesmen, all parties were the 
 same. The only preference he ever seemed to entertain 
 was for the particular party that chanced at the par- 
 ticular moment to rejoice in his presence. He enjoyed 
 everything that happened, Leigh Hunt, describing a 
 servant-maid " at the play,'' observes, that every occur- 
 rence of the evening adds to her felicity; for she likes 
 even the waiting between the acts, which is tiresome to 
 others. So with Jack at a party. He enjoyed some 
 dislocated experiments on the harp, by an astonishing 
 child, aged only fifteen ; and was the sole person in the 
 room who encored with sincerity that little prodigy's 
 comTilsive edition of " Bid me discourse." He listened 
 with laudable gra\dty to Master Henry's recitation of 
 " Rolla's Address," and suggested the passages in which 
 John Kemble was rather too closely followed. He 
 enjoyed the glasses of warm wine handed round between 
 the songs ; he liked the long flat pauses, " when nobody 
 said nothing to his neighbour;" and he liked the sud- 
 den burst of gabble in which at the termination of the 
 pause, as if by preconcerted agreement, every creature 
 eagerly joined. 
 
 He liked the persons he had never met before, and 
 those whom he was in the habbit of meeting just seven 
 times a week. He admired the piano that was always 
 out of tune, and the lady who, kindly consenting to 
 play, was always out of temper. He thought the per- 
 sons to whom he had not been introduced very agree- 
 able, and all the rest extremely entertaining. He was 
 delighted with his evening, whether it exploded in a
 
 JACK GAY, ABROAD AND AT HOME. 15 
 
 grand supper, or went-off, flasli-in-tlie-pan fasliion, with 
 a sandwich. 
 
 He never bottled up his best things, to uncork them 
 in a more brilliant company the next night; he was 
 never dull because he was expected to shine, and never, 
 by laborious efforts to shine, succeeded in showing that 
 dulness was his forte. He pleased everybody because 
 he was pleased himself; and he was himself pleased, 
 because he could not help it. Many queer-looking 
 young men sang better, but nobody sang with such 
 promptness and good taste; many awkward gawkies 
 danced with more exactness and care, but nobody danced 
 so easily to himself or so acceptably to his partner; 
 many handsome dashing fellows were more showy and 
 imposing in their manners, but none produced the 
 agreeable effect that followed a few words of his, or one 
 of his joyous laughs ; nay, even a kind and sprightly 
 glance. The elaborate, and long-meditated impromptu 
 of the reputed wit fell still-born; while one of Jack^s un- 
 . studied gay -hearted sallies burst like a rocket, and 
 showered sparkles over the room. 
 
 Everybody went away convinced that there was one 
 human being in the world whose oasis of life had no 
 surrounding desert. Jack lived but for enjoyment. The 
 links of the chain that bound him to existence, were of 
 pure gold; there was no rough iron clanking between. 
 He seemed sent into the world to show how many may 
 be amused, cheered, comforted, by one light heart. 
 That heart appeared to tell him, that where his fellow- 
 creatures were, it was impossible to be duU ; and the 
 spirit of this assurance prevailed in all he said and did ; 
 for if he staid till the last half dozen dropped off, he 
 was just as fresh and jocund as when the evening began. 
 He never knew what it was to be tired; and as the hos- 
 pitable door was at last closed upon him, you heard him
 
 16 JACK GAY, ABROAD AND AT HOME. 
 
 go laughing away down the steps. Upon his tomb, 
 indeed, might be written a paraphrase of the epitaph so 
 gloriously earned by his illustrious namesake : 
 
 So that the merry and the wise might say, 
 Pressing their jolly bosoms, " Here lauglis Gay !" 
 
 But did anybody, who may happen to see this page, 
 ever see the aforesaid Jack at home ? — at high-noon, or 
 in the evening when preparing to go out ! Behold him 
 on the eve of departure — just going — about to plunge, 
 at the appointed moment, into the revelries ofabrilhant 
 circle, where, if he were not, a score of sweet voices 
 would fall to murmuring " I wish he were here ! " For 
 the admiration, the envy, the cordial liking which surely 
 await him there, you would now be apt to substitute 
 commiseration, regret ; a bit of friendly advice to him 
 to stop at home, and a pull at the bell for pen-and-ink 
 that he might write an excuse. 
 
 The truth is, that Jack was a morbid, irresolute, 
 wayward, cross-grained chap. He was kind-hearted in 
 the main, and even generous ; but his temper was often 
 sullen, and his spirit often cynical. Catch him on a 
 winter's afternoon, half an hour before he dressed for 
 dinner ! You would think him twenty years older, and 
 five bottle-noses uglier. You would conclude that he 
 was going to dine with Diogenes in his tub, or to 
 become a partaker of a skeleton-feast in Surgeons'-hall. 
 The last time we ever saw Jack out of company, he was 
 in such a mood as we have hinted at. It was a Novem- 
 ber afternoon between five and six; there was no 
 light in the room ; but by the melancholy gleam of a 
 low fire, he was to be seen seated on a music-stool with 
 his feet on the fender, his elbows on his knees, his head 
 resting upon his hands, and his eyes listlessly wander- 
 ing over the dull coals in search of the picturesque.
 
 JACK GAY, ABROAD AND AT HOME. 17 
 
 " Come in ! '^ growled the voice of the Charmer. 
 " Can you grope your way ? Dreary rooms these ; 
 and Hghts make 'em worse.^' 
 
 Then without moving his seat to give us a share of 
 the fire, he apphed the poker to the cinders, not to kin- 
 dle a blaze and throw a light upon the gloom, but e\i- 
 dently to put out any little stray flame that might 
 happen to be lingering there. There was just light 
 enough to show that his face wore an air of profound 
 sadness and despondency. To a serious inquiry as to 
 the cause — if auAthing had happened, 
 
 " Yes," mm-mured the Fascinator, with an amiable 
 scowl, " the weather has happened, November has hap- 
 pened, and dinner will happen in another hour. Here's 
 a night to go three miles for a slice of saddle o' mutton ! 
 My luck! Cold and wet, isn't it?" continued the 
 Irresistible, knocking cinder after cinder into the ashes ; 
 " I 'm miserable enough at home, and so forsooth, I must 
 dress and go out. Ugh ! This is what they call having 
 a pleasant life of it. I don't know what you may think, 
 but I look upon an invitation to dinner as nothing less 
 than insult. Why should I be dragged out of my 
 wretched nook here, without an appetite, and against my 
 will? We call this a free country, where nobody's 
 allowed to be miserable in his own way; where every 
 man's a slave to ceremony ; a \dctim to his own poHte- 
 ness, a martyr to civil notes. Here's my saddle o' 
 mutton acquaintance, for example ; I never hurt or 
 offended the man in all my days, and yet I must go 
 and dine with him. I 'd rather go to a funeral. Well 
 if you 'vc anything to say, out Avith it, for my hour's 
 come. Now mind, before I ring this bell, I predict 
 that there's no hot water, and that my boots are 
 damp." 
 
 The difference between Jack at six, and Jack at
 
 18 JACK GAY, ABROAD AND AT HOME, 
 
 seven, was the difference between a clock down and a 
 clock wound up ; between a bird in the sheU, and a 
 bird on tbe wing; between a bowl of punch before, and 
 after, the spirit is poured in it was the difference 
 between Philip drunk and Philip sober (or the reverse 
 if you will) j between a lord mayor in his plain blue- 
 coat and kerseys, and a lord mayor in his state robes ; 
 between Grimaldi at the side-scene waiting to go on, 
 with that most melancholy shadow on his face which 
 tradition has so touchingly painted, and Grimaldi on 
 the stage, in view of the con-^oilsed spectators, the illu- 
 minator of congregated dulness, the instantaneous 
 disperser of the blues, the explorer of every crevice of 
 the heart wherein care can lurk, an embodied grin. It 
 was the difference, to speak more exactly still, between 
 Sappho at her toilet, and Sappho at an evening mask. 
 
 To see Jack when just beginning to prepare for a 
 drop-in somewhere, late at night, between ten and 
 twelve, was almost as good as seeing him when arrived 
 there. The rash promise made, he always contrived to 
 fulfil it ; though it was often ten chances to one that he 
 did not, and he appeared to keep his engagements by 
 miracle. As the hour drew nigh, you would imagine 
 that he had just received tidings of the dreadful loss of 
 several relatives per railroad, or that half his income 
 had been swallowed up in a mine, or forged exchequer- 
 bills. It would be impossible to conjecture that his 
 shrugs and sighs, pee\dsh gestures and muttered execra- 
 tions, were but the dark shadows of a brilliant " coming 
 event;" that discontent and mortification were the 
 forerunners of the gay hours; and that bitter morose- 
 ness, limping and growhng, announced the approach of 
 the dancing Pleasures ! 
 
 So it was ; for Jack at that moment, instead of haihng 
 these dancing Pleasures by anticipation, and meeting
 
 I 
 
 JACK GAY, ABROAD AND AT HOME. 19 
 
 them at least half-way, would gladly have ridden ten 
 miles in any other direction. He could make himself 
 tolerably comfortable anywhere, save at the place to 
 which he was ruthlessly, imperiously bound ; with any- 
 body, save with the people who were anxiously waiting 
 for a glimpse of his good-humoured ^'isage. He was 
 fully bent on going, in fact he felt that he must ; yet 
 he raised every obstacle that ill-temper could invent, 
 knowing all the while that he should be obliged to 
 surmount them. 
 
 He would even allow his reluctance to stir, to prevail 
 so far over the gentlemanly principle of his natui-e, as 
 to question secretly within himself whether he ought to 
 go, while he entertained a suspicion that the people 
 who had again invited him were not quite prudent in 
 giving so many expensive parties ! 
 
 He would catch hold of any rag of an acquaintance 
 just then, to cover his loneliness, and to save him from 
 utter solitude; to give him an excuse for procrasti- 
 nating, and an opportunity of grumbling out his regrets 
 at stripping from head to foot, not to go to bed, but to 
 go out ; at being doomed to shake off his qidet moping 
 mood, and plunge head-foremost into festi^dty. And 
 then, when the effort had been made, when the last 
 obstacle had been overcome, when he was arrayed from 
 top to toe, and could no longer complain of this thing 
 not in readiness, and that thing mislaid, or the glove 
 that split in drawing it on, or the cab that was not 
 {and never was) on the stand when he wanted one, he 
 would ask himself with a deep-drawn sigh the melan- 
 choly question : " Isn't it hard that a man must go out, 
 with a broken heart, to take an hour or two's jollifica- 
 tion at this time of night \" 
 
 Off went Jack Gay ; and imtil four in the morning 
 the merry hours lagged far behind his joyous spirits.
 
 20 PASSIONATE PEOPLE. 
 
 Hospitality put on his magic boots to run a race with 
 him, and the bewitching eyes of Pleasure herself looked 
 grave and sleepy compared with the glistening orbs of 
 her votary ! 
 
 PASSIONATE PEOPLE. 
 
 " So you will fly out ! Why can't you be cool like me ? What good 
 can passion do ? Passion's of no use, you impudent, obstinate, over- 
 bearing reprobate."— ^jr Anthony Absolute. 
 
 Of all the evils, all the injuries, all the calamities, by 
 which passionate people are liable to be \dsited, none 
 are so perilous, so overwhelming, as the encounter with 
 a meek, cool, patient, unanswering adversary ; if adver- 
 sary such a wretch can be called. There is no trial in 
 life like this. The bare idea of it puts one out of 
 temper. To be placed, when in the full swing of a 
 violent fit of rage, when indulging to an excess in the 
 wildest transports of the soul, when giving loose to the 
 most riotous emotions of our nature ; to be placed at 
 such a juncture right opposite some cold calm personi- 
 fication of indiflFerence, some compound of sadness and 
 tranquillity, with an air of entire submission, with 
 drooping lids, and perhaps a smile not entirely free from 
 pity ; to see some such person sitting there impertur- 
 bably philosophical, putting the best construction pos- 
 sible upon one's violence, and evidently making silent 
 excuses for one's ungovernable fury ! I put it to any 
 rational madman, that is to say to any man I know, 
 whether this be not a species of exasperation too great 
 to be borne, and quite enough to make one start ofi' for
 
 PASSIONATE PEOPLE, 21 
 
 Niagara, to enjoy the intense satisfaction, tlie indispen- 
 sable relief, of jumping down. 
 
 I wouldn^t give one drop of ink for a man who never 
 goes into terrific passions; who never lets his blood boil 
 over, at least now and then ; but I should feel peculiar 
 pleasure in hurling any inkstand (the writing-desk 
 would be better), at the head of him whose fury did not 
 instantly become ten thousand times more inflamed by 
 the mere presence of that smooth oily virtue, that 
 "ostentatious meekness, '^ which at once sighs in submis- 
 siveness and smiles in superiority. 
 
 All the mischiefs that arise from the excesses of anger 
 and rage must be conscientiously set down to the account 
 of that provoking passiveness, that calmness which 
 irritates the fiery beholder past endurance. Let the 
 physician, who would minister to the mind diseased, 
 take any shape but that. Who is there that cannot 
 bear testimony to its galling efi'ects from his own obser- 
 vation or experience? Only say to a man in a pet, 
 " Now don't lose your temper," and he falls naturally 
 into a rage ; say to one abeady exasperated, and on the 
 verge of a fit of fury, " Pray don't put yourself into a 
 passion, it's all a mistake, there's nothing to be angry 
 about ;" and what so sure to set him off at a pace past 
 stopping ! 
 
 The image of " Patience on a monument smiling at 
 Grief" has been greatly admired, but as a design it 
 would hardly hold together for five minutes. Shaks- 
 peare was a Kttle out for once. Patience smiling at 
 Grief! How could Grief stand it? She would be 
 transformed into Rage in no time. If at all in earnest, 
 she must necessarily be provoked to jump down in a 
 paroxysm, or to pitch Patience off the monument. 
 
 To the truly irritable, and I confess that I am one of 
 them, all such irritation, to say the least of it, is super-
 
 22 PASSIONATE PEOPLE. 
 
 fluous. To US wlio have " free souls/^ no such provoca- 
 tion is wanting at any time. We are always ready to 
 go ahead without this high pressure ; our quick blood 
 renders the spur unnecessary. We never wait for " the 
 motive and the cue for passion" that Hamlet speaks of. 
 
 The real relish and enjoyment of it consists in going 
 into a rage about nothing. The next pleasure to that 
 consists in being roused to fury about other people^s 
 affairs; in lashing oneself into madness about some 
 grievance borne by a person who seems perfectly indif- 
 ferent to it. There are numbers of people who may be 
 thus said to go into passions by proxy. They have 
 experienced a slight^ of which they give a cool account 
 to some susceptible friend^ who stamps and raves at 
 every word of the narrative. They calmly inform you 
 that they have been shamefully ill-used ; upon which 
 they stroke their chins complacently, and leave you to 
 tear your hair. The man who has been cruelly wronged 
 describes with a glib tongue, while the uninjured auditor 
 disinterestedly gnashes his teeth. I have always admired 
 that passage in one of George Colman's plays, where a 
 warm-hearted fellow, gi\^ng an account of some flagrant 
 act of oppression to which he had been a witness, 
 observes: "Well, you know, that wasn't no affair of 
 mine ; no, and so I felt all my blood creeping into my 
 knuckles:" and the result shows that he fell, with 
 exemplary promptitude, into a glorious passion in behalf 
 of the oppressed but uncomplaining stranger. 
 
 This bit of fiction calls to mind a fact which ma}'' 
 with no impropriety be here related. It is an anecdote 
 of a distinguished writer now no more, W. G. He had 
 complained to me of some ungracious conduct, by which 
 he felt hurt and insulted; he was helpless, and this 
 made the sense of injury more acute. He spoke with 
 bitterness, though in gentle tones. I did not echo those
 
 PASSIONATE PEOPLE. 23 
 
 tones ; for he was illustrious by liis intellect, and 
 venerable by his years ; and, as the phrase is, I at once 
 " rapped out •/' — pouring a torrent of reproach, and 
 heaping a mountain of invectives, on the heads of those, 
 who, to use his o^vn words, " had dared to put an indig- 
 nity upon him." He heard me, very quietly, until the 
 full burst of indignation with which his more moderate 
 complaint had inspired me was exhausted, and then 
 said, with an ejaculation short, sharp, and peculiar to 
 him, " Fm afraid youVe been picking up some queer 
 doctrines of late ; the principle of them is, as far as I 
 can understand, to be discontented with everything V 
 Now as he had taught me just then to be discontented, 
 and as I was moreover only discontented on his account, 
 I did not immediately leap out of my fit of passion into 
 one of philosophy ; and I beheve he was upon that 
 occasion much struck with certain metaphysical pheno- 
 mena, on which I left him to brood; wdth the ciu'ious 
 distinction, that is to say, between one fellow-creature 
 undergoing the punishment of the knout without exhi- 
 biting a symptom of distress, and another fellow-creature 
 looking on, all grief and anguish, shuddering at the 
 spectacle, and feeling every lash on his own heart. 
 
 These are the most generous bursts of rage that can 
 be indulged in ; and, next to those that are altogether 
 destitute even of the shadow of a cause, are the most 
 dehcious to the irritable. The wrongs, troubles, and 
 perversities of individuals, from near relatives to total 
 strangers, generally form a plentiful supply ; in fact, 
 the smallest offence will be thankfully received, as the 
 history of irascible people amply shows. Very good 
 grounds for anger occur, as we can all remember, Avhcu 
 a fellow-traveller at an inn refuses to take mustard with 
 his pork-chop ; or Avhcn another, in spite of every hint, 
 persists in breaking his eggs at the small end, or lighting
 
 24 PASSIONATE PEOPLE. 
 
 his cheroot at the large end ; or when a sturdy fellow 
 walks just before you through a smart shower of rain, 
 and won^t put his umbrella up, though you obligingly 
 tap him on the shoulder, and remind him that it^s 
 pouring ; or when an obstinate one declines the adoption 
 of somebody else's opinion, merely because he has not 
 been convinced of its reasonableness ; or when an 
 affected one pronounces the word Loudon " Lunnun," 
 and Birmingham " Brummagem," and, while he asserts 
 in his justification that Lord Brougham calls the places 
 by those names, refuses to distinguish his lordship as 
 Lord Bruffham. 
 
 If individual grievances or pecuharities should fail, 
 which is scarcely possible, national ones will do as well. 
 Nay, I know a philanthropist whose heart was broken 
 fifty times a-ycar, whose blood boiled hourly, at the 
 recollection of some great outrage that had happened 
 in the dark ages. Passion, moreover, has this conve- 
 nience, that it is an essential privilege of it to reason 
 from the individual to the national. Thus, if a Russian 
 government, or a Eussian faction, inflict wrongs on 
 Poland, all Russia may be indiscriminately condemned ; 
 and thus, too, if an American visiting this country should 
 be wanting in good manners, or give you any cause of 
 offence, you can with strict propriety launch out into a 
 tirade against the American people, their customs and 
 institutions, laws and dispositions ; wrath will there find 
 " elbow room.'' You may wind up with the observation 
 that, bad as is the brute whom you have just encoun- 
 tered, you beheve him to be quite as good as the very 
 best of his countrymen. 
 
 This, indeed, may be laid down as a rule : when a 
 Scotchman offends you, abuse all Scotland, and offer to 
 prove that Burns was no poet ; when an Irishman puts 
 you in a heat, be sure to denounce Ireland, and hint
 
 PASSIONATE PEOPLE. 25 
 
 that St. Patrick was no gentleman, nor were his ances- 
 tors decent people. With an Englishman the case is 
 rather different, because anything you may say against 
 John Bull is pretty sure to please, instead of annoying 
 a member of his family ; who won^t much mind a back- 
 handed hit at himself, if you direct the principal force 
 of your attack against the national character. It is 
 expedient, therefore, to be less sweeping in your charge, 
 to concentrate your forces, and to content yourself with 
 a small explosion, fatal only to his immediate friends 
 and relations. Point out how remarkable it is that so 
 many persons of the same name should haye been hanged 
 for sheep-stealing ; question the depth of his breeches- 
 pocket, where he rattles a bunch of keys, as though he 
 had anything to lock up ; and pick out some cousin of 
 his who is very badly off, and spitefully ask him to 
 dinner. But you will never vent your rage satisfactorily 
 by merely abusing Old England in an Englishman's 
 presence. 
 
 To get into a passion in the street is sometimes pecu- 
 liarly awkward. It makes you feel like a bottle of soda- 
 water that wants to go off and can't. Some people 
 ought to have their hats wired down, cork-fashion. 
 Walking with an irascible friend the other day (I am 
 fond of such companions, and can boast a great variety 
 of them), he worked himself into as pretty a specimen of 
 fury as I have lately seen ; but what was to be done ? 
 There was nothing to cause it, and there was no relief 
 to be had. Apple-stalls upset are but Aoilgar exploits ; 
 me he could not strangle in the open street ; there was 
 no temptation to smash a lamp in the broad daylight, 
 however agreeable and comfortable at night ; there Avas 
 no loitering schoolboy in the way, to be kicked "for 
 alwaijs tyeing that shoe;" yet, "as fires imprisoned 
 fiercest burn,'' out the blaze must burst, the volcano 
 
 VOL. III. c
 
 26 PASSIONATE PEOPLE. 
 
 was not to be smothered up. Accordingly, just as we 
 readied the open window of a butcher^ s shop, on the 
 board of which a lad in blue sleeves, and black, glossy, 
 curling hair, sat intently reading the " Sorrows of 
 Werter," my passionate friend stopped. Whether he 
 meant to snatch a weapon, a la Virginius, was doubtful. 
 I thought at least he would have snatched the grease- 
 marked volume out of the hands of the sentimental 
 butcher-boy, and trampled it under foot ; when, instead, 
 off he darted across the wide street, I following, rushed 
 up to a house opposite, seized the large knocker, and 
 plied it with the combined force of forty footmen, or a 
 legion of penny-postmen rolled into one ! I stood 
 looking on, amazed, while he knocked and knocked, 
 without one moment^ s cessation, until the door was torn 
 open, and the knocker dropped from his fingers. The 
 servant-maid looked aghast, yet the accustomed spirit 
 of inquiry. Who was he? What did he want? was 
 uppermost in her face. " Oh \" said' my now subdued 
 companion, "Oh! ah!-a-I'm sorry to have troubled 
 you ! I-a-I don't want anybody ; it 's all right, thank 
 you, I 'm better now ! " Thus saying he quietly took 
 my arm, and we sauntered off. I never saw a fellow in 
 a more charming flow of spirits than his were through- 
 out the rest of that day. 
 
 But it is more judicious to choose a spot where you 
 can fall into a rage comfortably. It is a pity, for ex- 
 ample, to get excited at Charing-cross, merely by the 
 sight of a Dover coach, with the name of the town upon 
 it spelt with two o's, " Dovor." " There goes one of 
 those confounded coaches again," said a companion the 
 other day ; " how savage they make me ! 'Dovor ! Why 
 can't they spell the name properly ?" " Oh, what does 
 it signify?" " Signify ! why it's my native town ! it 
 puts me in such a passion that I can't walk ; " and by
 
 PASSIONATE PEOPLE. 27 
 
 the pace at whicli he went there appeared a probability 
 of his overtaking the coach. As a man intoxicated can 
 run easily, when walking is difficult, so a man in a pas- 
 sion finds similar relief. I have heard of a nervously-ex- 
 cited individual who was so annoyed at the cry of " Bank, 
 Bank," all down the Strand, that he jumped into one 
 of the vehicles, resolved to go to the Bank and draw 
 out his balance; nor did he remember, until he got 
 there, that he had performed that ceremony the day 
 before. 
 
 "VVTiat I should respectfully recommend to any one 
 on whom the fit comes suddenly out-of-doors, whether 
 occasioned by some irritating train of thought, or a 
 casual encounter equally provocative, is to go dii-ectly 
 home, and give his family the benefit of it. Surely the 
 best compliment he can pay his wife is to presume that 
 her attachment to him is so great that she will endure 
 any ill-usage; that she would rather see him return 
 home in a tremendous passion, than have him stay longer 
 away from her. A man who truly relishes his fit of 
 rage mil find a sweet relief in making his family 
 uncomfortable. The children he can immediately order 
 up to bed in the dark ; and if anything in the shape of 
 protest falls from the doting mother, he can take an 
 opportunity, slyly, of upsetting a vase of flowers, water 
 and all, into her work-box, or of tilting the inkstand 
 upon the favourite autograph in her album. 
 
 In the case of a single man, who has neither fond 
 parent nor devoted partner to vent his fury on, a theatre 
 is no bad resource ; he can take his seat in some quiet 
 comer and hiss the performance, he will find it very 
 soothing to his feelings ; but he should choose, if pos- 
 sible, the first night of a new drama, and be constantly 
 on his guard, or he will be tricked out of all liis pleasure 
 by the actors. I know a man who went in a great 
 
 c 2
 
 28 PASSIONATE PEOPLE. 
 
 passion on pui'pose to liiss a new comedy, but being off 
 liis guard, be sat and laugbed all tbe evening. 
 
 Brutus desires Cassius to " go sbow bis slaves bow 
 cboleric be is, and make bis bondmen tremble ; " 
 implying tbat it was still more vulgar and degrading to 
 go into a passion before servants. Tbis notion prevails 
 amongst a certain class of tbe cboleric to tbis day. It 
 is not at all uncommon in genteel families, wbere 
 appearances must at all sacrifices be kept up, for Jobn 
 to be desired to sbut tbe door, and perbaps to be de- 
 spatcbed to tbe remotest part of tbe bouse, wbile bis 
 master and mistress sit down to figbt out a pitcbed 
 battle witb bated breatb ; wbispering tbeir fierce retorts, 
 and dealing out tbeir virulence sotto voce, tbat it may 
 not reacb tbe kitcben ; recrimination, witb savage 
 aspect, speaking in tbe blandest key, and tbreats of 
 separate maintenance breatbing in tones tbat would bave 
 added a delicious tenderness to tbe fondest sentiment. 
 All of a sudden, perbaps, a violent crasb is beard ; tbe 
 lady, wbo "could bear it no longer,'^ bas commenced 
 some sportive sallies witb tbe tea-cups, and tbe gentle- 
 man bas promptly followed in some equally bvely 
 experiments witb tbe saucers ; and Jobn, wben in wild 
 alarm be re-enters tbe apartment, perceives in an 
 instant, as clear as crockery itself, tbat naugbty Dasb 
 has not been jumping upon tbe tea-table, and tbat it is 
 not tbat calumniated quadruped by wbom tbe best blue- 
 and-gold service bas been devoted to destruction. 
 
 All tbese tamperings witb passion are great mistakes; 
 tbere can be no enjoyment but in speaking out, and 
 letting all tbe world bear if tbey like. I always admired 
 tbe unbesitating frankness of tbat respectable tradesman 
 (I forget bis name, purposely), wbo, about nine one 
 summer morning, after " some words " witb bis lady 
 respecting tbe comparative merits of Soucbong and
 
 PASSIONATE PEOPLE. 29 
 
 Mocha;, deliberately opened the first-floor window, and 
 dashed out the whole breakfast set, tray and all, into 
 one of the leading streets of the metropolis. People, 
 it is said, put up their umbrellas as they pass, to this 
 day, in constant expectation of a milky shower, with 
 small squares of sugar for hailstones. But all such 
 experiments with cups and saucers, glasses, vases, mir- 
 rors, &c., are much better performed, for ob^•ious reasons, 
 at other people^s houses than at your own. It is very 
 pleasant, and quite pardonable, to sweep a few glasses off 
 the table in a fit of enthusiasm, now and then, when you 
 are dining out ; but it is perfectly ridiculous to proceed 
 to such extremities at home, where the modes of venting 
 rage are infinite. For a somewhat similar reason, I 
 differ from those who systematically tear their own hair 
 when they fall into a paroxysm ; there is no occasion 
 for it, because you might happen to be wearing a Avig, 
 and the effect would be ludicrous. It is far better to 
 thrust your hand desperately into the loose locks of 
 somebody sitting next to you, tearing them A-ioleutly for 
 the space of an instant, and then apologizing for the 
 wildness of your excitement, and the extreme suscep- 
 tibility of your feelings. Your sensibility and the 
 frankness of your disposition will find many admirers ; 
 but to pull your o^vn hair has at best but an affected and 
 theatrical look. 
 
 The practice common to many of the choleric, that 
 of taking off their hats, flinging them at the first object 
 they see, and then kicking them, regardless of expense, 
 is one that seems to have arisen out of an instinctive 
 feeling ; but until lately it was to be condemned as 
 ruinous to those who fall verj^ frequently into a passion ; 
 it is less exceptionable now ; the cheap hats are immense 
 conveniences to the choleric. It is better, however, to 
 snatch a friend's off his head, and set your foot upon it,
 
 30 PASSIONATE PEOPLE. 
 
 taking care to pick it up immediately, tenderly putting 
 it into shape a little, brushing its injured nap, and 
 returning it with your unfeigned regrets. I should not 
 omit to mention one ingenious expedient, which is sure 
 to produce a speedy relief to over-excited feelings. It 
 is recommended, on authority, as infallible. You should 
 first lock the door of your sitting-room, and then lie 
 down on your back upon the rug before the fire, taking 
 at the same time one of the long bell-ropes in either 
 hand. In this position you will find a little violent 
 pulling very pleasant. But donH leave ofi", merely 
 because everybody in the house comes rattling at the 
 door, desiring to know, not for their own, but for 
 Heaven's sake, what 's the matter. Keep on tugging at 
 both bells until the door is broken open; you will then 
 come to quite comfortably. 
 
 The great have some advantages over the humble, 
 but they lack the luxmy of giving a loose to rage at all 
 seasons. They cannot storm and rave at their own sweet 
 will ; while the lowest creature committed to prison by 
 the magistrate can always spring from the grasp of the 
 constable, and break a window or two. This may seem 
 a poor relief : not so : there is, doubtless, an exquisite 
 satisfaction in knowing that nothing less than a large 
 county must pay the damage. Suppose you only shatter 
 a dozen panes, or effect other wilful injury ; is there not 
 something grand in being revenged upon Middlesex, or 
 venting your fury on all Yorkshire ? 
 
 Great or humble. Rage is sweet to all. Anger, not 
 Love, is the universal emotion. The mildest and most 
 even-tempered man I ever met let out the secret of his 
 fiery disposition the other day, and betrayed the violent 
 passions that sometimes seize him. Complaining of the 
 extreme smallness of his new library, in a figurative 
 style, at once emphatic and elegant, he said, " It isn't
 
 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 31 
 
 large enough to swing a cat in;" adding (evidently with 
 a reference to his habits when under the influence of 
 passion), " which is very inconvenient ! " Cats are useful 
 animals in a house. Is it doubtful, when Sir Anthony 
 Absolute had stormed at the Captain, and the Captain 
 in consequence had raved at Fag, and Fag in due 
 succession had pumelled the footboy, that the footboy 
 went forthwith and kicked the cat ? 
 
 PEOPLE WHO "ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD." 
 
 Queen. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. 
 Ham. Oh ! but she '11 keep her word. 
 
 The people who always keep their word, if you will 
 take their word for the fact, are to be met Avith in im- 
 mense varieties. To portray them is to paint Legion. 
 It is also to unite opposites under one head ; for those 
 who always keep their word arc not to be known some- 
 times from those who never do. 
 
 For example. There is no family in town in which the 
 virtue of fidehty in the performance of a promise is so 
 much cried up as in the Froth family; and whoever 
 happens to be intimate with any of its members knows 
 particularly well that there is not an atom of that ^drtue 
 existing amongst them. Conscientious exactness is 
 insisted upon by each, and not a word they say can be 
 taken as worth more than the breath that utters it. 
 
 In one respect only have they been faithful ; in the 
 promise which all the younger ones gave to take after 
 their elders. Likeness could hardly prevail more in a
 
 32 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 
 
 family of peas. Old Mrs. Froth, full of her sons, always 
 cries, " Nick's word is his bond!" or, "Ah! you may 
 trust Joseph;" and the venerable head of the Froths, 
 smihng in sweet paternal pride, exclaims, "If JuUa 
 promises, conclude it done." 
 
 Who would not believe in their belief when they join 
 in one note, "' What a blessing to have children around 
 one in whom every body can place reliance ! " 
 
 And the children themselves echo the conscious flat- 
 tery. " We were brought up vdth such strictness in our 
 family, and taught to hold promises so sacredly, that no 
 doubt we are a little particular; we always keep our 
 word." 
 
 These Froths utter their falsehoods so complacently 
 to each other's faces, and appear so unmisgi^dngly in 
 earnest, that not to confide, as they seem to do, is for a 
 season impossible. It is easier to distrust one's senses 
 than their assertions; such is the handsome, honest- 
 looking front carried by the family faith. 
 
 " Joseph is honour itself," remarks Julia ; " sensitive 
 to a fault about the sanctity of his word. He would 
 forfeit Hfe in one instant, rather than fail to redeem any 
 trifling pledge that he had given." 
 
 " Eeally," cries Joseph, once a day, " if there be an 
 angel upon earth, a human creature all divine truth, 
 purity, and consciousness, it is my sister, Julia Froth. 
 To say that she never broke her word yet, is sajdng 
 nothing ; I venture to assert that she never will break 
 it; she can't." 
 
 And yet it were wiser to walk on rotten ice than to 
 put faith for an instant in that angel upon earth, or in 
 that soul of honour, her panegyrist. Trust is not to be 
 reposed in any member of the Froth family without 
 risk of ruin ; in truth, it is doubtful how far it would 
 be right to take their word, even if they faithfully pro-
 
 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 33 
 
 mised to break it. Possibly, however, they might then 
 be trustworthy, but then only. If the little squalhng 
 Froth in the cradle were to promise, with its first frag- 
 ments of words, and instalments of innocent nursery 
 plrrases, to cry lustily for hours, with all the lungs it 
 could command, would nobody credit the babe ! The 
 nuisance would be otherwise probable, but the promise 
 would operate as a security against it. If the child, a 
 few years afterwards, gro^vn into the unruliest little 
 rebel alive, were to threaten to tug off the table-cloth, 
 soup, fish-sauce, and all, you might proceed to finish 
 your dinner undismayed, for to believe a word of his 
 would be ridiculous. Nobody believes the Froths from 
 birth to burial. 
 
 It would be difficult to say what profit they find in 
 pursuing such a course, and it is not easier to surmise 
 the nature of the pleasure which they take in it. But 
 doubtless it imposes upon them the necessity of stand- 
 ing by each other, and gratifies self-love by drawing 
 largely for praise upon lips privileged to utter it while 
 its own are sealed. Vanity, like murder, will sometimes 
 speak miraculously enough, though it have no tongue. 
 It sets all its family to puff it vehemently. The praise 
 can neither be too frequent nor too fervent. Son puffs 
 father, mother daughter, and sister brother; great-aunts 
 and cousins alike administering and partaking the gale, 
 if need be ; nay, the fondest of grandmammas being 
 called in upon occasion ; — all evincing the ardour of that 
 affection, so prevalent in families, which runs the great 
 circle and is still at home. 
 
 Nick, perhaps, of all the family we have been advert- 
 ing to, is foremost in coolness when breaking the M'ord 
 which it is the game of his life to vow he always keeps. 
 Whether this coolness disarms or deceives people, may 
 be doubted ; but they rarely complain ; continuing to 
 
 c 3
 
 34 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 
 
 allow Nick Froth to make fools of tliem at all hours and 
 in his own way. 
 
 In whatever water you may happen to be, there he is 
 upon the surface floating buoyantly within hail, and 
 anxious to play the friend in any emergency. But just 
 as you are sinking, he lets go your hand, and swims off 
 in search of the life-buoy, promising to return with 
 speed. He enters eagerly into an engagement to get 
 you out of hot water, and when the element has had 
 plenty of time to cool, there he is at his post, ready to 
 redeem his promise. 
 
 Nick Froth is as noisy as the sea surf, and about as 
 safe in his mode of handling those he serves. Escape 
 his intervention you cannot. Whatever be the affair 
 you have in hand, he insists upon taking it at once out 
 of your direction, and managing it for you. Whatever you 
 are doing, that he must undo. He pounces upon your 
 best-considered plans, and with his broad fist and clumsy 
 foot dashes the delicate machinery to atoms. Now he is 
 to show you what he will invent and set up in its place. 
 You have thought long over the matter ; deeply inte- 
 rested in it, your natural penetration has been quick- 
 ened, your inventive faculty taxed to the utmost ; you 
 have arrived by the clearest means open to your com- 
 prehension at the shortest road to the accomplishment 
 of your object; and you are, therefore, the more 
 astonished, the more charmed, at the exquisite ease, and 
 almost intuitive knowledge, with which Nick Froth, 
 quietly walking in, and surveying your much-meditated 
 scheme, pronounces it to be all " wrong," and demo- 
 hshes in a breath what you had conceived with such 
 fondness and constructed with such care. Wrong it 
 must all be, since Nick Froth, whose interests are 
 unconcerned, and whose opinion is unsolicited, can see 
 so readily that it is a mistake.
 
 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 35 
 
 True, he does not immediately point out the " right" 
 in place of it, but enough for one day is the detection 
 of error. The task of discovering the true Avay is 
 reserved ; that is his aflfair, that is to be left to him, he 
 is to set about that the fii-st opportunity. His promise 
 is enough ; eveiybody knows that he " always keeps his 
 word." Nevertheless, poor truster in frothy promises, 
 you will see and hear no more of Nick on that subject. 
 He had only promised himself the pleasure of marring 
 yom* plan and checking your progress, and he has kept 
 his word. 
 
 One every-day incident will sufficiently describe 
 that farce of life in Avhich Nick Froth plays the hero. 
 There are occasions when the manner and tone of a 
 letter may affect all one^s prospects and interests. Over 
 such an eventful document had Nick's dear friend bent 
 his aching brow from sunrise to noon, with slow, painful 
 doubt, and frequent sense of failure, but terminating 
 in conscious success. Each word had been weighed, 
 and the distance between every two words had been 
 measured. Circumspection had taken its last look on 
 all sides ; a thousand niceties peculiar to the case had 
 been consecutively noticed; and objection, in its most 
 querulous mood, could not have thrust a pin's point 
 through that perfect composition. 
 
 Enter Froth; and Friendship (the fool), even before 
 she had time to consult him, was caught in the clutch 
 of his opinion, which always takes the form of a verdict. 
 It was fortunate he arrived as he did ! that letter would 
 not do ; it adopted the very tone that should be most 
 avoided. But a missive, in some shape, must be 
 despatched without delay. He would draw up the 
 form of it on the spot; the exact thing that was 
 wanted. 
 
 " First," said Nick Froth, deliberately tearing the
 
 36 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 
 
 rejected form of epistle into strips, and placing them 
 upon the fire, " let us get rid of the false model, to 
 avoid perplexity and confusion/^ 
 
 With the blaze expired the epistolary ardour of Nick 
 Froth. He seized a sheet of paper; tried some new 
 pens, in a dozen '' dear sirs," and a few signatures, 
 scrawled in lines ingeniously divergent ; adding to these, 
 as chat intermingled with his literary recreations, 
 various eyes that might have belonged to pen-and-ink 
 owls of a humorous turn, and wandering human noses 
 cut off in the pride of their snubness or aquilinism ; but 
 not a word of the letter which was to replace the de- 
 stroyed. The prettiest line of the last new song, some 
 calculations after the manner of Cocker, and a fair 
 sketch in a rather free style of the dear friend before 
 him, thrown for the occasion into a very inconsolable 
 attitude, filled up another sheet or two of paper ; and 
 then, as the hours had run away so agreeably, Nick 
 Froth, growing quite impatient to begin, determined 
 on hastening home immediately, to draw up, quickly 
 and studiously, the all-important epistle. He tj^s a 
 man of his word, and of course it was all but written 
 already. Every syllable of it was in his brain ! and 
 there every syllable remained ! Vainly did his dear 
 friend wish that he could but have stayed Nick^s officious 
 hand, and saved from the flames the modelled sentences 
 never to be recalled ; that letter, now no less lost for 
 ever than the delectable substitute for it with which 
 the brain of Froth was nominally pregnant. 
 
 If you are foolish as well as sick, rely upon Nick's 
 promise to return by and bye with an antidote for every 
 ailment you laboui* under ; but let him not throw the 
 composing draught already prescribed for you out of 
 window before he goes. If you are mad as well as in 
 trouble, believe by all means that Nick will keep his
 
 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 37 
 
 word and bring Hercules to your aid ; but, in tbe mean- 
 time, put your own shoulder to tbe wbeel, as not 
 bebe^ing a word of it. 
 
 Nick Frotb is not invited to make tbe obliging 
 promises he breaks ; indeed, he allows nobody time to 
 ask assistance, but anticipates even the wish with an 
 offer. His pledges want nothing of excellence but 
 redemption. His promises are always made in time ; 
 and then, in time, they are broken. When he has once 
 passed his word, of this be sui'e — it will never overtake 
 him. It was much too good a thing for so generous a 
 fellow " to keep." 
 
 He is great at confounding a small party, where 
 everything is going smoothly, with proposals to do 
 something which, the instant they are assented to, as all 
 his propositions must be, he discovers to be intolerable. 
 He can throw things into inextricable confusion in two 
 minutes. He is a famous hand at tripping-up a pleasure- 
 trip. He begins by making all kinds of alterations ; 
 changing Crowns and Sceptres into Stars and Garters ; 
 getting Robinson and his wife left out, and somebod}' 
 with two children invited; and he ends with keeping 
 everybody waiting, and not coming after all. 
 
 But, disgusted as you may feel, your indignation at 
 his arbitrary interference never reaches him ; for before 
 you can utter a word, he stops your breath with 
 another proposal ; perhaps his favourite suggestion, 
 private theatricals ; and when all the dresses are ready, 
 and all the parts studied, he finds out in his capacity of 
 self-appointed manager, that the thing can't be done. 
 Comedy would be too dull, and tragedy too ludicrous. 
 Besides, he has sometliing quite prodigious on foot, and 
 everj^body is to be the first person to hear all about it. 
 
 WTien Nick Froth finds a family in committee of the 
 whole house planning a comfortable hunt-the-slipper 
 
 469 
 
 <./ \}
 
 38 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 
 
 party at liome, he cannot forbear sweeping away the 
 festive fabric at a breath, with the spontaneous im- 
 promptu offer of tickets for the magnificent masked ball 
 on the very evening named. There are thirteen in 
 family; but suppose there are seventy-five. Froth has 
 tickets for all : yea, if he have a ticket for one : which, 
 however, he has not. 
 
 But how punctually he drops in the day after the 
 cruel disappointment, and how eagerly he now helps 
 out the family project of a party ; only positively over- 
 ruling the hunt-the-slipper idea, and insisting that it 
 must be made a blind-man's-buff proceeding. He 
 promises to bring the great comic singer ; and not only 
 does not do it, but comes himself. 
 
 The nearest approach he ever makes to keeping a 
 promise, may be not inaccurately measured by the 
 trifling difference which exists between fulfilling an 
 engagement by being present in person this evening at 
 seven, and despatching a note to-morrow at tliree, 
 explaining the ground of absence. He flatters himself 
 that he is on such an occasion almost punctual, and as 
 much to be relied upon as a gentleman ought to be. 
 
 " Nick's word is his bond'' is the Froth cry all 
 through the family, in conformity with the law which 
 governs them, that they should puff one another. " He 
 is such a safe, steady, punctual creature," cries Julia; 
 " everybody trusts him ; but I could not help telling 
 Nick the other day, that if he has a fault, it consists in 
 giving such hosts of promises, and making such myriads 
 of engagements. I sometimes wonder how on earth he 
 always contrives to keep his word !" 
 
 * * * * In the neighbom'hood of the class not 
 unfairly represented by the Froth family, we mingle 
 with a much larger section of the community ; persons 
 who, although it cannot justly be said of them that they
 
 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 39 
 
 never keep tlieii* word, are still far enough from the 
 exclusive and elevated ground attainable by those who 
 always keep it. Equally with the systematic and con- 
 sistent word-breaker, to whom we have just bidden 
 adieu, this new di\dsion of the trustworthy lays claim 
 to implicit faith ; and professes to merit high reputation 
 for keeping the word of promise in all things, and 
 matching the doing with the saying. Every member of 
 this middle class professes to walk erect, in a straight 
 line, and calls himself emphatically a man of his word. 
 He is a man of his word, with a reservation : he is 
 conscience all over, when convenience is in the way. 
 
 The people whom we are now encountering, it is as 
 well to be guai'ded against. They are very honest 
 people, so long as the sun shines, and honesty can make 
 hay. In the cold season, with nothing to do, they may 
 be apt to thrust their hands into somebody's pocket 
 to keep them warm. 
 
 They are readily known by the maxim current among 
 them, and circulated in fact by way of boast, " I make 
 it a rule to keep my word as far as I reasonably can." 
 They are never heard to say, " I make it a rule not to 
 make a promise Tv^thout a reasonable chance of perform- 
 ing it." The good folks make the promise first, and 
 then bethink themselves of what possibility there is of 
 its fulfilment. They are often as good as their word, 
 but then their word is often good for nothing. 
 
 There is Tm-ningham, who goes on carrying every- 
 thing before him, while he spins round a hundred times 
 a day ; whose way of life is but a winding about in every 
 out-of-the-way direction. Turningham is persuaded, 
 past all argument, that he is a man of his word, and 
 would shoot any questioner of the fact without staying 
 to challenge him ; and yet he knows, as all his friends 
 do, that his Avord is " false as water," " rash as fire."
 
 40 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 
 
 He promises as lie chooses, and performs agreeably to 
 tlie same rule, whicli he conceives to be an equitable 
 arrangement. His promise, if you want to obtain it, is 
 almost a matter of certainty; his performance quite a 
 thing of chance. 
 
 He never fled from his word, when it was agreeable 
 or profitable to stand to it. He will redeem his pledge 
 to the moment, provided it suits him. In other cases 
 he has a stronghold to retreat to, in the doctrine that a 
 promise which should never have been made it may be 
 a greater virtue to violate than to fulfil. That he esteems 
 to be a truth, and feels to be a comfort. He is never 
 without his defence. He has a good reason for keeping 
 his word, and does not hke to have a worse for break- 
 ing it. This is with Turningham a matter of conscience. 
 When you call upon him to fulfil a promise at his own 
 manifest cost, with a sacrifice to virtue on the very face 
 of it, he shrinks back ; but it is only to turn crushingly 
 upon you the next instant with the triumphant expos- 
 tulation : 
 
 " It is aU very well to call on me to keep my word ! 
 Will my word keep me ? " 
 
 There is no answering this. From what rash pledge 
 will not such reasoning release the Tui'ninghams of our 
 era! 
 
 Turningham is apt enough to recollect a positive pro- 
 mise as among the several reasons why he should do a 
 certain act, but he recollects it last. When he has 
 decided upon taking the step, and enumerated the 
 various " becauses," — as, because it will take him out of 
 town, because it will please his relations in India, because 
 he might make something by it, because it will bitterly 
 exasperate his wife^s uncle, — he adds at the end of the 
 catalogue, " and besides, I jJromised ! " 
 
 What should be the first grand motive asserting itself
 
 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 41 
 
 at the outset, may tlius serve as a sort of make-weight. 
 The promise is in reality too often an after-thought, but 
 it is brought in generally as a cap to the climax. The 
 man of his word, who has luckily just remembered it, 
 refers to it as a settler. 
 
 " Say no more ; I promised, and it is done ! " 
 
 But when the pledge given happens to He, not along, 
 but across the path of his convenience, what then is 
 Turningham^s argument ? Suddenly the promise made 
 appears in a different Hght ; it by no means supplies a 
 proof that the step proposed ought to be taken, and it is 
 anji;hing but equally binding as before. Tiu^ningham^s 
 cry is, "I always keep my word; always, as far as 
 human power extends ; but I never engage to control 
 circumstances." 
 
 He di'aws himself up with vast moral dignity when 
 any one reminds him of some omission of his ; some 
 lapse of memory which occasioned disappointment, reli- 
 ance ha^-ing been placed upon his Avord. " Do you 
 suppose it possible that I could forget that promise? 
 The non-fulfilment of it argued an impossibility in the 
 case, but not such an impossibility as that. Assure 
 yourself it was not forgotten ! " 
 
 And this emphatic pledge, that the promise was 
 remembered, is offered in fuU and touching atonement 
 for its violation. In the firm conviction that Turningham 
 never forgets his word once passed, the reason why he 
 broke it nevertheless, is lost sight of; and he goes on to 
 remark, with perfect impunity, " I always,'^ &c. 
 
 But although all these people, the majority of the 
 promising crowds who are about us everywhere, regard 
 themselves as persons of their Avord, and are so to this 
 extent — that they rarely perhaps break a serious promise 
 without some little shabby show of an excuse for doing 
 so — it is to be understood that the very best of them
 
 42 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 
 
 reserve points to themselves on which, they may break 
 faith when they like ; points on which no expectation of 
 their fideHty is to be reasonably erected. 
 
 Of such a nature, in domestic and social life, are the 
 promises constantly given and received to return home 
 by a specified hour at night (in some families, sober). 
 Lovers^ vows, promises to pay, and pledges of unalter- 
 able friendship, are proverbially of the same order. 
 Temperance-pledges have occasionally been known to 
 partake of the same character; as, in political life, 
 election-engagements and party-compacts most com- 
 monly do ! To these, and such as these, it would be 
 tedious to advert in detail. Every reader can reckon 
 up a dozen cases of ordinary and regular occurrence in 
 his existence, in which his conscience, hardened by 
 custom, clearly exempts him from the penalties other- 
 wise attached by sensitive and honourable minds to the 
 broken vow ; in simpler phrase, to the forfeit word ; for 
 the mere word should be the vow, the bare " I vnl\," 
 the bond. 
 
 The same cause forbids, as wholly superfluous, all 
 allusion to promises of amendment made by servants 
 discharged and afterwards taken back ; and also in some 
 establishments to intimations that their wages will be 
 advanced by and bye, without specific mention of any 
 quarter of the year, or indeed of the year itself. Care- 
 lessness may be converted to carefulness with wonderful 
 celerity, but it is not judicious to trust the glass-breaker 
 too soon with the new china ; and the wages may actu- 
 ally he raised at Michaelmas for aught we can tell, but 
 John had better not buy a new watch on the strength 
 of the hint. 
 
 Whatever of lax morality may in all these matters be 
 witnessed, and however the Turningham class of word- 
 breakers may play the game of life with false dice, gene-
 
 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 43 
 
 rally without thinkings often without knowing it ; we 
 have less to wonder at, when we call to mind that 
 thousands of them every year reduce a sacred pledge to 
 a form and ceremony, and tamper with the solemnity 
 which should belong to such an obligation, when they 
 lightly and readily step forward to " promise and vow 
 three things" in the name of another, about the pro- 
 gress and accompHshment of which they do not after- 
 wards profess to feel even the slightest real responsi- 
 bility. Habit and example reconcile the most scrupulous 
 to unconscientious usages, to ignorant pen^ersions of 
 reason, and gross abuses of sacred things ; and without 
 considering " too curiously" what is here glanced at, we 
 may claim some charity even for the habitual idolaters 
 of a promise, some Christian toleration of their misdeeds, 
 when we see the hcense accorded to our godfathers and 
 godmothers. 
 
 Education's earliest lessons should implant in the 
 mind a sense of the sanctity of a promise. A child 
 should never hear of an oath ; that fatal knowledge kills 
 the innocent security in the simple word. If there Avere 
 no necessity, real or supposed, for oaths, there would be 
 no lies. When the child has learned that the simple 
 word is not enough for the ends of truth, it has learned 
 the first lesson of falsehood. 
 
 We proceed now to a " more removed ground/' 
 and breathe a clearer atmosphere among miracles of 
 humanity ; the people who do keep their word ! What 
 a fairy-land have we entered, and, God be thanked, it is 
 not thinly populated either ! This happy isle is not a 
 paradise imagined for the few, as absentees suppose, but 
 the home of living multitudes. Here we meet the per- 
 sons, who, on the question of making promises, have 
 many reserv'ations, but on keeping them, none. Here 
 we never encounter the kind accommodating fellow,
 
 44 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 
 
 who, when he cries out " I shall certainly come," adds 
 silently to himself, "if I can;" or him, who has no 
 sensibility to wound, no dignity to lessen, when his 
 careless tone suggests the expediency of the unpleasant 
 question, " May I depend on you ?" a question to which 
 he, unoffended and unhurt, responds emphatically, 
 "You may ;'^ but only meaning thereby, that you live 
 in a land of liberty, and have a will of your own. Here 
 dwell not the indolent who make promises in order to 
 avoid present trouble, and will engage to do impossibili- 
 ties next week to get rid of a slight difficulty at the 
 moment ; nor do we here find the conventionally honest, 
 who confound right and wrong, by holding that while they 
 keep one class of promises, they are free to break another. 
 
 No ; the only persons to be encountered in this region 
 are of a different sort. A promise may not be easily 
 drawn from them; but, once given, it will be kept. 
 They are all of the same flesh and blood which united 
 in the composition of that excellent officer, of whom 
 complaint was made to the Great Captain during the 
 war, that he had threatened to hang up an unhappy 
 official by eight o'clock, unless before that hour he pro- 
 vided rations for the hungry soldiers ; no rations being 
 by human means procurable anywhere. 
 
 " Ha ! " said the Duke, having heard the complaint, 
 " did he say he would hang you ? Then you had better 
 have the rations ready, for he '11 keep his word ! " 
 
 And yet even this example of presumed fidelity to the 
 very letter of the word is no evidence of a uniformity in 
 that respect, so as to constitute a character for conscien- 
 tiousness. It may have been merely an instance of 
 military etiquette, of professional punctilio, conscience 
 in a red coat. The same virtue might not have exhibited 
 itself in the same person at all, if out of the army; just 
 as the private soldier whom we have heard of, though a
 
 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 45 
 
 true lover of discipline and profoundly conscientious, 
 might in a different character, and wearing another 
 dress, have been quite incapable of that strict feeling of 
 justice, which prompted him, having received half of his 
 hundred and fifty lashes, and been taken down before 
 the completion of his sentence, to go, as soon as he had 
 recovered, to his colonel, sapng, "I beg pardon, but 
 there's five-and-seventy due to me yet V 
 
 Let us suppose this conscientious soldier to be a 
 scrivener, who had received in that capacity as many 
 shillings above his accoimt. Can we reconcile to imagi- 
 nation the image of the scrupulous man, retm^ning to 
 his client, and sajdng, cash in hand, " You have paid 
 me all this too much ?" 
 
 The thousand examples in the history of heroism, in 
 redeeming the promise given, have chiefly had their 
 origin in circumstances above the level of ordinary life, 
 and invohdng an excitement favom'able to the exhibition 
 of fortitude and honour. Damon could do no less for 
 Pythias, and Pythias was obUged to do what he did for 
 Damon. There is nothing in it as evidence of character. 
 Neither of them, perhaps, were men of their words. 
 Damon would have kept his friend waiting dinner a 
 cool hour, and Pythias would have promised the loan of 
 his horse without fail, and then have ridden forth into 
 Hyde Park himself. 
 
 Nelson conveys to the mind a forcible idea of the 
 quality to be possessed by a keeper of his word. We 
 decide at once that whatever he might say, he would 
 do ; but then this quaUty must be exerted profession- 
 ally, and it would depend upon whether he said he 
 woidd capture the enemy's fleet. There we should be 
 surety for him at once that he would keep his word ; 
 not so, if he promised to win his rubber, though he held 
 the cards in his hand.
 
 46 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 
 
 It must be plain^ that even among persons who always 
 keep their word, there are differences of position and 
 circumstance by which we are all moved to cherish pre- 
 ferences and prejudices, affecting our belief in their 
 faithfulness. When a judge promises to hang a man, 
 we are more apt to put faith in him than in a physician 
 when he promises to cure one ; yet both, perhaps, in 
 themselves, are equally deserving of trust. Of two pro- 
 mises made by the very worthiest of our acquaintances ; 
 first, that he will come and dine with us, and, secondly, 
 that he will call and pay the balance ; we cannot, with 
 the best of feelings, help relying more on one assertion 
 than the other. 
 
 Where the plighted word is ever the same ; sure of 
 fulfilment, whether it refers to a momentous matter or 
 the merest trifle ; how must all who knew him recal the 
 honoured and happy memory of Phil. Harper, late of 
 London, philosopher Phil., the pliantest, and yet the 
 stubbornest of mortals ; the surest to attract, and the 
 stoutest to resist ; all inflexibihty, all suavity ; who never 
 broke his word, and yet seemed to confer a favour while 
 refusing to make a promise. 
 
 The stranger who might chance to look for the first 
 time upon the mild and tranquil countenance of young 
 Phil. — he was youthful-looking even in age, — would 
 have decided that he might have been flurried into 
 making any imaginable promise, and worried into 
 breaking it as soon ; but if the observer looked again, 
 he detected traces of firmness of character, which made 
 the simplicity in the face impressive, and its weakness 
 formidable. Whatever there appeared at first view of 
 lightness in the look, turned, on better acquaintance, to 
 a gaze of power. Even his slight frame acquired an air 
 of singular strength, as the quiet expression of his eye 
 gained influence upon the beholder ; and you then saw
 
 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 47 
 
 tliat he was not only capable of extraordinary moral 
 energy, but of undergoing great bodily labour and 
 fatigue. The passiveness of his demeanoui* began, after 
 a time, by some strange process, to imply a prodigious 
 power of action; the fixed, unconquerable will made 
 itself silently manifest through the gentleness and 
 amiability of character that enveloped all ; and the 
 apparent youth, unguarded and undetermined, grew 
 insensibly into the penetrating, self-possessed judge of 
 his fellow-men, zealous to serve them, able to guide ; of 
 easy natm'e, it would appear, and yet immoveable by 
 any pressure from without. 
 
 "V^Tiat glorious things he would undertake to do in a 
 day ! What a little book -full of promises he would 
 make in the space of a morning ! His spirit revelled 
 in anticipation ; it set itself troublesome tasks as though 
 in pure sport, welcomed every comer so long as he 
 came with a request in his mouth, and seemed inclined 
 to say "Yes" to the whole petitioning world. It was 
 quite impossible that he could do one-half he said ; nay, 
 so much had he undertaken, that he must necessarily 
 forget the great matters, to begin wdth, and then hit 
 upon the expedient of postponing the small. 
 
 Whosoever said that, knew nothing, you may be sure, 
 of honest Harper. Although he might appear to toss 
 and scatter his good words about like squibs and rockets, 
 they were all written down somewhere in his head, in 
 letters bright as sparks ; sparks never destined to go 
 out until the promise they recorded was performed, but 
 then to be instantly extinguished. 
 
 He could no more forget the word he was bound to 
 keep, than he could forget himself; a thing equally 
 impossible to the generous or just man, as it is to the 
 selfish one. Strangely the two extremes meet. 
 
 But one man can seldom be so ready to grant, as a
 
 48 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD, 
 
 score are ready to beg. Pliil. the good-natured^ was 
 well nigh lost and stifled in tlie centre of a beseeching 
 crowd; a crowd convinced that it was but to ask and 
 have. What a mistake ! Where the spring flowed, 
 behold a closed-up rock. Not a drop was to be extracted. 
 No word of promise, though easily spoken, fed the 
 empty ear of the listener. Phil.^s good-nature never 
 ran to seed, breeding the rank weed deception. He 
 would as readily descend to pass a forged note, as dream 
 of off'ering a false promise, to patch some case of seeming 
 necessity that must afterwards be all the worse for the 
 counterfeit aid. He knew how to refuse, because he 
 knew how to comply. 
 
 With what inveteracy he kept his word ! " As right 
 as the mail," in those old times, was a weak phrase 
 with us. The security of Phil.^s word put all compa- 
 risons to shame. We amused ourselves sometimes 
 with thinking how awkAvard it would be some evening, 
 for some fair -lady never met before, if Phil. Harper, in 
 his straightforward honesty, should happen to step up to 
 her at a ball, and make her a promise of marriage when 
 she was ofi" her guard, and before she could stop him. 
 
 Such a discharge of matrimonial artillery Avould, in 
 ordinary cases, amount to nothing, to smoke, to a flash 
 in the pan. Not so here. The bird would be brought 
 down. The lady would most assuredly become Mrs. 
 Harper. Nothing could save her, if he had once pro- 
 mised marriage. True, she might have an attached 
 suitor in the next street ; a lover, within a week of 
 being her husband, in the refreshment-room at that 
 moment ; true also, she might be a widow in the first 
 sable flush of her consternation and sorrow j neverthe- 
 less her name would infallibly be changed to Harper 
 within the usual period known to calculators as no time. 
 He must have broken his heart when he broke his word.
 
 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 49 
 
 And what, had such a result come to pass ; what if 
 he had then chosen to whisper in the ear of his fair 
 rejecter, the flinty-hearted falsifier of his innocent word; 
 " My ghost shall haunt you \" There his promise to 
 pay a ^isit to her bed-side, a promise payable at sight, 
 must have been duly met. There at least she could 
 not have foiled him. We would have taken such a 
 ghost's word for more than a thousand. Caesar's at 
 Philippi could have been no greater example of super- 
 natural punctuality. Phil, would have met her at 
 Philippi, if he had said so. 
 
 These are grave considerations not to be avoided, 
 when we are reflecting upon the propensities of people 
 who always keep their word. Much as we wish them 
 multiplied in the world, still they might breed — let us 
 own to a rational fear — no Kttle mischief here and there. 
 As the world goes, when a savage who is nice about his 
 honour threatens to horsewhip somebody, there is every 
 prospect that the outrage will not be perpetrated, for 
 the chances are that the threatencr habitually lies ; but 
 in a community where truth prevails always, breaches 
 of the peace must be alarmingly common. Many a 
 gentleman who never tasted beaver (waterproof or other- 
 wise) in his life, has given his word that he would eat 
 his hat if something did not turn out which happened 
 quite the other way ; and when everybody shall keep 
 his word we must prepare for strange spectacles ; diges- 
 tion will have enough to do. 
 
 Undertakings to send people to Jericho, though freely 
 entered into, are never strictly observed; l)ut that 
 country under the new system would be thickly popu- 
 lated. The Irish reader -will recollect the promise 
 referred to in the affidavit of bodily fear put in by his 
 nenous fellow-countryman in the usual form — that 
 whereas the defendant had threatened to " break every 
 
 VOL. III. B
 
 50 PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS KEEP THEIR WORD. 
 
 bone of this deponent, and send him to hell, which this 
 deponent verily believes he would have done, but that/' 
 &c. Up to the present moment this is a solitary 
 instance of faith reposed in a promise of that nature ; 
 but with people who always keep their word, the con- 
 sequences would be appalling. 
 
 Phil. Harper entered into no such rash engagements ; 
 but went through life earning happiness and winning 
 honour, simply by ever acting up to his word. Death 
 came to him at length, but as the just and unreluctant 
 redemption of an old pledge. Dying, he appeared to 
 be only performing a promise tacitly given when he 
 first opened his eyes upon the world. 
 
 And with the allusion to this kind of tacit pledge let 
 us weave the remark that persons who always keep 
 their word recognise in it more and more a sacredness 
 bevond the letter of it, and are the first to feel that 
 they are sometimes bound by a solemn contract, even 
 where they have uttered no syllable in sanction of it. 
 More promises are made than ever can be spoken. An 
 angel ever in our company makes them for us. 
 
 This may be shown by the homeliest and most famihar 
 example ; by reference to a character known to every- 
 body and beloved by no less a person. Burchell was a 
 man who kept his word without making verbal pro- 
 mises. Witness that pleasant and touching incident in 
 the prison, where the youngest of the ragged Primroses, 
 to the dismay of his dear mother, is climbing up to Sir 
 William's neck to kiss him : " 'What, Bill, you chubby 
 rogue,' cried he, ' do you remember your old friend 
 Burchell? and Dick, too, my honest veteran, are you 
 here? You shall find I have not forgot you.' So 
 saying, he gave each a large piece of gingerbread, which 
 the poor fellows ate very heartily, as they had got that 
 morning but a very scanty breakfast."
 
 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 51 
 
 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 ].— PERSONS Wno HAVE " GOT A SPIRIT.'" 
 
 It often happens that the man who has got a spirit, 
 resembles the boy who has got his first shirt-collar; 
 he is continually plucking it up. He thinks himself 
 bound to display it ; and it is of a quality so retiring, 
 that if he should fail to pluck it up it never would be 
 seen at all. 
 
 Life is hard work with him ; for demands upon him 
 to " show his spirit " are constantly occurring, and 
 it has to be plucked up first. But his enjoyment is 
 in proportion to his labour, for he is perfectly satisfied 
 tliat he is ever and anon performing something heroic. 
 
 Thus after a long twelvemonth's toil at the forge or 
 the desk ; the poor man grinding his heart daily into 
 sand for the old Hour-glass ; pent-up, smoke-dried, 
 choked, bent double ; aching in every bone, and sick 
 at the verj'^ soul ; sentenced by the law of birth to per- 
 petual imprisonment with hard labour ; of a sudden a 
 great resolution springs up in his mind, like the magic 
 bean-stalk, in a single night — he conceives the great 
 idea of a holiday, and going to Gravesend by steam ! 
 He plucks up a spirit, and puts down eighteenjience. 
 
 Or worse still ; perhaps the bitterest ingredient in 
 the cup of destiny is that sweet creature, a wife. He 
 loves, honours, and obeys her; he is allowed to drink 
 nothing but tea, and that always with her; he never 
 presumes to go out without permission, stating always 
 where he is going, and when he shall be back ; he 
 never so much as looks at another M'oman, except by 
 his wife's direction, to notice some ugliness of feature, 
 awkwardness of manners, or heresy in dress, which he 
 
 D 2
 
 52 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 
 
 invariably detects, whether it be observable by other 
 eyes or not ; — when, in the very midst of the nag-nag- 
 ging which is supposed to be sometimes the reward of 
 such virtue, he starts up in open rebellion, seizes his 
 hat at ten o'clock at night, darts out of doors, or win- 
 dows, and returns home at dinner-time next day "much 
 bemused with beer;" yet not so, for he had plucked up 
 a " sperrit," as he calls it, and ordered strong ale. 
 
 Now and then, albeit he acknowledges some religious 
 regulations which forbid it, he plucks up a spirit and 
 sneaks to the play. He can only resent an insult by 
 a like effort. He has been known to fling back an 
 imputation upon his consistency or courage in very for- 
 midable language; and even went so far as to accept a 
 challenge which was the consequence ; happily, how- 
 ever, his spirit had not mounted high enough to present 
 any obstacle to a peaceful arrangement upon moral 
 grounds. 
 
 When reproached with subscribing a shabby one 
 pound to a charity that had the strongest claims upon 
 his extensive means, he resolved, after a fortnight's 
 consideration, to increase his contribution to one guinea; 
 because, as he said, he always liked to do things in a 
 spirited manner. 
 
 It is not always, however, when he plucks up a spirit 
 that he is helped forward by it even to this extent. The 
 rich relation from whom he anticipates a fat legacy, one 
 day screwed up the daily-affront-pipe to a pitch beyond 
 mortal endurance. 
 
 " Now is the time," said outraged forbearance, "now 
 is the time for me to pluck up a spirit ! " 
 
 And forth he went, spirit and all, to buy a barrel of 
 oysters to send to the fat legacy -leaver ; with some 
 capital H.B.'s, just out. 
 
 It is reported, moreover, that having always voted
 
 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 53 
 
 upon one side in the borough he resides in, the other 
 side at length offered him a bribe; upon which he 
 immediately plucked up a spirit, and took it. 
 
 Flintz, the usurer, never plucked up a spirit but once 
 in his life, and that was when he opened a bottle of 
 wine, to treat a customer by whom he was making 
 sixty per cent. But verily it was wine ; rich, old, and 
 cold as its owner ! The customer remembered its rare 
 quality eighteen months afterwards, when he called to 
 negotiate another mortgage. 
 
 " Ah ! FHntz, that was wine ! Any more of it, eh ? " 
 
 "Yes,^^ there was a remnant of the old stock still 
 left ; and Flintz, after some delay, handed to his visitor 
 a glass, not "full of the true, the blushful Hippo- 
 crene ; " on the contrary, it was the \dlest, soui^est ; 
 but Flintz insisted that it was some of the same, and 
 the \'isitor Avith many wry faces, refuted the libellous 
 assertion. 
 
 "So much," exclaimed Flintz, "for that most affected 
 of all pretensions to judgment — judgment in wine. You 
 are sure it ^s not the same ! different quality, different 
 vintage, different altogether ! Now, sir, it happens to 
 be the remains of the same bottle; and it has been here 
 in my safe, under lock and key, exactly a year and a 
 half." 
 
 The spirit that wants plucking up, is hardly worth 
 having; but the spirit that is never down is a more 
 troublesome incumbrance. Its owner had first shown 
 his spirit at school, by bestowing upon a beggar, who 
 was sure to make the good deed known, a half-crown 
 which he purloined from another boy for that purpose. 
 He next displayed it in a habit of thrashing his fellow- 
 apprentice (the junior one) as often as he himself might 
 incur correction from his master. 
 
 When he stai'ted in life, he started with spirit ; that
 
 54 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 
 
 is to say, having no money, he borrowed a large sum, 
 and speculated with it. When he lost it, there were 
 plenty of people to come forward with supplies enabling 
 him to renew the game, because he had speculated in 
 such a spirited manner ; and afterwai'ds, when he failed, 
 everybody said that he had failed with great spirit. He 
 set up a phaeton and pair, because the man next door 
 set up a horse and gig ; for it was not in his spirit to 
 be eclipsed by a next-door neighbour; and when his 
 business fell off to nothing, he purchased the said next 
 house without monev, and two others next to that on 
 the same terms, throwing them all into one, and deco- 
 rating them at the expense of several obsequious and 
 extremely grateful tradesmen, who always like to see 
 things done with spirit. 
 
 He is not remarkable for that mild temper, which is 
 a terrible inconvenience to persons who have to show 
 their spirit constantly. He is exceedingly tyrannical ; 
 but it should be admitted in iustice to him, that he is 
 chiefly so upon small points. He will quarrel ten times 
 a day, but then it is sure to be on grounds not worth 
 contesting at all ; and though the battle may involve 
 broken heads, the dispute is about the ninety-ninth 
 part of a hair. Indeed, the pettier the cause of quarrel, 
 the prouder is that feeling of inveterate firmness with 
 which he holds to his text and scorns compromise ; for 
 the plain reason that he then most shows his spirit. 
 
 The phrases most frequently in his mouth are, 
 "Thank Heaven, I've got a spirit!" "My spirit 
 would never allow me to give way I" " That 's just my 
 spirit !" You may know him by either of these excla- 
 mations. The imp of the bottle had no such influence 
 over its unlucky possessor, as this thing which he calls 
 his spirit exercises over him. He is a slave, believing 
 himself its master.
 
 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 55 
 
 His favourite country is France ; it is a nation that 
 has got a spiiit. He would be an excellent person to 
 send out, as representative of one ci\ilised country at 
 the court of another. Ci\-ilised countries are fond of 
 acting with extraordinary spirit. 
 
 If he should gamble away his children's bread, or 
 steal the very wife out of his friend's bosom, he must 
 not be denounced as the incarnation of treachery and 
 wickedness. He has no hatred for his offspring, no 
 love for the lady; but he moved in a certain society 
 that requii'ed him to act with spirit. 
 
 When he shoots an acquaintance through the head 
 instead of listening to reason, he is impelled by the 
 same necessity. He must always drive very near the 
 edge of the precipice, lest people should think he is 
 afraid of driving over. However ill-mounted, he is 
 bound to take the impracticable, neck-breaking leap in 
 a steeple-chase, because the man with the better horse 
 has just taken it Avith prodigious spirit. 
 
 Deduct from the huge sum-total of mischief and misery 
 in the world the amount fairly chargeable to the principle 
 of actingwith " spirit," whether between nations, between 
 classes, between man and man, or man and wife, and 
 at the end of a single twelvemonth you would accu- 
 mulate a stock of original sin and suffering, large 
 enough to set up a new world twice the size of this. 
 
 2.— PERSONS WHO NEVER HAVE ENOUGH OF A GOOD THING. 
 
 Napoleon seemed to be of opinion, that, to deserve 
 well of her country, a woman could not have too many 
 children; and if all sovereigns were Napoleons, the 
 opinion would be perfectly just. As it is, there happens 
 to be considerable doubt upon the point, as Avell in
 
 56 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 
 
 states as families ; but it by no means follows, Mobile 
 admitting the possibility of a superabundance of bless- 
 ings in the nursery, that we should concur with that 
 scamp of a soldier in Farquhar's comedy, who thinks it 
 possible that a man may have " too much wife/' 
 
 Of many other good things, however, " too much " is 
 easily to be had. We need not allude to those gross 
 material excesses, of which five-shilling records are 
 magisterially made in the morning. Every one who 
 has been once tempted to taste the other something; 
 every one whose cheek has flushed over the one cool 
 bottle more, will eagerly admit that it is needless. If 
 they hesitated, we should produce to their confusion 
 the evidence of the little bluecoat-boy, who dining at 
 home one day with his brothers and sisters, astonished 
 them with the splendour of his appetite, and yet was 
 worried to take more. More ! no, that was impossible. 
 Nature that abhors a vacuum, abhors equally three 
 pints to a quart vessel. Yet he was sorely pressed, and 
 naturally anxious to gratify affection. 
 
 " Well," said the brave little fellow at last, looking 
 fondly, wishingly, and yet half-despairingly at the dish 
 — his heart was full, we may be sure — " Well, perhaps 
 if I stand up, I can !" 
 
 It was an acute thought of the boy's : we should 
 rather say, perhaps, it was a beautiful instinct. And a 
 noble effort too it was that he then made ; he stood up 
 to it, almost as Thomson stood up to the peaches ; but 
 it was a graceful heroism thrown away ; he couldn't. 
 
 Let it be a lesson to others how they aim at the pro- 
 hibited enjoyment, too much of a good thing. When 
 they have been round to a lady's friends, and duly cir- 
 culated the story of her intended elopement; when 
 they have Wliat-a-pity' d it in one family. No-wondered 
 it in another^ and They-do-say'd the victim's reputation
 
 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 57 
 
 everywhere, let them go home and get a little refresh- 
 ing sleep after their charitable labours, without troubhng 
 themselves to write a kind note of sympathy, by way 
 of communicating the tidings to the lady^s mother ; 
 because this is really too much of a good thing. 
 
 And when they next get hold of a famous joke — an 
 entirely new anecdote of George Canning, or the last 
 original repartee of a more reverend mt — let them by 
 all means, as usual, relate it at full length to the next 
 dozen persons whom they meet, in regular succession ; 
 but let them forbear to repeat it to the said dozen 
 when all assembled together ; as though every one of 
 them had not been separately and privately tortured, 
 and with a genuine anecdote which each claims, per- 
 haps, to have exclusively manufactured. 
 
 These retailers of good things fancy that civdl listeners 
 never can have enough of them. The civihty is partly 
 in fault ; there is too much of it. 
 
 These are the advocates of " wasteful and ridiculous 
 excess," who would like to gild refined gold, and paint 
 the lily. They think " Paradise Lost " so fine, that 
 they wish there M^as more of it : a few more books, and 
 it would have been dcHghtful : and then they go and 
 read all that has been written about it, to eke out the 
 poet's abbre\dated spells. They are of opinion that a 
 poem is nothing without a vast volume of notes. "VYhen 
 they have read Burns all through, they sit down to 
 read the glossary, which they enjoy prodigiously. If 
 they had seen Kemble in "Macbctli," they would 
 have made a rush homeward to read his essay upon 
 the character, by way of heightening their enthusiasm. 
 They maintain that "The AYandercr" ecUpses all 
 modern novels, because it extends to five volumes. 
 
 They are the people who, at the play, sit out two 
 farces after seeing the tragedy, encoring a comic song 
 
 D 3
 
 58 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 
 
 in the last piece, and calling for " God save the Queen" 
 at the close. At the opera they are for having every- 
 thing repeated, beginning with the overture ; they call 
 for the principal singers to appear between every act, 
 and three times at the end, to abide the pelting of a 
 floral storm. When the ballet begins, they begin to 
 encore ; when it terminates, they are lost in wonder 
 why people don^t encore, not the brilliant points merely, 
 but the ballet ; they are of opinion that tivo such pieces, 
 with an opera in five acts, would form a charming 
 evening^s entertainment, not a bit too long. 
 
 A book is no book to them unless embellished " with 
 numerous engravings," and no advance of price. A 
 newspaper must be as large as a London-tavern table- 
 cloth, or there is nothing in it. They must have too 
 much of a good thing, or they fancy they have not 
 enough. Whether they are in favour of two-hour 
 sermons is more doubtful. We never heard them 
 express a wish that the parliamentary debates were 
 lengthened. 
 
 3— PERSONS WHO " KNOW ALL ABOUT IT." 
 
 When people draw their chairs close to the fender, 
 stir the fire vigorously, rub their hands upon their 
 knees, assume a look of complacent sagacity, and pro- 
 ceed to open up a long story with the confidential 
 remark that they are going to tell us " all about it," 
 they oftentimes remind us — dull companions though 
 they be — of that outrageous and incomprehensible piece 
 of drollery of Footers, which the wise reader who loves 
 genuine nonsense never forgets : 
 
 " So she went into the garden to cut a cabbage to 
 make an apple-pie, and who should be coming down the 
 street but a great she-bear and poppM her head into
 
 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 59 
 
 the shop. What ! no soap ? — So he died ; and she very 
 imprudently married the barber. And there were pre- 
 sent the Joblilies, and the Garrupllies, and the Picca- 
 lilies, and the great Panjandrum himself with the little 
 round button at top ; and they all fell to plajdng the ■ 
 game of catch-us-as-catch-can, till the gunpowder ran 
 out at the heels of their boots." 
 
 There is onlv one suitable termination for stories of 
 this simple and lucid character, and it is that which 
 custom always has ready — " and so now you know all 
 about it." 
 
 Where there are a great many facts to relate, with 
 great anxiety to poui' them out all at once, a little 
 crowding and confusion must be considered excusable. 
 But it is frequently much the same where there is but 
 a solitary fact to disclose ; for then the innocent mean- 
 ing falls a victim to the tui'bulent rushing of a mob of 
 words. Thus the spirit of the " great Panjandrum with 
 the little round button at top," breathes intensely in 
 the foUomng — the opening passage of a printed circular 
 which a learned schoolmaster in the City lately addressed 
 to the authorities of Aldgate. 
 
 " Gentlemen, — Thank you for the unbounded con- 
 fidence which you have placed in my management 
 during a period of six years and upwards, in every part 
 of which I may fearlessly assert the faithful discharge 
 of an arduous duty. Circumstances not less to my pros- 
 perity than, under the blessing of God, to my happiness, 
 induce me to this otherwise unpleasant task : but, should 
 that which I have glanced at not be the reality antici- 
 pated, then I am sure it will be highly gratifying to 
 learn that it is ascertained, more by the frequent 
 obser\'ation of others, than my own experience, that a 
 considcraldc fortune awaits me in another profession." 
 The writer not only intended to resign, but he
 
 60 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 
 
 intended to say so, only the great Panjandrum wonld 
 not let him. When schoolmasters thus flourish in print, 
 who can wonder that pupils persist in playing the game 
 of catch-us-as-catch-can until the gunpowder runs out 
 at the heels of their boots ! 
 
 You may know the man who means to tell you all 
 about it, directly his countenance comes in view. His 
 cheeks are puffed out with words " that breathe/' 
 and his eyes are distended with thoughts " that bum" 
 to find utterance. His appearance is that of a man who 
 must tell his story at once or explode. To be still talk- 
 ing, as Beatrice says (only not, like Signor Benedick, 
 to the purpose), is the necessity of his nature. (Truly, 
 his is more the vein of Dogberry, who must have been 
 prodigious at the game of telling a simple listener all 
 about it.) Yet when you come to hearken, you find he 
 has nothing to tell. He has plenty of passages leading 
 nowhere, and they are all " to be continued." 
 
 He is for ever wandering in a maze, conducting you 
 all about, but not out of it ; he is coming to a sure exit 
 at every fresh turn, and yet is always where he was. He 
 never finds out the right track but to lose himself in it, 
 and misses his way only to feel all the more confidence 
 in his own cleverness. He is continually busy in dis- 
 closing vast secrets, not a word of which does he ever 
 communicate; and is eager to off'er you the clearest 
 explanations, which never can be explained themselves. 
 
 He is the original of Sheridan's interpreter, who was 
 the more difficult to understand of the two. He never 
 spoke without saying too much, and yet never said any- 
 thing in his life. When he tells you all about it, it is 
 about the shell of the nut, which he never cracks — and 
 you hear not a word touching the kernel. He resem- 
 bles the old riddle, " Round the house, and round the 
 house, without touching the house." His wits, like lago's,
 
 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 61 
 
 are " about it/^ but the invention never comes from his 
 pate at all, and if it did, there are no brains to pluck 
 out. He is a spendthrift in words and a miser in mean- 
 ings. He must needs go beating about the bush, when 
 he knows all the time there is no game there. 
 
 Life is too short to warrant the expenditure of a single 
 hour upon the remorseless prolixities of these round- 
 about ramblers. Their yarns are like the Irish sailor^s 
 long line of rope, of which somebody had " cut oif the 
 other end," so that pull in as he might there was no 
 coming to it. 
 
 " Grant me patience, just Heaven !" 
 
 Yes, we have all need of it, only grant me not enough 
 to listen away my little lifetime in an easy-chair, sleepily 
 nodding assent to the never-ending monotonous hum of 
 the daily drawlcr, as he perseveres in telling one " all 
 about it." 
 
 If he have anything to say before he dies, let him 
 say it. Every man has a right to address his fellow- 
 creatures before he is turned off; but he has no right 
 to cheat me of my morning, because he is doomed for 
 his sins to get rid of his own. 
 
 If he have a romance to relate, let him introduce at 
 once his bore of a monk, or beast of a baron, without 
 stopping a long hour to " gild the western hemisphere." 
 If his tale bear date the 19th of October, let him state 
 the fact ; and not indulge in an insufferable dissertation 
 upon that bleak autumnal season, when the leaves of 
 the forest, &c., like human hopes, &c., suggesting 
 lessons of mortalitv, &c. 
 
 If he 7nust tell us something about John Smith, let 
 him at least allow John Smith's father to sleep quietly 
 in the grave, and not rip up ancient grievances by 
 beginning like those abominaljle nuisances, the brown- 
 coated old baronets on the stage, with " Let me see,
 
 62 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 
 
 it is now exactly twenty-three years ago this day, 
 
 smce- 
 
 If the gentle Howard himself had failed to hiss 
 furiously at this point, he would have proved himself 
 more fool than philanthropist. 
 
 Above all, if he have only the regular bit of daily 
 news, the appropriate morning gossip to communicate ; 
 why, out with it. Has Beau Tibbs gone into the 
 bench? say so simply. Has old Sir Peter Teazle's 
 wife run away with Doricourt ? there are just ten words 
 necessary, with one note of admiration. 
 
 Grant that they have had " goose three days running" 
 at No. 6 ; that Hicks's man has been taken up for 
 swindling ; that the nurse-maid opposite has got another 
 clean clerk to walk round the corner with; and that 
 the Bolts have gone away in the night : still there is no 
 necessity for a volume upon each incident, the incident 
 itself being after all left out of the volume. 
 
 Tell us the event, if you must ; but spare us " all 
 about it." We shall not stint the man of brevity in 
 his choice of subjects. He shall tell us that a relation 
 of ours is going to be hanged, or that a friend has met 
 with a piece of great" good luck ; the unwelcome news 
 shall not sour our temper. He shall announce the loss 
 of our foreign scrip, the death of a favourite dog, or 
 the return of a tyrannical dowager to our tranquil 
 domicile when least wanted ; we shaU not wince much, 
 if the tale be not long. Nay, he shall gently intimate 
 that the income-tax is doubled, fourteenpence in the 
 pound ; but unless he would see an image of 
 
 " Moody madness laughing wild 
 Amidst sevei'est woe," 
 
 let him not aggravate the injury by teUing us in cold 
 blood all about it, or affecting to explain the terrible 
 mystery of the schedules.
 
 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 63 
 
 The witness-box is often an excellent place for the 
 display of " Knowledge under no Difficulties." There 
 you continually meet with people, who are prepared at 
 a moment^s notice, whatever the case may be, to tell 
 his worship all about it. Bring them to the point, how- 
 ever, his worship cannot, although he is many times 
 assured that " that's what they're coming to." They 
 know everything and everybody, except the circmn- 
 stances of the affair, and the parties about whom they 
 are interrogated. They saw nothing done and they 
 heard nothing said ; but they have been informed by 
 one whose name they don't know, that something did 
 take place, and they have certain thoughts of their own 
 which are much at everybody's service. This is what 
 they call knowing all about it. 
 
 The same phrase is in use, by a similar class of persons, 
 at the hustings and at public meetings : where, directly 
 a speaker, blessed 'with lungs and listeners, declares that 
 the question of wool, timber, sugar, or corn, then and 
 there agitated, has been utterly misunderstood, and he 
 shall make bold to tell that intelligent audience for the 
 first time all about it ; you know your fate. If you have 
 nothing to do, go and do it, but stay not there, unless 
 the great Panjandrum with the little round button at 
 top be the god of your idolatry. 
 
 If these knowing persons would be content with their 
 knowledge, all would be well ; but knowledge is power, 
 and people who have power love sometimes to exercise 
 it unmercifully. Thus, we cannot mention the philo- 
 sopher's stone, but we find they know all about it. 
 Shift the conversation to every opposite subject in turn, 
 from Pompcy's pillar to the songs of Ossian, the round 
 towers of Ireland, the late mysterious murder, the 
 Homeric birthplace, the last of the antediluvian turn- 
 ups, or the authorship of Junius's letters ; and in every
 
 64 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 
 
 successive instance, wherever a field is opened for doubt, 
 or a mine of speculation and research is sprung, it 
 invariably happens that they know all about it. Should 
 you relate a private dream which you had last night, or 
 invent a chain of impossibilities expressly for the occa- 
 sion, you find them equally foreknowing, and can only 
 wonder in what profound depth they picked up the 
 information. 
 
 They have always an exclusive story of their own, 
 which is, like a worn-out shilling, without head or tail 
 to it. Every story, nevertheless, is furnished with two 
 heroes, one is a cock and the other a bull; and these 
 are constantly in one another's way. 
 
 If ignorance be bliss, verily each of these persons 
 might be supposed to cry, " Me miserable V On the 
 contrary, to the confusion of the melancholy sons of 
 wisdom, they are the happiest dogs living. 
 
 4.— PERSONS WHO ARE NEVER WITHOUT AN EXCOSE. 
 
 It is almost a proverb in the land that you can never 
 catch a woman without an excuse ready made, be her 
 surprise or her emergency what it may. Rosahnd 
 tells us that we shall never catch a woman without 
 her answer ; and the brilliancj^ and affluence of her 
 "woman's wit," confirming her own confident assertion 
 of its unfailing qualities in her sex, almost establishes 
 her case. But it must be recollected, on the other hand, 
 that all sweet Rosalind's pearls and diamonds can never 
 shed a single ray of light that may show us how to 
 estimate truly the riches of a woman's resources in that 
 respect ; for this simple reason, that Rosalind is not the 
 author of the play, and that, in reality, her " woman's
 
 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 65 
 
 wit" is the wit of a man ; if, indeed, we can bring our- 
 selves to think of Shakspeare as only one. 
 
 If women have at command a greater store of per- 
 tinent answers and apt excuses than men, it is only 
 another proof that Avealth is often heaped where it is 
 almost superfluous. As her fewer faults require fewer 
 excuses than our large batch of grosser sins, so again 
 she less needs the resource of an excuse, in virtue of 
 that consideration and indulgence with which we habi- 
 tually regard the smaller foibles of her character ; her 
 little every-day transgi-essions, which brutal husbands 
 alone call " whoppers." 
 
 Perhaps it was her reputed superiority in the art of 
 making excuses, that by degrees suggested to vast num- 
 bers of the sex she rules (" rules," so long as she doesn't 
 "show she rules") the expediency of cultivating it to 
 the utmost, of employing it as an invaluable ally. At 
 all events, we now live in the heart of a great world, 
 which, want what it may, never wants an excuse. The 
 exemption conceded to all kings is claimed by most 
 subjects j who " can do no wrong," because each in his 
 own personal case is ready to prove it right. Every 
 individual atom of the sovereign people becomes upon 
 this plan an imperial Cajsar, and, we know, 
 " Ctesar did never wrong, but witli just cause." 
 
 That's just it. We never do wrong but upon right 
 principles, and never commit a fault without an excel- 
 lent reason for it. The justice of our cause vindicates 
 the injustice of our deeds ; and the purity of oui* motives 
 covers the grossness or want of charity of our speech. 
 
 Among our law-makers, high and low, the art of 
 excuse-making is carried to perfection. An act repealed, 
 or an act passed, may be in itself an ill deed ; not so, if 
 it can happily boast a good excuse. The change might 
 not be just — what then ? It was expedient.
 
 66 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 
 
 You will as soon catch a tortoise without his shell as 
 a minister without his excuse; it is his case-armour, 
 and, worn guardedly, he is seldom crushed in it. He 
 never wanted an excuse for promoting a pubhc servant, 
 or for neglecting one ; he has an excuse for giving away 
 a place, or for refusing it ; or for promising without 
 the slightest intention of giving. He has a capital 
 excuse for peace, and a sound one for war. He has his 
 excuses for office, and his excuses for opposition. 
 
 The bewildered patient, hearty last week, dies amidst 
 a countless multitude of phials and pill-boxes ; but the 
 M.D. has his excuse — the obstinate man would have the 
 wing of a partridge for his dinner ; besides, his disease 
 was evidently mortal — look at him, and you see the fact 
 in his face. 
 
 The client walks out of court, winning his cause but 
 losing his land ; the lawyer has his excuse — the estate 
 was only just large enough to pay the costs of suit. 
 
 The dramatist writes a tragedy and fails, but he has 
 his excuse — the acting was execrable. And the actor 
 who played so villanously, he has his excuse too — 
 Garrick would have been hooted in the part, and have 
 felt his genius in such a play buried in a leaden coffin. 
 
 Two classes of characters (extremely numerous ones) 
 are especially famous for excuses. The man who, Avhen 
 asked, does not mean to lend his money; and the 
 man who, when he has borrowed, does not mean to pay 
 it back. The fertility of invention and the dexterity of 
 fence displayed here are incessant and surprising; there 
 is a continual play of genius on both sides, and it is 
 difficult to say in which party is vested the greatest 
 ingenuity, or the most unwearied perseverance. The 
 firmness and fortitude of human nature are in either 
 character worked up to the utmost. 
 
 The rich have an excuse for giving nothing away —
 
 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 67 
 
 the dread of encouraging rogues ; and the poor offer at 
 least as good a reason for not paying their debts — they 
 have no money. 
 
 The man with the gout — what is his excuse for taking 
 turtle twice ? 
 
 " Oh, why it was sent to me ; and then that fel- 
 low Jones had it three times ; moreover, I'm fond of 
 it.'' 
 
 And he who staggers from the half-upset table and 
 reels home on both sides of the road at midnight, has 
 he no excuse for the di'unkenness which is dehcately 
 phrased down into inebriety? Oh, certainly; he had 
 met with the best friends in the world, and hadn't an 
 idea that whiskey-punch affected the head ; thought the 
 port really capital, and was inclined to blame the bottled 
 stout; the excuse for being drunk generally ending 
 with the emphatic appeal, " And besides — besides, mind 
 — I'm s — s — sober." 
 
 The drinker's excuses, however, are innumerable. If 
 it were of any use to attempt an enumeration, we should 
 say that they run — 1st. That it is ungentlemauly to 
 pass the bottle. 2dly. That it is the anniversary of his 
 wedding-day, of his marriage with his first wife. 3rdly. 
 That his heart is almost broken. 4thly. That he only 
 drinks at night to enable him to relish his plain glass of 
 porter next day. 5thly. That he has one wife and six 
 children weighing hea\41y on his mind. 6thly. That he 
 is writing a volimie of poems. 7thly. That these are 
 not times for a patriot to flinch from supporting the 
 revenue. 8thly. That his heart is quite broken. 9thly. 
 That he cannot tell whether it is to be a girl or a boy. 
 lOthly. That he means to start for America, being sick 
 of the United States in England, &c. 
 
 The very apostle of temperance is not without an 
 excuse for an outbreak. It was Father Mathew's bu'th-
 
 68 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 
 
 day ; or there must have been something in the water 
 that he drank after supper — not a doubt of it. 
 
 Indeed^ the only thing for which there is no excuse 
 is — to be under any circumstances without one. 
 
 The daily journals, those acres of paper, are thickly 
 sown with excuses for human nature, in all its infinite 
 forms of meanness, venality, and crime. Their motto 
 should be "Whatever is, is right." There the judge 
 excuses an excessive punishment, not that the offence 
 demands it, but that the state requires an example. 
 There the culprit puts in the plea of poverty, in answer 
 to the charge of theft. 
 
 There the honourable member excuses his bribe on 
 the ground that the other side bribed quite as high, and 
 his broken promise to a constituency on the ground that 
 a system of pledges is injurious to public morals. 
 
 The defrauded tradesman excuses his own carelessness, 
 rather say his own willingness to be cheated ; the bank- 
 rupt was so smooth-spoken, and went regularly to the 
 same parish church. The fraudulent bankrupt in turn 
 finds an excuse for his frailty in the intense force of 
 domestic affection ; his wife had a passion for point lace 
 and a drive in the parks, while his children would never 
 have got through their measles comfortably, unless 
 indulged with a promise of real French dancing-masters 
 on their recovery. 
 
 The beauty of virtue is (this is rather a new doctrine) 
 that it is so exceedingly profitable. One bit of true 
 virtue stops the gaps created by the detection of several 
 vices. The girl who drops her master's child out of a 
 second-floor window in the morning, and innocently sets 
 the house on fire at night, is excused by the general 
 verdict of the family ; she is so extremely modest, and 
 never stops to chat with the policeman. The footman 
 who, having stolen the plate and carried off the cash
 
 PERSONS "WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 69 
 
 whicli he was to have taken to the coal-merchant, is 
 found senseless at the Bag-o'-nails, is not without his 
 excuse ; it was all owdng to his devoted attachment to 
 " that creature " who is a disgrace to her sex, and 
 utterly unworthy of such a man. One ^drtue goes a 
 great way ; but a mere half-dozen vices count for nothing. 
 
 Even the lady who elopes from her lord finds more 
 favour than is openly accorded to her. It turns out 
 that she was three years younger than her husband; 
 that she was sometimes left for the same number of 
 hours at home while he who should have been her pro- 
 tector and companion was seeking enjoyment (talking 
 politics) at the neighbouring tavern; and that Mr, Lungs, 
 the lodger, had a surprising voice for " Is there a heart ! " 
 It must be an ill-wind indeed that bloAvs nobody an 
 excuse. 
 
 The faithful husband has numerous excuses for stop- 
 ping out late. One is, of course, the politics aforesaid. 
 The next seldom fails to appear, though it rarely suc- 
 ceeds ; he positively had no idea of the time. Thirdly, 
 he waited for that Tomkins, who was coming his way ; 
 and never again will he wait a single instant for an 
 unscrupulous sitter-up who has no wife and family, or 
 at least no wife, to go home to. Then there was some- 
 body in company who began to talk in the most admiring 
 and affectionate strain of little Lucy (the disturbed wife^s 
 darhng), and for his life he could not tear himself away. 
 Then somebody else had detained him by the offer of a 
 box at Covent-Garden, which certainly would afford a 
 rare treat to the dear children. Afterwards he had staid 
 a little ; could he help that ? to return thanks upon his 
 wife^s health being drunk, which toast the Rev. Mr. 
 Jobbins had most feelingly proposed. And lastly, for 
 even a string of excuses has its lastly, there was not a 
 cab to be got. Yet, after all, he must frankly confess
 
 70 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEETT. 
 
 that he does not very seriously repeut of his long stay, 
 since he finds his Juliana in such a kind forgiving 
 temper, and looking as fresh as a lark ! 
 
 With the myriads of small excuses for small crimes 
 committed momently a volume would in an hour or two 
 be filled. Sins of omission, with respect to morning- 
 calls and answering notes, afford a field which produces 
 daily a large crop of excuses. We know a young lady 
 whose innocent excuse for not writing was, that she did 
 not know the day of the month. Her pedigree might 
 possibly be traced back to the time of the ancient 
 matron, who stated in excuse for the badness of her 
 spelling, that she wrote the letter with a bad pen. 
 
 And really in an age when all kinds of excuses are 
 freely admitted, and allowed to pass current without 
 question, this should be as fair an excuse as may be 
 adduced by an author for the insufficiency of his argu- 
 ment, or the feebleness of his imaginative flight. That 
 he wrote his essay, or his epic, with a bad pen, should 
 at once account for all blots. Should the consistent 
 critic, jealous of innovation, still persist in abusing the 
 work, he too might, in due and convenient season, pro- 
 duce his honest excuse, that he had never read a line of it. 
 
 Charles Lamb once gave a kind of pattern-excuse for 
 appearing at a wedding in a black coat ; yet a little bird 
 had been before him. It was, if we remember, the 
 excuse of the blackbird for appearing at the goldfinches 
 wedding in a sable suit ; that he had got no other. The 
 apology, founded upon such an extreme necessity, may 
 serve to give the authority of an excuse to the many 
 {the antipodes of the Charles Lambs of the world) who 
 perpetually parade their one virtue before the public 
 eye ; whether it be their sobriety, their chastity, their 
 horror of vice, or a supreme concern for the interests of 
 their family — " they have got no other."
 
 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 71 
 
 It is hardly consistent with a virtuous feeling to be 
 hard upon a solitary \drtue ; yet this we may venture to 
 say, that while for some positive vices, constituted as 
 life is, some excuses may be found, we meet now and 
 then with a case of singleness of ^drtue for which there 
 is no excuse. Virtue however is much less prolific than 
 her sister; weeds are of quicker growth even than 
 flowers (weeds and flowers, \ice and virtue, have paired 
 off" ever since the date of paradise). 
 
 And this reflection leads to the observation with 
 which we close; that daily reviewing, though vainly 
 attempting to enumerate the world's multitudinous 
 excuses as well for grave as trivial transgressions, we 
 see upon what a grand scale Vice, by her agent Hypo- 
 crisy, pays her homage to Virtue. When we observe 
 with what energy men labour to bury their off'ences 
 from the common eye, with what dexterity they cloak 
 their more venial trespasses, with what a degree of arti- 
 fice they put on the smile in place of the scowl, and yet 
 with what constancy they pursue the old game only to 
 give themselves new trouble, we must come to the con- 
 clusion that intellect is more tasked to make human 
 character appear what it is not, than to be what it was 
 designed for. The first lesson we derive from social life 
 is, that it is far less anxious to narrow the boundaries of 
 vice than to discover passable excuses for it ; to mask 
 rather than to discard the grossness which weighs down 
 the spirit. 
 
 .5.— PERSONS WHO JOKE AT THEIR OWN EXPENSE. 
 
 Among the multitudes who hourly joke, after a 
 fashion, at their own expense, mav be classed a certain 
 set of Self-depreciators, who are possessed of a very
 
 72 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 
 
 spurious kind of modesty. It is often, indeed, but a 
 mere joke, and they find it an expensive one. 
 
 They put on a diffident air, and undervalue them- 
 selves, with the view of heightening the bystander's 
 estimate of their worth ; but they never succeed in this, 
 for as long as they decry their own merits, he is sure to 
 take them at their word. They may exalt their preten- 
 sions, and cry up their own capabilities to the skies, but 
 he believes not a syllable they say ; not so, when they 
 lower their tone, even beneath the pitch of truth, and 
 pronounce themselves incapable; then they are entitled 
 to implicit faith. 
 
 A poet sends you his last sonnet, which he frankly 
 proclaims to be a fine one, and the best he ever wrote ; 
 but as you are not bound to agree with him, you reject 
 his judgment. When, on the other hand, he shows you 
 some verses acknowledging them to be commonplace, 
 his judgment influences yours, and you confess that 
 there is not much in them. The law of opinion allows 
 an author to give evidence against himself, but holds 
 him in contempt as a witness in his own behalf. 
 
 Declare that you are a great philosopher, and the 
 world, without knowing anything to the contrary, will 
 uncivilly dispute your assertion ; but call yourself a 
 great fool, and the world, still knowing nothing about 
 you, will politely concur. 
 
 If self-glorification seldom succeeds, self-depreciation 
 fails yet more frequently. The Fabian poHcy should 
 be rarely tried in the moral field. Men are not allowed 
 to carry on an argument by retreating from the point, 
 nor can they gain a reputation for firmness and courage, 
 by prevarication and sneaking. We know that when 
 a man proclaims aloud his iniquities, and arrogates to 
 himself every vice and vanity known to the enlightened 
 world, that he means to set himself up for a saint ; but
 
 PERSOXS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 73 
 
 we do not_, therefore, think him one. On the contrary, 
 we esteem him to be the sinner he says he is, or else 
 a h}^ocrite still more detestable. The wise man well 
 knows what a shallow thing his wisdom is ; but he does 
 not begin his discourse by telling us that he is a goose. 
 
 The beauty, with an admiring glance towards the 
 glass, tosses her elegant head, and vows that she is 
 looking shockingly to-night ; and do we not, contrary 
 to her intention, silentlv coincide, as we see the sillv 
 affectation obscuring all that was pleasing in her face, 
 and turning the lovely into the laughable ? 
 
 And when the musical lion of the party entertains a 
 crowd of besiegers for half an hour with protestations 
 that he can't sing a note, he is more in the right than 
 he means to be; for when he afterwards complies, do 
 we not listen as to one, not singing, but showing off? 
 
 The modesty is sometimes real, but it is equally fatal. 
 Indeed, real modesty is a ^drtue to which we show no 
 quarter. "When once an unhappy mortal turns critic 
 upon himself, and begins to point out his own faults 
 with sincerity, we let him go on, and are not satisfied 
 while he leaves himself a single fragment of merit to 
 grace his unworthiness. He may strip, till he has 
 stripped himself down to the thin, bare, hollow quality 
 of temperance; and we expect him to confess, then, 
 that he retains the one virtue, only while the cellar is 
 locked, or the purse empty. It places the victim abso- 
 lutely at our mercy; there is a greater generosity in 
 our friendship for one so erring and desertless. 
 
 Let the truly modest man (has he come to town yet ?) 
 declare upon the singleness of his reputation, whether, 
 as often as he has mistrusted his own powers, he has 
 not found his well-wishers mistrust them too. We ai'c 
 immodest enough to answer for him, tliat whenever he 
 has pleaded his low deserts, his rewards have been in 
 
 VOL. III. E
 
 74 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 
 
 proportion. Let a man of five feet nine inches confess, 
 with an humble stoop in the shoulders, that he considers 
 himself short, and his friends will look upon him as 
 Little Dobbs ever after. Directly we regard ourselves 
 as below the average, we never get credit for our full 
 height : the instant we have uttered, in humble selfish- 
 ness, the fatal words, " Anything will do for me," 
 anything does for us in everybody's eyes. 
 
 Justice should take a hint from charity, and begin 
 at home. Hers is a feast, where every guest ought to 
 help himself; but then so many have a habit of taking 
 too much. 
 
 There is one exception to the rule remarked upon. 
 There is one vice (for practically it is a vice) of which 
 we do not always believe a man guilty even upon his 
 own confession. It is poverty. When he avers that 
 he is poor, we think him sly and roguish, or perhaps 
 modest and ostentatious. We accept with full credence 
 his self-depreciatory list of the things he can't do, but 
 we are reluctant to believe that he canH pay, somehow. 
 We make the modest man trv. 
 
 Tm-ning to a more literal view of the subject, we see 
 a class of persons who are fond of the amusement of 
 throwing stones about, quite in fun ,• and it is remark- 
 able that these persons live in glass-houses. Half the 
 stones fall about their own ears, and for every second 
 joke they have a long bill to pay. Their rockets have 
 a knack of bursting brilliantly — in the hand. Life's a 
 jest ; and they must make a joke of it. 
 
 They are not far removed from the practical Christian 
 philosopher, who burnt down his neighbour's house to 
 roast his own egg at the fire. These pleasant jokers 
 demolish their own tenements ; but whose beside, they 
 never stop to consider. Off goes the joke; the 
 withering sarcasm, the slanderous innuendo ; or the
 
 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 75 
 
 random shot, in sheer sport, to bring down anything it 
 may happen to hit. The joke, often injurious, some- 
 times fatal to others, is ever so to themselves. It might 
 seem harmless at the moment, but a latent mischief in 
 it explodes unexpectedly. 
 
 The friend at whom it was levelled only lost his 
 temper, which might be a very bad one ; but the joker, 
 perhaps, has lost his friend. He hui't an acquaintance, 
 or a stranger, but struck do^ai himself bej'ond the 
 hope of rising. The bystanders judge him, not by the 
 mischief done, but bv the mischief meditated, or bv 
 the indifference to mischief manifested in the aim. Even 
 in the opinion of those who laughed loudest at the 
 sally, he stands, upon deliberation, condemned. His 
 stone-throwing is the opposite of that which the frogs 
 appealed against ; here the sport is for the many, but 
 it is hngering death to the one, the author of the joke. 
 
 Some of these jokers at their own expense are simply 
 the victims of ill-luck. They plaj^ully start the wrong 
 subject ; felony in the presence of the gentleman who 
 forgot to return his friend's snuff-box, borrowed direct 
 from the dining-table ; female frailty, in the teeth of a 
 nine-days' deserted husband; or the merits of a par- 
 ticixlar club to the blushing face of a candidate just 
 blackballed. He finds his innocent remarks resented 
 as insults. His little crackers leap back upon him with 
 the force of bomb-shells. He flunks the thing must be 
 a joke, and explains jestingly; which turns the serious 
 drama to deep tragedy. 
 
 The jokers comprise many classes, and the expense 
 is heavy in all. They congregate numerously at New- 
 market and Epsom, where the joke of backing the 
 wrong horse, he that is dead lame and yet as right as 
 the mail, is kept up at a bountiful rate. The expense 
 in the long run, that is, in the turn of the race-com*se, 
 
 E 2
 
 76 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 
 
 is sure to fall hea^dest upon the best jokers. The 
 knowing ones always know one thing — who is most 
 cruelly taken in. 
 
 The civic gamblers are droll fellows too ; droll upon 
 the same disinterested principle. They will have their 
 jokes at their own expense; they are so devilish in- 
 dependent. They always like to pay for what they 
 liavCj if it be only a joke. They never fall so readily 
 and completely into a trap, as when it is one of their 
 own setting. 
 
 The swarms who Kve well without any money at all ; 
 who want for nothing in this world of luxury except 
 cash, and to whom, therefore, even that is a superfluity ; 
 who dance away their days without once paying the 
 piper j may seem to be joking at other people^s expense. 
 It is eventually at their own. As certainly is it the 
 case with criminals who plunder not according to law. 
 If there be anything sure and sacred in our belief, this 
 must be included in it ; that no man can rashly or 
 wilfully injure his fellow man, without more deeply 
 injuring himself. 
 
 Evasion of the law is held in some cases to be a good 
 joke, as open \iolation of it is in others; the offenders, 
 at the wind-up of the intricate account, suffer most by 
 the jest. Some laAvs themselves are but mere jokes ; 
 grave ones it is true; but they are maintained at the 
 law^s expense. It is the law that suffers most by them, 
 in public estimation, and practical efficiency; for the 
 ruin inflicted upon individuals is as nothing compared 
 with the great national calamity, the awful contra- 
 diction, a wrong done legally !
 
 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 77 
 
 6— PERSONS WHO " DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO." 
 
 The Helpless constitute a large class of Imman beings 
 in town and country; but amongst them is a species of 
 mortal who is helpless with an abundance of means at 
 command. It is a feminine class, with a masculine 
 sprinkling ; and there is an infallible characteristic by 
 which all who belong to it may be recognised; they 
 never know what to do ! 
 
 These unhappy persons are constantly rocking about 
 in smooth water. They are perplexed with a choice of 
 enjoyments, or a profusion of business. Their poverty 
 is the embarrassment of riches. You find them in a 
 state of pitiable perplexity ; and it tui*ns out that they 
 have a box at Drury Lane and a box at Covent Garden 
 for the same evening. They are at a loss to decide 
 which theatre to go to ; they don^t know what to do ! 
 
 Having a perfectly idle morning, they arc plunged 
 into a most distressed condition by the difficulty of 
 determining whether it would be best to make a call on 
 the Greens at Greenwich, or the Bro-wTis at Blackheath. 
 Suggest to them that they might do both, and they 
 feel dreadfully fatigued at the very thought ; suggest 
 that they should do neither, and they declare that they 
 shall die if they are moped up much longer. When 
 they have rejected every hint you have to offer, and no 
 new course can be proposed, they look up appealingly 
 in your face, and in plaintive tones inquu'c, " What 
 would you advise V 
 
 This " what would you advise ?" a question in con- 
 stant use amongst the Helpless with help at hand, is 
 generally addressed to somcl)ody manifestly incapable 
 of forming an opinion upon the point. But that is of 
 little consequence, as the advice is never followed.
 
 78 PERSONS WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN. 
 
 The birthday present which they intended to make is 
 postponed until next year, from the utter impossibihty 
 of deciding whether it should be one diamond and three 
 rubies, or one ruby and three diamonds. They insist 
 upon knowing at last what the poor old blind grand- 
 father thinks, who never had a taste for jewellery, and 
 they resolve to be governed by his judgment. He is 
 for three rubies and one diamond. 
 
 "And yet," they urge in reply to this final deci- 
 sion, "don^t you think now that one ruby and three 
 diamonds — ?" 
 
 The point is not settled, and they refer the solution 
 of the difficulty to foolish Betty, with her abominable 
 taste for finery ; but when her all-important opinion is 
 obtained, she is told that she is a very bad judge of such 
 matters, and quite in the wrong. 
 
 "Why, yes, of course, ma'am, as I said before, you 
 must know best.'^ 
 
 But Betty is wrong again, they don't know best. 
 They never were so completely puzzled. It's so ex- 
 tremely provoking. If it were not for a diamond and 
 three rubies, a ruby and three diamonds would be 
 beautiful. They can't tell, it makes them quite misera- 
 ble, they don't know ivhat to do ! 
 
 They are for ever paying visits, first to Tweedledum, 
 and next to Tweedledee, in order to collect difi'erent 
 opinions; and when they have collected all, they are 
 confirmed in the suspicion they had previously enter- 
 tained, that it is really very difficult to know what to do. 
 
 They would leave town immediately, but for a desire 
 to remain in London, where however they are disinclined 
 to stop, from a great wish to go out of town. And in 
 starting for the country, they would certainly go by 
 railroad, were it not for the charms of the sea, of which 
 however they are not inclined to take advantage, in
 
 DECEASED PEOPLE WHOM "WE MEET DAILY. 79 
 
 consequence of the convenience of the raikoad. They 
 have nobody to ad\dse them, and what on earth they 
 shall do they don^t know. 
 
 And should a little difficulty really rise, should it so 
 happen that it is highly important for them to pay a 
 visit immediately, and as highly important, at the same 
 time, that they write some letters which will cause delay, 
 then, indeed, hke the miserable Moor, they are " per- 
 plexed in the extreme,^^ and cry out, with the bewildered 
 rustic in Fielding^s " Fall of Phaeton," 
 
 " The world^s at an end ! go and call the parson of 
 the parish \" 
 
 In such a complex crisis of their affairs, in such an 
 extremity of helplessness, they can neither pay a visit 
 nor "write a note. They can but sit down, wring their 
 hands, look inquiringly at the ceiling, and wonder 
 whatever thev shall do ! 
 
 DECEASED PEOPLE WHOM WE MEET DAILY. 
 
 An Irish gentleman of our acquaintance, when his 
 new suit of mourning came home, began to moralize on 
 the uncertainty of life. " Mortality," said he, " is more 
 fleeting than the fashion of a coat. Wlio can say that 
 his spirit may not cast off its garment of flesh, even 
 before the gloss has departed from his new waistcoat. 
 Alas ! I ordered this mourning for my friend, and may 
 yet be destined to wear it for myself ! " 
 
 We often laugh in the wrong place, and create the 
 bulls we fancy we discover. It was easy to see, by the 
 aid of a minute's reflection, that this was no blunder at 
 all, except in sound. On the surface it is merely a 
 ludicrous absurdity ; beneath that lies a world of grave
 
 so DECEASED PEOPLE WHOM WE MEET DAILY. 
 
 meaning, and lessons of the profoundest and most 
 melancholy truth. The provocation to laugh is checked 
 by a philosophic sigh. 
 
 It is not, to be sure, the custom in civihsed countries 
 for men to go into mourning for their own loss ; they 
 only put on the suit of sorrow and solemnity when 
 royalty, consanguinity, or friendship that leaves a legacy, 
 expires ; but if it were the fashion for honest people in 
 this world, to do by themselves as they do by others, 
 what thousands who are now flashing in coats of many- 
 colours would suddenly appear before us clad in deep 
 mourning ! How would the delicacy of peach-blossom 
 and the flush of crimson subside into dreary sable, 
 satins and velvet change to sad crape, and the harle- 
 quinade of life become as a funeral procession. A 
 nigrification almost universal would ensue, like swarms 
 of fire-flies darkening into black-beetles. 
 
 Admit but the principle of adopting the same cere- 
 monies in oiu- own case which we observe towards our 
 next of kin, and where is the conscientious man who 
 might not be called upon to put on black as a sHght 
 tribute of respect to his departed self ! Yea, hundreds 
 who now dazzle the eye of the wondering multitude by 
 the gaudiness of their equipages, would be compelled to 
 change their green and crimson liveries for a crow- 
 colour; and we should see the footman, shorn of his 
 finery, swinging behind the carriage, in deep mourning 
 for his deceased master grinning inside. 
 
 Not a day passes (who will deny this ?) that any man 
 of common experience may not converse with a dozen 
 defunct people. In a great city like London it is im- 
 possible to stir out on a fine day when the town is full_, 
 without seeing numbers of departed persons of one^s 
 acquaintance sauntering up and down in the sunshine ; 
 without stopping here and there at the corners of streets
 
 DECEASED PEOPLE WHOM WE MEET DAILY. SI 
 
 to cliat with the lamented dead, or nodding carelessly to 
 them on the other side of the way. The people who 
 have gone to their long homes years ago, are very much 
 abroad in this gay metropolis. We dined the other 
 day in a party of fourteen merry-makers, well acquainted 
 with each other ; but to our certain knowledge nine of 
 them were no more, and had been so for various periods 
 of time, dating from the different circumstances of their 
 career. 
 
 It is verv' easy to object that all these deceased persons 
 appear to be as much as ever in existence ; and, indeed, 
 furnish endence of their being actually alive by dining, 
 walking, laughing, cheating, and the like. In aU these 
 respects, and forty others, they are living to the full as 
 much as though they had never departed this life at aU. 
 Nevertheless they are all dead, and will so continue, 
 until \atality is discovered in door-nails. 
 
 The phrase which has long been current Avherever 
 the English language is spoken, "dead and buried,'' 
 was not circulated without a necessity for it. " Poor 
 Bob is dead and buried/' is an assertion Avonderfully 
 differing from " Poor Bob is dead." There is a war- 
 ranty conveyed in the additional words which is much 
 wanting in numbers of instances, and without it the fact 
 may be moonshine. The burial is a clencher. The 
 popular existence of the phrase is a proof that the demise 
 is not usually held to be a settled thing until it is asso- 
 ciated with interment. 
 
 This very day were we discussing the three per cents 
 with a city man, when, on a sudden, memory turned 
 back into old days, to trace the form and lineaments of 
 an early chum, lie was once the merriest little winged 
 bird-like soul that ever sang songs half way between 
 earth and heaven. Such assuredly was Little Piper. 
 It was necessary to get up into the sky before you could 
 
 E 3
 
 82 DECEASED PEOPLE WHOM WE MEET DAILY. 
 
 catch him, but when caught he was your own. So was 
 all he had. He never knew the meaning of the word 
 grasping, except when he had hold of a friend^ s hand 
 or jumped into a river (as he once did) to drag out a 
 drowning lad, three times his own weight and size. 
 
 When he became a man he was the boy as before. 
 He called nothing his own but his faults, and never 
 forgot anybody but himself, a person whom Little Piper 
 rarely bestowed a thought upon. As he had emptied 
 his pockets at school in making presents, and giving 
 sixpences (in spite of lectures against such immoral 
 practices) to begging mothers with hungry chikben cry- 
 ing and clinging about them ; so now on a larger scale 
 he pursued the same plan, and was seldom without a 
 happy face, save when he witnessed misery he could not 
 relieve. Lucky was it for him that he could not give 
 away the eyes out of his head ; for as loan or gift they 
 would certainly have gone to some bhnd wanderer, and 
 he would have contented himself with a pair of spec- 
 tacles. 
 
 And was it Little Piper with whom we this morning 
 discoursed concerning the three per cents? Let no 
 discreet heart think it. This was Thomas Piper, Esq., 
 of Upper-breeches-pocket-buildings, City. The Piper 
 beloved of us, remembered, venerated, mourned, 
 though not per coat and hat-band, died in 1830 on 
 the Stock-exchange. He went there innocently enough 
 one morning, and was never seen alive afterwards. And 
 here is another Piper calling himself the same ! 
 
 As well pretend that the rising rocket and the descend- 
 ing stick are the same; or that the Dick Withers of last 
 year is the Dick Withers of this year. 
 
 Last year's Dick was the most social, generous, and 
 enjoying of bachelors; surrounded by troops of gay 
 friends, and as delighted to give them welcome as they
 
 DECEASED PEOPLE WHOM WE MEET DAILY. 83 
 
 were to seek it. He looked Care in tlie face and laughed. 
 When a pack of scowling, prowling, rascally thoughts 
 wandered into his mind and would have settled there, 
 he packed them all off, hke an ill-conditioned troop of 
 gipsy plunderers, from his pleasant fields and hedges. 
 Nothing that was not honest and good-tempered had 
 its abode with him. He was the first to enter into a 
 frolic, and the last to get tired of it. He found out the 
 right end of Hfe ; he lived and was jolly. A joke in 
 those days never came amiss to him ; but a few months 
 ago he tried his hand at a practical one, and married. 
 Alas ! he died on his wedding day. 
 
 There is, however, a Dick Withers lurking somewhere 
 or other in the holes and corners of domesticity, with a 
 soul too narrow to be tenanted by more than a single 
 sentiment ; with a sterile heart that has but food for 
 one passion at a time. He could only persuade himself 
 that he was in love, by utterly, abjuring friendship. He 
 at once substituted uxoriousness for universal philan- 
 thropy, and cared in fact for the one human being 
 merely because she had become part of himself. 
 
 All his friends he dropped quietly; as well the sharers 
 of his secret thoughts, as the partners in his social 
 enjoyments. All his doors he securely bolted ; and Hos- 
 pitality peeped through the keyhole to see who was 
 coming, and to cry " not at home" to the visitor. No 
 spree, no cigar, no whist; he forgot or abandoned all 
 his old ideas of dances, concerts, and theatres; lie 
 changed his side in politics, or had no politics at all; and 
 turning Love's temple into a mausoleum, dcUbcrately 
 buried himself ahve. 
 
 Sheer insanity might attempt to discover some lurk- 
 ing resemblance between the two Dicks, and believe 
 them to be one ; but reason rejects the proposition with 
 scorn. True, the first Dick Withers did take a wife
 
 84' DECEASED PEOPLE WHOM WE MEET DAILY. 
 
 (he was always so fall of his fun) ; he just lived to wear 
 his wedding-suit ; but his name should have appeared 
 on the same day, and in the same paper, among the 
 Deaths and the Marriages. 
 
 That all the signs and evidences of life capable of 
 meeting together in one human specimen of vitality, 
 aiford no proof that death has not been there before 
 them, is perfectly well known to every one who happens 
 to be acquainted with our friend Rattleby. That his 
 eyes are the fiercest in their frolicsome and extravagant 
 glee of any in company, and his laugh always the loud- 
 est, however noisy and numerous the party, is an every- 
 where admitted fact; but is all that wonderful and 
 overwhelming display of life any evidence that Rattleby 
 is still living? Are those boisterous spirits, that con- 
 stant and rapid flow of humour, by which he makes all 
 around him " certain they shall die of laughter," ten , 
 times in the hour, a testimony that Rattleby himself is 
 not yet dead ? Is the elasticity of the lungs an argu- 
 ment against the dead-weight of the heart, and are 
 spasms health? If the real Rattleby be not deceased, 
 death is a poetic fable. He still may go on to shout, 
 caper, and toss off bumpers ; but live as fast as he may, 
 he can never be alive again. As Dick Withers must be 
 said to have finally quitted this life when he entered 
 the state of matrimony, so may another man be as 
 fatally cut off by being left out of a wedding. This was 
 the lot of the royster now in view. Poor Rattleby, who 
 appears to have such quantities of existence to spare, 
 died, beyond mistake, poor fellow! on the day Kate 
 Fisher was married. 
 
 His fate, varied by circumstances, is the fate of thou- 
 sands surrounding him. When we say that they are 
 not themselves, their story is but half told ; they are 
 not so much as the semblance of themselves. It is
 
 DECEASED PEOPLE WHOM WE MEET DAILY. 85 
 
 impossible to regard tliem even as their own ghosts ; so 
 opposite in character, habit, and disposition, was the 
 original now in the tomb, to the living substance bear- 
 ing the name of the deceased. 
 
 Hear this lecturer upon humanity, whose charity and 
 tenderness of heart is an affair of precept only, a subject 
 to descant upon for personal objects. He died soon 
 after he had taken his seat in Parliament, where he is 
 still to be seen " as large as life.^^ 
 
 Look at this hoary gambler ; you cannot call his 
 spasmodic mode of living an existence; the truth is, 
 that he was brought down from an honom'able station 
 years ago, by the misconduct of a beloved son, and 
 perished in his prime. 
 
 Here is a mother, childless now, but not seeming in 
 outward show otherwise than living. She makes rational 
 rephes whenever she is addressed, smiles calmly when 
 kindness shown to her appears to ask a smde, and bends 
 her brow over a book of which she is not reading a 
 single word. Hers is not a life. She died when the 
 last of her childi'cn, a fair daughter in her sweet and 
 early youth, was laid within the family grave. 
 
 Go to the next public assembly, no matter for what 
 object it may be called together ; or, what Avill serve the 
 purpose as well, look from your window upon the 
 passers-by. The unfortunate deceased arc as two to 
 one, and if they were to take it into their heads (skidls 
 rather) to revolt, might at one fell swoop drive the living 
 minority into their graves. 
 
 Here comes an author, with an intense consciousness 
 of his own existence, assured, with an emphasis beyond 
 the force of myriads of affidavits, not only that he is 
 living now, but that posterity, until time itself shall be 
 no more, will be a witness of his glorious longevity. 
 The delusion, if ludicrous, is sad too ; tlie immortal has
 
 86 DECEASED PEOPLE WHOM WE MEET DAILY. 
 
 been dead ever since the niglit on which his tragedy 
 was damned. 
 
 Yet the prima donna who sweeps past him^ shooting 
 onward like a star, and seeming to breathe empjTeal 
 air, is surely living in every atom of the bright dust 
 whereof she is formed. So indeed it would appear, for 
 to the eye she is life all over, the personification of 
 whatever can be comprehended in the idea of existence. 
 But what a bad judge of visible facts the eye is, and 
 how necessary is it sometimes to see with the heart. 
 Viewed through that medium, sympathy proclaims her 
 to have been some time deceased. When her darling 
 sister, cleverer, younger, and handsomer than herself 
 came out with such brilliant success at the other house, 
 the vital spark fled. All talk of life after that had 
 about as much meaning in it as the song she excels in. 
 She still gives, it must be admitted, the most startling 
 tokens of an active and indestructible animation ; but 
 these are only the mock-heroic contortions of the eel, 
 after it has been neatly skinned, and cut carefully into 
 inches. 
 
 There is another popular phrase which clearly implies 
 that death is not at all incompatible with a protracted 
 stay within the precincts of existence. Poor So-and-so, 
 say the commentators on mortality, "is dead and gone," 
 intimating that to die is not necessarily to go, and that 
 the defunct are not always the departed ; " dead and 
 gone ^' describes the double event, whenever that takes 
 place ; the exception and not the rule. The currency 
 of the phrase strengthens our argument that djdng and 
 going are not synonymous terms, and that we may long 
 continue to have crowds of the deceased for our inti- 
 mate acquaintances. 
 
 It is interesting to remark how varied are the periods 
 of demise among the classes referred to, and how oppo-
 
 DECEASED PEOPLE WHOM WE MEET DAILY. 87 
 
 site are the causes which have rendered the obituary of 
 the living so extensive. One who professes to be sixty- 
 five, and vows that he has hved all those vears, died at 
 the age of forty, in consequence of his success in a duel 
 with a near relative. Another, who conceives himself 
 to have attained to middle age, was, in reality, cut oflP in 
 the very flower of his youth, by a shilling delicately 
 introduced in his father's will. A third, a maiden, 
 antiquated and thinner than all her tribe, by virtue of 
 taking nothing but tea and cribbage, breathed her last 
 (in spite of her hushed sigh, or her small sarcasm, that 
 may seem to say she still siir\dves), a long time ago, on 
 the day when the gallant adventm^er, who had twice 
 danced with her after she was six-and-twenty, sailed for 
 India without making the fondly expected ofter. 
 
 For a pail' of positive existences, as far as first appeal'- 
 ances go, we need look no fm'ther than to this old 
 sweeper at the crossing, and the occupant of the car- 
 riage rolling over it. ^^Tiosoever should conceive them 
 to be actually linng would decide wholly in the dark, 
 and pronounce upon a case without a fact to judge it 
 by. Sudden death overtook the unhappy cross-sweeper 
 at the age of thirty, when he lost every sixpence of his 
 large fortune ; and the loller in the carriage expired in 
 as sudden a manner at a later age, when he came quite 
 unexpectedly into a fine estate. One lost a tin-mine, 
 and the other found a canal; both perished prematurely. 
 
 Prosperity and adversity, satiated appetite, defeated 
 ambition, brilliant success, wounded honour, blighted 
 affection, filial ingratitude ; the hundred incidents, 
 dark or bright, which make up in their confused and 
 yet consistent combination, the history of every human 
 life ; each of these, occurring at a critical moment, may 
 bring the real finis long before the story appears to have 
 arrived at its conclusion. The cold, formal, appointed
 
 88 DECEASED PEOPLE WHOM WE MEET DAILY. 
 
 ending, is simply an affair for the apothecary and the 
 gravedigger. 
 
 The sentiment which first suggested the wearing of 
 mourning was beautiful and holy ; but custom strips it 
 of this sanctity; its poetry has become a commonplace; 
 and in the adoption of the ceremony the heart silently 
 heaving with sorrow and honour for the dead, has no 
 concern. Still, if the fashion is to be continued, it may 
 at least be turned to a higher use, and be made to serve 
 sincerer ends. The suit of mourning is in few cases 
 put on soon enough ! If we would invest the custom 
 with grace and dignity, elevating it with moral senti- 
 ment, we should sometimes wear the black dress while 
 the mourned is yet amongst us. Letters to old friends 
 must then be written, often perhaps on black-bordered 
 paper, indicating oui' regret for their loss ; and the 
 crape upon the hat we touch to a former companion, as 
 we pass him by, might be Avorn, poor moral skeleton ! 
 for himself. 
 
 It is painful, after an absence of a few years, to return 
 to a family cu-cle in which we had stored up a thousand 
 friendly and afPectionate memories ; where we expected 
 to find the bright deep well-spring of sympathy, bright, 
 deep, and clear as of old, and see nothing there but dry 
 sand ; Time's glass pouring out its contents over and 
 over again, only to increase the heap and make a desert 
 of the garden, every hour adding a little handful to the 
 disappointing, the desolate, the hideous waste. 
 
 What a mockery of the heart, as we stand in the 
 midst and look mournfully around, to attempt to per- 
 suade ourselves that we are amongst the living; merely 
 because they all regularly breathe and wear no shroud ! 
 Count the faces there; in number, but in number only, 
 they are the same ; look into them for the old recogni- 
 tion, and the death's head is grinning. We feel that
 
 EVERY-DAY LYING. 89 
 
 we have just shaken hands with the late Mr. Jones, who 
 has forgotten to get himself buried. The act of friend- 
 ship, in this case the ceremonial, has sent a chill to the 
 soul. The momentary contact with that cold nature 
 was freezmg ; at the bare touch of his hand, we feel 
 horrid rheumatism running up the right arm. 
 
 It is the same as we proceed round the circle. The 
 fiiends and companions of our youth are no more. The 
 eldest son perished of a scarlet coat on obtaining a 
 cornetcy, and the eldest daughter died a sadder death 
 when she joined the saints. The remainder became 
 defunct in succession, each in his own favourite way. 
 When we take our leave, it is bidding adieu to the dead. 
 The ordinaiy courtesies there would be anomalous and 
 absurd to the last degree ; for they must come in the 
 form of inquiries concerning the departed, "How is your 
 late lamented father ? " or, " I hope your deceased 
 sisters will go to the opera on Tuesday.^^ 
 
 EVERY-DAY LYING. 
 
 Believe none of us ! — IlamUt. 
 
 As speech was given unto the wise man that he might 
 conceal his thoughts, so {vir sapit qui pauca loquitur) 
 thought must have been given unto the same personage 
 that he might conceal his speech. This apparent con- 
 tradiction Avas necessary to the interests of truth. Many 
 lies are thought wliich arc never spoken, but there are 
 as many spoken wliich are never thought. 
 
 If every deviation from truth^s straight line constitute 
 a falsehood, then the human tongue teems with lies ; we 
 breathe them in myiiads. Not a creature lias opened
 
 90 EVERY-DAY LYING. 
 
 its mouth tliis day witliout telling ten tliousand. Plain 
 speaking in that case is false speaking, and silence is the 
 sole remedy for the evil. Lying is our language. 
 
 The best or the worst of it is, that the moralists who 
 have written upon lying are so imbued, to the hearths 
 core, with the universal vice that they are not to be 
 believed on their oaths. Essays upon lying are only 
 additions to the stock j and nobody who casts an eye 
 upon this page is so absurdly credulous as to suppose 
 that one grain of truth lurks in a single syllable that 
 blots it. We write lies, speak lies, think lies, and dream 
 lies while we are lying in bed. 
 
 Those Avho admit a multiplicity, only recognise two 
 classes of lies, black and white. But there is the gray 
 lie, which goes into black and white, and lives to be 
 venerable ; there is the gTcen lie, which, from its simpli- 
 city, is easily detected ; there is the red lie, which is 
 glai'iug; and the blue, which is a favourite with the 
 literary. These, however, are well known, though not 
 classed. They are more or less premeditated, all of 
 them. Some have their origin in utter malignity, some 
 in mere selfishness, or wicked sport. 
 
 But the lies uttered in courtesy and goodnature exceed 
 them in number as a thousand to one ! They are 
 spoken in perfect innocence, and never had in a single 
 instance the slightest chance of harming any human 
 being. The true white lie, which is selfish and defensive 
 {'' not at home," and " I promise to pay," may be 
 received as illustrations), frequently takes people in ; but 
 the undeceptive conventional lie, uttered in pure 
 tenderness for others, is as superior to the selfish white, 
 as the white is to the scandalous black. 
 
 There is something consoling in the reflection, that 
 great as is the vice of lying, nine-tenths of it as now in 
 practice spring from the \irtues ! The vilest miscreant,
 
 EVERY-DAY LYING. 91 
 
 for one lie uttered in malice, tells a hundred in pure 
 courtesy, in compliance with refined usages, or charity 
 towards the feelings of another. Why do people request 
 " the honour/^ and " feel very happy," a dozen times a 
 day? Why are they so "excessively glad" to hear 
 something, or so " extremely sorry" on the other hand ! 
 They experience neither pleasure nor regret, vre know, 
 as the words expressive of these sensations pass their 
 lips. They are notoriously telling lies when they pro- 
 fess to be truly concerned, or positively delighted. But 
 they are lying upon a philanthropic, a sympathetic 
 principle. They intend no deception; no self-interest 
 prompts them; they are vicious out of kindness and 
 delicacy. Can the spmt of self-sacrifice be carried 
 fm'ther, than in thus surrendering truth for the sake 
 of pleasing an every-day acquaintance who agi'ees to 
 dispense with sincerity ! 
 
 When it is urged, as it constantly is, that these cour- 
 tesies, because hollow, are worthless ; that the expression 
 of "deep regret" or "extreme pleasm-e" is but a 
 mockery Avithout the feeling; the answer is, that the 
 philanthropy is deep in proportion to the insincerity. 
 Where there is no real love the words of aff'ection are 
 indeed an amiable and gratuitous kindness. No thanks 
 to friendship for being friendly ; but is it nothing that 
 a mere acquaintance should be ready at any time to tell 
 a lie upon our account ? 
 
 Not a word could be advanced in behalf of this order 
 of lies, if they were ever likely to be believed. But 
 against this calamity people guard themselves in the 
 most scrupulous manner by tones and looks quite at 
 variance with the words. Nay, to convince their hearers 
 that they are merely lying, they declare that "they 
 shall be only too happy," and at the same time that 
 " they are quite too distressed." They vow with a
 
 92 EVERY-DAY LYING. 
 
 brazen countenance that they are " absolutely ashamed/^ 
 and protest with great energy that they " thought they 
 should have died^' on some occasion when death was 
 the last thing they were thinking of. 
 
 How much greater still is the kindness when the offer 
 of sympathy is made to extend through us to remote 
 antiquity ! A great talker^ proud of his family, was 
 describing the other night the exploits of his famous 
 progenitors, until he came to one who in Henry the 
 Seventh's time had the misfortune to break his leg ; an 
 accident which drew from a lady-listener the tender 
 remark, that " she was extremely sorry to hear it.^' 
 
 In fact, anything or anybody will serve for a peg on 
 Avhich to hang a profession of sympathy, so necessary 
 is the show of it felt to be, where the substance is not. 
 It was not long after the death of Weber, that a little 
 group of admirers of that amiable man of genius, were 
 deploring his early and sudden loss, in a foreign land 
 and in the horn' of his triumph ; and the name of Weber, 
 Weber, was repeated sorrowfully by several voices j until 
 the lady, whose guests we were, drew near, and observing 
 the melancholy tone of the conversation, caught as she 
 supposed the name which was the subject of our sad 
 discourse. Then, deeming that a polite regard for our 
 feelings required her to fill up the pause which ensued, 
 she sighed mournfully, and in a plaintive voice, uttered 
 the following words : 
 
 " Poor Cibber ! poor Colley Gibber ! Well, Fm sorry 
 he 's dead I" 
 
 To be sorry for Cibber ! Who could possibly have 
 expected to live long enough in this world, to hear any 
 mourner it contains obligingly lamenting with sighs 
 the loss of Colley Cibber ! 
 
 Cobbet, remarking upon the " regret" with which the 
 press very naturally announces the demise of eminent
 
 EVEBY-DAY LYING. 93 
 
 persons, declared his conviction, that if the devil were to 
 die, some ncAvspapers would notice the event " with 
 deep regret," Still we could never have anticipated a 
 sigh for the untimely fate of Gibber ! 
 
 There is no lie that people will not tell to express a 
 becoming sympathy on their own parts, and to excite it 
 in others. A^Tien a young person is drowned in the 
 river, or crashed on the railway, hoAv does it always 
 happen that he was ^' going to be married on the fol- 
 lowing Sunday," or that he was " only married the 
 Sunday pre\dous." Few persons have the slightest 
 interest in the relation of such fables ; but all have the 
 deepest interest in the progress of sympathy, and the 
 sadder they make the story, the more surely they elicit 
 the symptoms. 
 
 The most moral persons in society will He egregiously 
 from a mere habit of ci\dlity, to agree with you when 
 agreement is not wanting. Some lie without any 
 motive; then' untruths are mere matters of course. 
 What could have been the direct prompter in the case 
 of that serious and solemn dame, who only yesterday, 
 seeing somebody reading (the book Avas Shakspeare, 
 opened at a large engraAang of Caliban, of which the 
 dame had a glimpse), inquired what that was? The 
 reader, supposing she meant the volume, said " Shak- 
 peare." "Oh V ejaculated the serious dame, and then 
 added, " Ah ! / thovght it looked like him ?" 
 
 All that is not rcUgion in that old dame is morality ; 
 in her composition nothing else mingles ; yet it is 
 certain she never thought so. Had she been told "it^s 
 the Thames-tunnel," her remark would equally have 
 been, "I thought it looked like it." At the same time, 
 perhaps, no influence on earth could prevail upon her to 
 utter a deliberate untruth. 
 
 We may easily perceive how very trifling and insig-
 
 94 EVERY-DAY LYING. 
 
 nificant in number are the lies annually told for pur- 
 poses of Avilful deception ; in trade, in polities, and in 
 social intercourse, with the view of filling pockets or 
 gratifying base passions, in self-defence and in defaming 
 enemies, from vanity, from knavery, from malice ; when 
 we contrast their amoiuit with the enormous multitude 
 daily uttered in courtesy and in sympathy; and then 
 again proceed to estimate the myriads which have their 
 bu-th in good fellowship, in gaiety of heart, and a desire 
 to keep the world alive and merry. 
 
 Of this latter class, one all-sufficing example ofi'ers 
 itself in the practice of Dick Whisk. Dick, indeed, was 
 a class in himself. He diS'ered from other liars, not so 
 much in the length of his bow, as in never departing 
 from the priuciple with which he set out, that of drawing 
 it incessantly. He must have abandoned all idea of the 
 truth before he quitted the cradle. When he began to 
 lisp he began to lie. His motto might have been 
 borrowed from Mr. Fag — " Oh ! I lied sir, I lied ; I 
 forget the particular lie, but they got no truth from me." 
 
 The Avater of Truth's well produced in his moral frame 
 a terrible shudder ; his was a sort of hydrophobia. He 
 had an imconquerable repugnance to facts, yet he might 
 have related them with perfect safety, relpng upon his 
 astonishing power of translation. There was no mis- 
 taking a statement falling from his lips for anything but 
 a lie. Nobody was ever known to insult him with the 
 supposition that he was telling the truth j and, talking 
 continually, he passed through life unsullied by the 
 breath of suspicion. It was his proud boast that no 
 man ever believed a word he said, that he had not an 
 enemy in the world. The character he had earned in 
 early youth he never forfeited in maturer years ; for he 
 found when he first went to school, that the verb " to 
 lie" constitutes exactlv three-fourths of the verb "to
 
 EVERY-DAY LYING. 95 
 
 live." To lie and die were almost all he had to do. A 
 hie nonjacet is upon his tomb. The inscription required 
 the addition of a 7ion to mark the change that had fallen 
 upon himj and distinguish death from life. 
 
 Dick^s lies were the perfection of lies. They were 
 not tremendous thumpers^ save when the occasion called 
 for something in the enormous style, wlien he would 
 fling you out a fine spanker off-hand, big enough to 
 frighten Munchausen into a fit of truth, and make Pinto 
 stare in his coffin. 
 
 But generally he kept to the Eveiy-day style ; it was 
 good level lying, save, as we have said, when a regular 
 crammer was wanted. This was when he was provoked 
 to a flight by some aggravated truth that coiild Hot 
 otherwise be topped. And this brings us to an anecdote. 
 
 It was summer weather, and a swimming-feat was 
 boasted of by a companion. Unluckily there was a 
 witness present, who vouched for the authenticity of the 
 story. Dick hated the maxim of magna est Veritas, and 
 never would allow an authentic anecdote to prevail. 
 He was born prior to the date of the new school, and 
 knew fiction to be stronger than truth. When a lover 
 of accuracy plunged into the Serpentine, he took an 
 imaginative leap into the German Ocean, if duly pro- 
 voked, as he happened to be on this occasion. So he 
 began. 
 
 " Very good, at least not so bad." (Dick begrudged 
 the least scrap of praise to an authenticated fact.) " Not 
 80 very bad it must be admitted. You remind me of an 
 odd incident that dates as far back as the time when, 
 according to the old almanack, ' George III. was king.' 
 I was living by the sea-coast then, and went down to 
 the beach to bathe. Not a soul was in sight ; nothing 
 visible but land, water, and sky. I was accustomed to
 
 96 EVERY-DAY LYING. 
 
 go about half a mile out, but the sea was delicious^ I 
 was in good spirits, and on I went, buoyant as an ocean 
 bird. Now and then I checked my course to sport 
 about a bit, and dally with the wanton waves until I 
 could almost fancy myself a sort of thinking fish. Then 
 I struck out again, heedless of the distance from the 
 beach, until it occurred to me it might be time to turn 
 back. Just then, as I was about to set my face towards 
 the shore, what do you think happened ? 
 
 " The blue sky looked suddenly gray, the sparkles 
 upon the water were extinguished, and I heard a noise 
 behind me. It startled me, and instead of turning to 
 the beach, I struck out. With every movement of my 
 limbs I breasted the billows, and went rapidly forward ; 
 but still I heard the same noise following me. Again 
 I struck out, and another mile was accomplished with- 
 out producing a sjnnptom of fatigue ; but the noise was 
 still audible, and the object that occasioned it could not 
 be very distant. I thought it rather strange, but struck 
 out once more ; and now the noise seemed nearer. It 
 was a puffing, splashing sound, evidently produced by 
 the effort of something pursuing me. A grampus or 
 two fighting could never make that queer noise. 
 
 " A feeling of wonder now seized me, soon succeeded 
 by a feeling of alarm. Bolder swimming still was 
 necessary, and exerting all my strength, I dashed 
 through another mile or so of water at a few strokes, 
 for I was really terrified. Still onward and onward, 
 close to me, rushed the splashing Mystery, it seemed 
 almost at my heels. I heard it breathing deeply, then 
 blowing like the four winds at once, then dashing aside 
 the waters, with the ease and rapidity of a tiger break- 
 ing through the jungle. It could be nothing less 
 than a shark. I almost felt him nibbling at my lower
 
 EVERY-DAY LYING. 97 
 
 extremities, and joyfully would I have given one leg to 
 save my life. Swimming could alone save that, and 
 once more I struck out with superhuman energy. 
 
 " By this time I was some miles from the beach. I 
 seemed carried away into the great deep, and the green 
 waves looked considerablv bluer. I was ' alone on the 
 wide, wide sea / no, not alone, for my di'ead pursuer, 
 whatever it might be, was by this time a still closer 
 companion, puffing, tumbling, and splashing continu- 
 ally, as though there were an insurrection among the 
 porpoises. You think it was a steamer, but it wasn't. 
 Steamers were rather scarce in those days, and I had 
 hardlv heard of them. I once or twice fancied it miffht 
 be a seventy-four giving me chase, or old Neptune out 
 upon a lark. 
 
 " No, it was something living ; not one shark cer- 
 tainly, nor a half-dozen. It seemed at last nothing 
 short of a young whale. Snorting and blowing and 
 splashing up the foaming water incessantly, it advanced 
 in my wake. It was as close to me, as an unpleasant 
 postscript is to a letter. 
 
 " All was over with me ; the fear, as I struck out my 
 extremities behind, that I should never be able to draw 
 them back again, deprived me of the due command of 
 my limbs, and I could swim no further. I resolved to 
 be seized head foremost. Accordingly, with one despe- 
 rate plunge do^vnwards, one toppling movement in the 
 water, I turned and faced the Sea-Mysterj^, prepared to 
 meet any monster of the deep that a horrible destiny 
 might set against me. And now, right before me, as 
 close as I am to you at this moment, I beheld, what do 
 you think ? " 
 
 [And here Dick paused, for up to this moment he 
 had not the slightest idea of the form in which his 
 climax was to come, never premeditating a catastrophe.] 
 
 VOL. III. p
 
 98 THE MAN OF HIGH NOTIONS. 
 
 " It was — Lord — Byron ! as I ^m a wicked sinner ! ^' 
 * * * * 
 
 Poor Dick Whisk ! This was one of his holiday lies. 
 His Every-day Ljdng would fill libraries. His peculiar 
 glory consisted in the wish never to be believed. The 
 man who " lies like truth," forgets that he must neces- 
 sarily tell truth like lies ; now, Dick^s fictions were not 
 so dangerous, but to himself they had the same result. 
 Had he solemnly asserted that Csesar invaded Britain, 
 or that Wellington won at Waterloo, nobody would have 
 believed him. 
 
 THE MAN OF HIGH NOTIONS. 
 
 If there be any vitality in the Wit^s nice man, who 
 is a person with nasty ideas, we have a companion for 
 him in the Man of High Notions, who is a person of 
 low performance. He spends the first half of his life in 
 trying to act up to these high notions, and the other 
 half in rearing them higher and higher still, so as to 
 ensure to himself an excellent excuse for never more 
 attempting in deeds to attain so sublime and increasing 
 an altitude. 
 
 We have known several men of very high notions ; 
 known them at various stages of existence, and in 
 several orders of society; but they were alike at all 
 hours and in all places. The man is a wonderfully 
 variegated and versatile animal, individually ; but there 
 is always a strong settled family hkeness running 
 throughout the tribe, and each has his relative pecuha- 
 rity ; although what is high to one might not seem so 
 high to another. 
 
 His character breaks out in everything he says and
 
 THE MAN OF HIGH NOTIONS. 99 
 
 does. If a work of benevolence be on foot, and a guinea 
 a-piece be put down, the Man of High Notions may be 
 known by an admirable promptitude in buttoning liis 
 pockets, and muttering something about sending a 
 cheque on Coutts for fifty. You cannot get him to pro- 
 mise less. He insists on gixdng that, if anything. 
 
 It is very true (there are drawbacks to everj'- excel- 
 lence) that this lofty aim not only overshoots the mark 
 sometimes, but wholly deters people of lower \iews 
 from making any attempt to hit it. Thus the too much 
 comes to nothing. There was an example of this dis- 
 astrous tendency, of the high notion to knock little 
 people down, last week, in our neighbourhood. A small 
 matter, so often a momentous one, of mere shelter and 
 sustenance, was required to be suddenly accomplished 
 for a helpless widow and her pining child, whose story 
 was a piteous one. There is a Man of High Notions 
 in the district, and the tale moved him. The affair pre- 
 sented no difficulty : the good work was well nigh done, 
 indeed, but he would take it up. He had some notions 
 of his own, he said. He saw the project from a high 
 point of view. He was for effecting something at once 
 upon a grand scale. He drew the whole business into 
 his hands, called people together (whose speeches 
 seemed long to the famishing widow), nominated a com- 
 mittee, whose comfortable sittings might appear pro- 
 tracted to wanderers without a roof over their heads ; 
 and, after great delay, proposed the erection of a row of 
 almshouses. 
 
 Every hint about the shelter of a single room and 
 the scarcity of daily bread was indignantly, scornfully 
 rejected : it was pitiful, disgraceful. A handsome row 
 of almshouses ! he was for that ! with flower-beds and 
 a grotto behind, and a fountain in front. A Samaritan 
 whom he knew, bred an architect, had given him a 
 
 r 2
 
 100 THE MAN OF HIGH NOTIONS. 
 
 ground plan for nothing. He confessed that he had 
 high notions on the subject^ and would withdraw at 
 once from the negotiation, unless all agreed to erect a 
 row of almshouses in a salubrious situation for the sad 
 widow and her fatherless infant. A little cottage would 
 be shabby. 
 
 Unluckily, as such edifices do not spring of themselves 
 from the ground, the whole project fell to it : and the 
 hungry and houseless, laid low, had to thank the high 
 notions of benevolence for the continuance of their 
 desolate doom. 
 
 The Man of High Notions never heard of such a 
 thing as a joint and pudding. He would scorn to 
 dine a root-munching hermit on fare less rich than 
 tui'tle and vension; and the result is, that he never 
 asks you at all : or, if by chance you should succeed in 
 eating a dinner of his in the Spring, it is only a prelude 
 to his friendly application in July for thirty pounds to 
 hand to his wine-merchant. He has high notions, you 
 know, and can^t bear to let the man wait ; besides, he 
 wants more claret. 
 
 At times, however, it suits the Man of High Notions 
 to let them exhibit themselves through the medium of 
 high bills. If you should be undeserving of the good 
 opinion expressed in his flattering application, and mean- 
 spirited enough to disappoint it, he has been known to 
 send a further order to the wine-merchant without 
 payment, and to put him off for six months, rather 
 than subject you prematurely to the slightest incon- 
 venience. But by the end of that further proba- 
 tionary period, he has commonly found the fellow to be 
 a mere mercenary tradesman, who wants his money ; a 
 creature who has few other objects in carrying on 
 business than that of making what he can ; who never 
 seeks for custom but with a view to cash, and actually
 
 THE MAN OF HIGH NOTIONS. 101 
 
 lures his feUow-beings to aid him in getting it in ; a 
 wretch with very low notions, in short, who wants to be 
 paid. He is obliged to cut him ; he must ; and perhaps 
 dechnes his visits by a quiet inoffensive removal to 
 another part of the town. He is compelled at the 
 beginning of the next year to get his hock and madeira 
 from some other person, whose cellars are not so well 
 stocked perhaps. Nevertheless, he submits to this cruel 
 injmy rather than permit himself to be perseveringly 
 dunned. He has such very high notions on that point. 
 
 In the Summer, when the meek and lowly wife of 
 the Man of High Notions suggests an inexpensive trip 
 to Heme Bay (an humble excursion, but surely not 
 discreditable), he looks upon her with the horror due 
 to incipient assassination, murder in its early tender 
 stage, putting razors and arsenic out only as feelers. 
 The cold-blooded attempt to undermine his moral 
 dignity ; to betray him, tlu'ough the delicate suscepti- 
 bility of his affections, into irredeemable \'iilgarity, and 
 a five-shilling steamer ; shocks his high notions, and so 
 overcomes him that he is compelled to repair for the 
 Summer to Constantinople, leaving his English incum- 
 brances behind. His ideas upon these subjects are 
 too elevated to admit of a compromise, and are not 
 to be coarsely brought down to the level of family 
 inconvenience. 
 
 But his notions, if high, are reasonable. He will not 
 vehemently insist on going to Constantinople, hook or 
 crook, win or lose ; it may be that he prefers a jolly 
 lark in Paris, or a run Rhine-wards, in which case he is 
 back before Winter. All which pleasures would have 
 been shabbilv sacrificed on the altar of liis low-minded 
 wife's abomina1)lc llernc-Bayism ! However, that 
 mean-spirited little divinity atones for her offence next 
 year, by the constancy of her visits to him in the doleful
 
 102 THE MAN OF HIGH NOTIONS. 
 
 lock-up house, and by her life-wasting exertions for his 
 relief; for he has some high notions on the score of 
 being left alone, abandoned and forgotten, in a prison. 
 He does not like it ; he never did, that^s more ; and he 
 can tell you what his ideas are upon the matter. 
 
 It is about this time, most probably, that, by various 
 pretexts, all exhibiting the exalted character of his 
 notions, he sucks you, as it were, into his presence, for 
 the purpose of proposing, in the most agreeable and 
 good-humoured way imaginable, that you should just 
 give him, the afternoon will do, a handful of sovereigns, 
 and he will get his friend. Captain Snubbs, to give you 
 a handful in return when he comes up from Chatham. 
 
 As you may not immediately enter into this equitable 
 arrangement, tlie Man of High Notions only troubles 
 you to advance him five for the pressing purposes of 
 the moment : and it is not until he hears that you 
 can't, that he discovers that two would do ! oh, capitally ! 
 But as he still hears that you really cannot on the 
 instant supply that smaU desideratvmi, the most elevated 
 notion he possesses finds instant expression in the 
 happy question, " When can you ?" He never likes to 
 be completely baffled, and driven quite into a corner. 
 He has uncommon high notions that way, which enable 
 him to look down, like one inly amused and diverted at 
 your futile attempts under his very eyes to keep your 
 pocket buttoned. He smiles at your awkward efibrts, 
 but he thinks you have some very low ideas about small 
 sums of money. 
 
 The same reference to an innate loftiness of idea in 
 himself always accompanies, and often sustains him 
 through life. As he drops down the stream, and the 
 tide runs very low; as he drinks his way from the 
 creamy sparkles of society to its dregs, from the 
 Clarendon to the gin-palace ; then from the neat swept
 
 THE MAN OF HIGH NOTIONS. l03 
 
 sanded parlour to the reeking, stifling tap ; from the 
 shelter of the inside to the bench in the sun out of 
 doors ; — he has still a reserved point, and cherishes some 
 ideas, which he is perfectly convinced are of an elevating 
 character, and give him dignity in your eyes. These 
 are the ideas that save him from being disconcerted in 
 any emergency, or under any humiliation. 
 
 When his former crony, the Viscount, detected him 
 at the door of the " Jolly Sandboy," with his face 
 buried in the foam of a pot of porter, he only, stopping 
 half-way in his draught, turned his frothy visage to 
 that of his fastidious friend, on which incredulity and 
 amazement were whimsically painted, saying : 
 
 " A\Tiy, my dear fellow, you stare ; but let me tell 
 you, it's the only way to drink it. Always take it as 
 it comes, with the head on. It's a mistake to go 
 bloAving that little tunnel in the froth at the side. Low 
 people, who don't understand half-and-half, do that ; 
 but it 's ignorance. I entertain a few immensely high 
 notions on this point, and always did." 
 
 If the Man Avith High Notions writes a book, he uses 
 very grand words, so that at the beginning you Avonder 
 how many syllables the end will run to. He chooses 
 the longest in the language, you may be sure. He 
 pities you if you suppose that he picks out the finest 
 words he can discover as substitutes for his ideas ; they 
 are chosen as being suitable to lofty notions. 
 
 The man of such notions instinctively rejects plain 
 phrases; nothing he so dislikes as short, close, simple 
 words. When he is unintelligible, he deems himself 
 enviably successful. He flatters himself that he has a 
 few; yes, a few ideas, he must say; which, thank Heaven, 
 it is not for every low reader to understand. He is of 
 opinion that readers in general ought to have higher 
 notions than they betray, considering what writers like
 
 104 THE MAN OF HIGH NOTIONS. 
 
 himself have done for them. Yet he cherishes a philo- 
 sophic distrust of the efficacy of education in counter- 
 acting moral evil ; and thinks that, for the sake of 
 saving appearances, the poor might have sham books 
 manufactured for them; as Shenstone, when a little 
 boy, had a piece of wood given to him, instead of the 
 gilt-edged Bible, to take to bed with him. But he has 
 not fully developed, in relation to this principle, all the 
 elevated ideas that stretch themselves in philantliropic 
 laziness within his brain. 
 
 Bosahnd, prettily says, that her lover is as high as 
 her heart ; whatever is favoured by the Man of Lofty 
 Notions, must come up to the height of his mind. He 
 has an insuperable aversion to everything on a small 
 scale. He would eat no beef on Christmas-day, because 
 the piece roasted only weighed sixteen pounds ; and in 
 the evening he took to wondering why chestnuts, put 
 between the bars, should be a bit less than cocoa-nuts, 
 which he conceived to be decidedly of a more eligible 
 size. He had some notions, he said, which were any- 
 thing but small, touching a feature or two of natural 
 history. 
 
 The soul of a man, thus animated, is, of course, too 
 large and lofty for the limits of one kingdom. It would 
 be more exact to say, one world. The Man of High 
 Notions is a great pohtician; but his politics rather 
 appertain to the affairs of the universe, than the affairs 
 of the mere earth. He could speak, sometimes, as easily 
 of globes, and worlds, and systems, as we, ordinary 
 commentators, speak of Texas, Tahiti, or Tangier. A 
 mere nation suggested to his high apprehension of 
 things the same idea that a mere parish raises in the 
 common mind. And as for things actually parochial, 
 they were always a long way too insignificant for his 
 care or interference.
 
 THE MAN OF HIGH NOTIONS. 105 
 
 It is doubtful whether a man with really high notions 
 would not let his dwelling be totally destroyed by fire, 
 rather than have it said that the conflagration was 
 extinguished by a parish-engine. How could a blaze, 
 at Northumberland House, be put out by the engine of 
 St. Martin's. 
 
 The man, then, whom we are sketching, so far as he 
 is a politician, takes little account of what happens at 
 his own door. The parish poor have their appointed 
 guardians, and there are police-constables (or should be) 
 always on the watch for beggars, so that they cannot be 
 on the look-out for thieves also. But he has a keen 
 eye for Russia, his long ear stretches over the Atlantic, 
 and for five-and-twenty years of the present century, he 
 dreamt nightly of Metternich. He has high notions 
 that stretch upward, even to the great Mogul, and over- 
 look, by miles, "their high Mightinesses, the Dutch." 
 
 Yet, what incongruities meet, even in the formation 
 of perfect consistency. This same man, of elongated 
 ideas, is sometimes so diminutive that he can peep 
 through a keyhole, or pry into a letter, not six inches 
 long; so essentially small in his conformation, that he 
 can insinuate himself into a friend's confidence tlii'ough 
 the tiny hole wormed by a corkscrew. Nay, he has 
 sometimes such an absorbing sense of the little, to the 
 exclusion of the lofty, that the pranks of a comet would 
 have less enchantment for him than the interests 
 involved in an overcharge of twopence in his laundress's 
 nine-months' account. 
 
 The Man of High Notions is frequently famous at 
 battling for the odd halfpence, and pushing into the 
 theatre, forgetting to give the penny for the bill, thrust 
 into his hand as he goes. He has some grand ideas 
 about turni)ikes, and likes to drive spiritedly tlirough, 
 uttering an unintelligible exclamation, which he calls 
 
 F 3
 
 106 THE MAN OF HIGH NOTIONS. 
 
 carrying matters with a high hand. He has large 
 notions about small change. In short, he daily performs 
 some of the shabbiest and most roguish things in the 
 world; as a master-stroke of grand policy, and to set 
 off his lofty actions ; his little deeds are supposed to be 
 the proofs and exhibitors of his great thoughts. He 
 cheats, only to be nobly honest. He swindles people of 
 thousands of sixpences, that he may pay one-pound-ten, 
 if he pleases. 
 
 When he happens to have money out, he has also 
 very high ideas of interest. His notions, on these 
 occasions, are often truly towering. But when, on the 
 contrary, it is his hard destiny to pay back money he 
 has borrowed, his high notions con^4nce him that one 
 per cent, is extortionate, and one-and-a-half is plunder 
 and infamy. He takes discount from his shoe-black, if 
 he ever pays him ; entertaining very high notions 
 about all low functionaries, and who can go lower than 
 the foot ? 
 
 It is naturally to be supposed that the same philo- 
 sopher, however born, has his own ideas about high 
 birth. He, himself, may have come to light in a garret, 
 a nativity we must all acknowledge, anything but low ; 
 and accounting, perhaps, for his profound veneration for 
 everything high-born. The first inquiry he makes, 
 whenever he sees a man obtaining distinction, is, " Who 
 was his grandfather ? '' If it should appear that the 
 distinguished man never had one, he denies his merit, 
 suspects him to be a scamp, and sneers at him as a 
 nobody. He can never admit genius into the account, 
 if there be no grandfather. What is all glory, he cries, 
 if such an essential as a grandfather be wanting ! A 
 priori, the grandfather must be identified, or greatness 
 there is none to be recognised. 
 
 It seldom occm's to a person of high notions to ask
 
 THE MAN OF HIGH NOTIONS. 107 
 
 what the man has done, is doing, or is likely to do, but 
 where did his ancestors reside in 1503? He has no 
 such maxim as, " TeU me who are his companions, and 
 1^11 tell you who he is : " his rule rather runs, " Tell me 
 all about his progenitors, and 1^11 tell you whether he 
 is anybody." He thinks it highly probable that the 
 " indi\-idual in question," as he loves to call him, may 
 be of respectable character, and of a promising talent, 
 but he only wants to look at his pedigree. He has 
 peculiar ideas in that respect, and carries his researches 
 back a little farther than the Revolution. He has a 
 snug notion of his own, that the idiotic and slavish 
 descendant of Charlemagne, is a rather greater person 
 than all the men put together, who have worked out 
 their own greatness. 
 
 The Man of High Notions sighs, and blushes vine- 
 gar-colour, when he reflects that so many immortal 
 ornaments and defenders of the country, raised on 
 pinnacles of glory, only lower than the stars, have had 
 such abominably low beginnings ; no grandfathers. It 
 giv^es a shock to all his lofty ideas at once. 
 
 In the presence of the aristocracy, his notions become 
 exalted in virtue of their very humility. His preferences 
 are ever for the most highly-born. About that, he 
 apprehends, there never can be a mistake. A Marquis 
 is a greater man than a Baron, any day. So also is it, 
 as a matter of course, with the dates of ancestry. The 
 man of such notions as these, will always, of two barons, 
 the fourteenth of one title, and the first of another, 
 bestow the palm, and heap the homage, on the former. 
 Thirteen Barons, he exclaims triumphantly, have pre- 
 ceded him in his family honours ; he must be more 
 noble, and more illustrious, far, than the man whose 
 father Avas an attorney or a banker, and whose progeni-
 
 108 THE MAN OF HIGH NOTIONS. 
 
 tors had neither house nor home when George the 
 Second was alive. 
 
 And yet, how palpable is the error, here committed 
 by the man of such very high notions. How manifestly 
 he overlooks the fact, that the first Baron, who stands 
 in contrast with the fourteenth, is the more illustrious ; 
 for the simple reason that he is the actual winner, and 
 not the inheritor of the honour. The glory is with the 
 modern whose own deeds have raised him, and not 
 with the mere successor of those who have remained 
 stationary so long. But the Man of High Notions is 
 sure to snarl at new families, and to be facetious about 
 mushroom peers. 
 
 He makes amends, however, by his ready adulation 
 when wanted, even in these quarters. With a lofty 
 view he has a lowly neck, and he is delighted day and 
 night to feel any aristocratic foot set upon it. N.B. 
 No objection to an iron heel ; if a gouty toe, the better. 
 
 The very clothes of the great, the very cut of them, 
 are objects of a darling interest to the worshipper. He 
 has high notions about an EarFs waistcoat, and thinks 
 there never were such pantaloons in this world as the 
 Duke of Fitzlongshanks had on. Nor can he help 
 telling you how the other Duke carried one glove in his 
 hand, and how the young Lord Rainbow wore crape 
 upon his hat, probably because his father was just dead. 
 He has furthermore some choice ideas on fiUal piety, 
 with which he will be apt to favour you if you are not 
 on your guard, ending with his opinion that it must be 
 extremely irksome for a lord to take the trouble to go 
 into mourning every time anybody dies. 
 
 Of all possible abominations of a public nature, a 
 plebeian Minister of State shocks most a man of his 
 turn. He thinks that the Whigs, in his younger days.
 
 THE MAN OF HIGH NOTIONS. 109 
 
 were perfectly right in not giving Burke a seat in the 
 cabinet. Those men had proper notions. But he never 
 in his life experienced such a blow, as when Canning 
 became Premier. That was an elevation that overturned 
 eveiy principle on which dignity of station is main- 
 tained. He had borne much, but at this era he felt 
 reduced to the necessity of quitting the country. He 
 had the most exalted ideas, and accordingly went out to 
 the Cape to settle, where he took a httle pubHc-house 
 somewhere in the interior. He was satisfied that higher 
 notions prevailed among the boors, and in such a land 
 as this he would scorn to live an hour. 
 
 This incident ^"ill appear the less surprising, when it 
 is remembered that the Man with High Notions is the 
 identical person, who, though a resident west-ender in 
 London from boyhood to the age of forty, had never 
 seen St. Paul's Cathedral ; the reason assigned being 
 ''that it was too far east." He has such gentlemanly 
 ideas. 
 
 It is hardlv necessarv to remark that he has the 
 nicest sense of personal honoiu*, and the clearest views 
 of whatever is calculated to preserve it unsullied. But 
 he does not fire up all in an instant to avenge an injury 
 done to it ; he docs not burst like a shell at every offence 
 to his feelings. His notions are too highj they rise 
 superior to \Tilgar insults. He had a whip shook over 
 him once, but he was above it. He has liigh notions 
 about being shown down stairs ; and observes pleasantly 
 enough, when referring to these misadventures, that he 
 has a capital face for slamming a door in. 
 
 But upon a certain occasion, after he had been cut in 
 one direction, and all but cudgelled in another, he did 
 suddenly take fire at a foolish remark, that he had 
 sneaked off " with his tail between his legs." He has 
 a vast idea of the native dignity of man, the head of
 
 110 THE MAN OF HIGH NOTIONS. 
 
 the animal creation, and this insinuation he could not 
 brook. The Man of High Notions, therefore, challenged 
 his adversary either to prove the tail, to establish that 
 appendage on a firm basis_, or be convicted of falsehood. 
 A duel was arranged, but the meeting was prevented, 
 by his being an hour-and-a-half too late ; an accident 
 chargeable upon his chronometer, which was right to a 
 second by the Horse Guards (for he has a high notion 
 of that clock), though wrong by aU other authority. 
 
 At another time, he meant to have called a man out, 
 but he only called a poHceman, and then dropped pro- 
 ceedings just as the case was coming on ; for he has a 
 peculiar idea of magistrates, and a high notion or two 
 about newspaper reports. 
 
 But in a thu'd affair he was more strenuous. Having 
 scrambled out of the sloppy district of a pump, beneath 
 whose mouth he had been illegally deposited for a hmited 
 term, which to his ideas seemed an age, having suc- 
 ceeded in getting himself once more together, he walked 
 to his lawyer, and got fifteen pounds damages for the 
 outrage; with five superadded for an extra kick, re- 
 ceived as he was in the act of picking up his legs and 
 arms. 
 
 Now, low persons were not wanting to declare that, as 
 a gentleman, he could not touch the money so acquired; 
 that he could not condescend, with his lofty ideas, to 
 pocket the wages of disgrace, and tm-n his dignity to 
 gain. \\Tiat notions ! They said that he must give it 
 to the parish-school, or the Society for the Conversion 
 of Clu-istians to Christianity. But his thoughts took a 
 more exalted sweep. He resolved to expend it upon a 
 silver salver, on which, in a touching inscription, he 
 recorded all the pathetic and triumphant circimistances 
 of the case, for the dehght and pride of his children, 
 when he should be no more. Ah ! his were high 
 notions, truly !
 
 THE MAN OF HIGH NOTIONS. IH 
 
 On some especial points of habit and conduct, his 
 ideas are as pecuHarly elevated. We may suggest a few 
 examples, by which the reader will easily recognise 
 the man. 
 
 He hates the Opera, but always goes. He can do as 
 he pleases, yet he says he is bound. If you urge him 
 not to go to-night, he stares in your face, and cries, 
 '' Why, my dear sir, I must I " so that you begin to 
 wonder whether it is the trombone or the \aolin that 
 your friend secretly performs on. But he is right : he 
 mibst go to the Opera : he has such high notions. 
 
 A sum is set apart for the schoolmaster, and is just 
 ready to be claimed, when out comes the announcement 
 of the grand revel, the tournament of dazzling attrac- 
 tion, at which everybody is to be present. If he had 
 low notions, he could stop away. But what now is he 
 to do ? The ticket, dress, and joui'ney, will swallow up 
 the school-money, and more : but then, there is the 
 grocer^s account, and immediate payment is not impera- 
 tive : so that happily there is no want of cash, and he is 
 enabled to give the most dashing effect to liis ideas. 
 
 He, with some pardonable difficulty, succeeds in per- 
 suading you to lend him a book ; and, with a promise 
 to return it on the third day, he carries off one volume 
 of a work comprised in ten. He takes the most elevated 
 view of the principle of lending and borrowing ; and 
 you would be sure to see your book brought back on 
 the third day, but that on the second, he sends to bor- 
 row the remaining nine volumes ; reflecting, perhaps, 
 that a broken set is of no use to either party. Some 
 of his notions, we must say, are rare and high ; rather 
 too high, like game a month old. 
 
 Well, it is by these and fifty similar signs ye shall 
 know him. Nothing that is truly great is great to him, 
 because his own notions, being of an immeasurable
 
 112 THE MAN OF HIGH NOTIONS. 
 
 altitude, cast it into dwarfisliness : on the other hand, 
 he can, by the natural elevation of his ideas, exalt the 
 insignificant at his will. He is a full-length specimen 
 of the utter httleness of life ; a sample, on a large scale, 
 of the diminutiveness of man. You may hear him talk 
 of giving a topper to old Pelion, or patting the skiey 
 head of blue Olympus, so astonishingly high are his 
 notions : but never wiU he be able to crow on the brow 
 of an Ossa, until he becomes literally a wart. He some- 
 times insinuates that he is half-ashamed to be seen 
 hving in a little shabby planet, like the earth, which is 
 but as a tenth-rate colony, or a dirty proA^ncial town, 
 in the eyes of other worlds. He is disgusted that he 
 was not born in Jupiter. He is of opinion that mortals, 
 after aU, only inhabit what he calls the " back-slums " 
 of the universe. 
 
 The Man of High Notions always cherishes some 
 grand ideas on the subject of a dignified death. Life, 
 he contends, though a thing so tiny and meagre, may 
 be made to look magnificent and gigantic, by the mere 
 manner of quitting it. He is very angry with Napoleon 
 for not dying at Waterloo. For himself, he should 
 much like to get within a moderate leap of the Great 
 Cataract, or to fling himself down the Tarpeian rock, or 
 something of that sort. Poor httle speculator ! Instead 
 of such an ending, we shall hereafter be told, and haply 
 the tale may set us laughing rather than weeping, how, 
 one day to astonish the world, he went up with his high 
 notions to the top of a molehill, precipitated himself 
 from the summit, and perished.
 
 113 
 
 THE IDEAL AND THE ACTUAL. 
 
 AN ARTIST'S ANECDOTE. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 It was my first pictm'e. Sketches, drawings, out- 
 lines without number, I had struck off, sleeping and 
 waking; but this was to be a picture, yes, my first 
 embodied thought, my imagination's opening design. 
 
 Ardent fancy, youthful sympathy, led me out to one 
 point. One subject only charmed my ambition in that 
 its wild and lovely morning ; it was the idea of The 
 Poet ! More glorious to my intellectual ^dsion was 
 he than sage or sovereign, the greatest of the earth ; 
 statesman, conqueror, philanthropist. Nay, even the 
 abstract idea of heavenly beauty in woman, of the 
 radiance that surrounds the innocent faces of children, 
 was only captivating so far as it was allied to and iden- 
 tified -with the inspiring grandeur of poetry, the sweet- 
 ness and majesty crowning the poet's brow. 
 
 I resolved to paint '' The Poet," and I was fortunate 
 beyond all my hopes in obtaining a truly eligible model, 
 a most auspicious sitter. Very poor and humble was 
 the lad, but right regal in poetic intelligence. 
 
 My work advanced a little way, and a critic of con- 
 sequence came to see it. He threw one glance upon 
 it, and made one objection ; it was fatal to the design. 
 
 " You have committed," said he, " the gi-and error 
 of making your greatest of men the thinnest likewise. 
 There is no law of nature or custom by which the bard 
 must necessarily be lean. You are confounding a 
 scarcity of flesh with a superabundance of spirit, and 
 assume, possibly, that the total absence of fat involves
 
 114 THE IDEAL AND THE ACTUAL. 
 
 the presence of something ethereal. You would con- 
 found the deceased Homer with the late living skeleton. 
 This will never do. Your poet must be fatter, or he 
 will fail ludicrously. His eyes have no room for rolling in 
 those bony sockets; his frenzy, at present, means 
 nothing more than a sharp appetite. Give him flesh ; 
 the public will never know him to be a poet else. It is 
 true, the world had a trick formerly of starving the 
 fraternity to death ; and, in the last age, a pair of lus- 
 trous eyes, surmounting a few bare bones set Surgeons'- 
 hall fashion, would have passed upon canvas for a legi- 
 timate bard. But, in these days, bards are thriving, 
 jovial, corpulent fellows enough ; and a starved poet is 
 a vulgar error. Fatten, fatten." 
 
 I was too young to care much about criticism ; and, 
 in this case, I was too confident, in my own true con- 
 ception of the poetical, to care about it at all. I saw 
 that of the two errors, his was the vulgar one ; for it 
 had reference to the vulgar world, and exhibited a ten- 
 dency to confound the truly great with the truly stout. 
 I took another look at my extremely thin and intel- 
 lectual model, and felt that I ran no risk of missing 
 the etherealized while painting the attenuated. To work 
 then I went more gaily, and more secure, than before. 
 
 Yes, he was indeed thin, very. I had never before 
 noticed how incredibly thin he was. Until the call for 
 fat was critically raised, I had been unconscious of 
 the amazing lankness of his illuminated visage, the 
 astounding slimness of his youthful limbs, the famished 
 look of his whole frame. The spirit seemed to " o^er- 
 inform" its fragile tenement of clay. He seemed 
 rather more than ghost, but less than flesh and blood. 
 It was as though the Apparition and the Man had met 
 each other half way, and agreed to a compromise. 
 Shadow and Substance had settled their diff'erences at
 
 THE IDEAL AND THE ACTUAL. 115 
 
 last, and. one could not now laugh at the other; the 
 meeting was wonderful, the effect unique. 
 
 Yet there he sat, the personification of every idea, 
 the deepest and the most exalted that could possibly be 
 formed of " The Poet.^^ The poet shone out in him, 
 body and soul. His lean face was covered with a rich 
 lustre ; his hand, upraised, resembled the lady^s in the 
 " Siege of Corinth ;" 
 
 " It was so white and transparent of hue, 
 You might have seen the moon shine through;" 
 
 and his limbs might have reposed upon a simimer cloud 
 without sinking further into it than others do into a 
 feather bed. My utmost triumph Avould be attained, 
 if I coidd but succeed in transferring the tender yet 
 magnificent image before me, heightened by those 
 necessary effects which the secrets of my art taught 
 me, to the canvas on Avhich the hues of truth now 
 began rapidly to glow. 
 
 My sitter attended regularly, never missed ; nor did 
 I fail, on my part, in doing justice to his face, his form, 
 his action, to the sentiment that threw a halo of poetry 
 around him, to the soul that gave majesty to his slight, 
 spare, languid frame. I looked on my canvas, and all 
 the poet was there. I had accomplished, with nice art, 
 that delicacy of structure, that refinement of the mere 
 mortal substance, which was no less essential to success 
 than the rapt glance or the speaking smile. 
 
 " There is at least none of the grossness of the flesh 
 there," I whispered to myself; " it is all spiritual. My 
 sitter and my own ideal of the poet are actually as one. 
 No, the figure is not at all too thin. Oh, surely the 
 object that would embody a heavenly nature should 
 have as little clay about him as possible. The poet 
 shoidd never be fat. It is a sad mistake to give one^s 
 angels too much embonpoint P
 
 116 THE IDEAL AND THE ACTUAL. 
 
 Yet, as I approached my ideal, and seemed about to 
 complete my picture, I found there was much more to 
 do than I expected. Every day showed me some dis- 
 tinction between my sitter and my design upon the 
 canvas, that had not previously been discovered. Every 
 look convinced me of the necessity of some fresh touches 
 not previously essential. But it was a labour of love ; 
 the toil indeed was ecstasy ; and on I went working. 
 Weeks flew, nay, months rolled on, and still left me 
 heightening and altering, filling up and enriching ; in 
 a word, perfecting my picture ; until at last the di'eam 
 was a reality, the picture was finished, the poet breathed 
 in colour, life looked from my canvas. 
 
 A crowd gathered round it on the day of exhibition, 
 I expected many opinions, but only one was expressed. 
 With a single voice the many decided that I haxl aimed 
 at di'awing a Dutch Apollo. They unanimously charged 
 me with having stolen Dickens's Fat Boy, and clapped a 
 pair of wings on his broad shoulders ! 
 
 Fat ! Well, I had anticipated objections to the colour 
 and the drawing, the fiery visage and the skeleton 
 figure ; but to discover in my dainty, delicate, refined, 
 ethereal youth, the counterpart of the Fat Boy. 
 
 I listened, and to my utter and inexpressible astonish- 
 ment, they were all in earnest. So in a short time was 
 all the world. Everybody had heard of prize-poems ; 
 and everybody saw in my design the representation of 
 a prize-poet obese as a prize-ox ! 
 
 And all the world was quite right ! The objection 
 had no sooner settled in my head, than my eyes opened 
 upon my extraordinary mistake. Unconsciously, indeed, 
 I had followed the advice of my critic friend to corpu- 
 lency ; and I now, for the first time, plainly saw, as 
 clearly revealed as it had been hidden from me before, 
 the maddening truth that my slim and all but winged
 
 THE IDEAL AND THE ACTUAL. 117 
 
 divinity had become, under my fastidious and fondly- 
 labouring pencil, heavy, lumpish, fat. My flying fish 
 was a porpoise. 
 
 But under what magical influences had I committed 
 such an error with my eyes open, producing the very 
 effect I would religiously have avoided ! Under none. 
 I had found my model slight, spare, and spiritual ; I 
 recognised in him the very person of the true poet; and 
 I continued month after month to transfer to my canvas 
 all that my searching eye could detect in his corporeal 
 mould and in his mental natiu'e. Alas ! I very inno- 
 cently paid my model the sum agreed upon at the close 
 of every sitting ! I was very foolishly stone-blind to 
 the natui'al effects of so many half-crowns di'opped into 
 the pocket of the hungry. 
 
 He was at first poor and pinched; thought, study, 
 and the fiery mind working out its way, seemed to have 
 wreaked their vengeance upon his frame ; and I grate- 
 fully paid him double for his sitting again and again. 
 He then began to pick up, as they say ; but my eye, 
 deceived by the original image reflected, and left glow- 
 ing on my mind, beheld not this slow slight change. 
 His limbs grew by insensible degrees much rounder, 
 but to me they daily appeared the same; his sunken 
 cheeks now plumped, his throat and shoulders prospered 
 more and more, and his chest gradually got on in the 
 world ; yet I saw still the same pallid, thoughtfid, pas- 
 sion-lighted visage, the same fragile and delicate body, 
 the same thin wan hands, though they were by this time 
 deeply dimpled with fat round every knuckle. 
 
 He grew wide apace, and daily received the fee with 
 a truly unpoctical punctuahty, and daily did he return, 
 with the mens divinior more profoundly embedded, I 
 should say rather engulphed, in a world of happy, con- 
 scious, and luxuriant flesh. As regularly, therefore,
 
 118 THE MUTUAL PIECE-OF-PLATE 
 
 week by week, did I alter and add to my design, ex- 
 panding my outline, filling my hollows, and fattening 
 my poet ; Avondering still to find how far I was from 
 the point I seem to have approached, that there was 
 ever something fresh to do, and that before I had worked 
 many days at the head, the body needed a new enlarge- 
 ment. I began at a consumption and left off at a 
 dropsy. 
 
 Thus do all of us too often toil to realise the truth of 
 our young dreams, blind to everything, throughout the 
 anxious and unrewarding work, save the one glowing 
 and exalted image, which enchanted us at first, but 
 exists no longer; and thus does the comfortable and 
 sympathising world laugh at our labour of love, recog- 
 nising in our poetic vision a satire and a burlesque, and 
 in our cherubim and seraphim nothing but fat boys 
 with feather jackets ! 
 
 THE MUTUAL PIECE-OF-PLATE PRESENTATION 
 
 CLUB. 
 
 A LITTLE preliminary plain English ; an illustrative 
 prologue, not a flourish of trumpets ; will be sufficient 
 to lead the moral self-respecting reader, by an easy and 
 natural train of reflection, to a proper appreciation of 
 the objects contemplated by this new Society ; of whose 
 prospects as weU as purposes we are happily enabled to 
 ofi'er an exclusive account. 
 
 It may be true enough that there is nothing which 
 the world produces in such vast and superabundant 
 quantities, as Merit. The daily supply is, no doubt, at 
 least equal to a three-months' demand. But what is 
 merit unrecognised, unrecompensed ! Virtually, of no
 
 PRESENTATION CLUB. 119 
 
 more consequence than an unfeathered peacock. Merit, 
 without its reward and certificate, is a mere Frenchman 
 without the ribbon of the Legion. The pure coin of 
 gold or silver which everybody is in a conspiracy not to 
 take, is of no more use to its owner, practically of no 
 greater value, than the detected counterfeit. The claim 
 to rank as " Most Noble,'' or to have a legal right to 
 be addressed as " My Lord Duke," seems too absurd, 
 when nobody, from one end of life to the other, will 
 consent to caU us anything but " You Dick ! " 
 
 We want to see merit universally acknowledged, ob- 
 taining a lawful stamp, wearing accredited honours, and 
 carrying its credentials about with it ; if in no weightier 
 form than a snuff-box or a tooth-pick, subscribed for by 
 admii'ing friends. We look eagerly for the dawning of 
 the great day of philanthropy, when every man shaU be 
 able to refer to some more shining, more tangible tes- 
 timony of his own manifold exccDences, than his own 
 bare word; pertinaciously contradicted, perhaps, by 
 spiteful neighbours, who have kno^vn him all his days. 
 And this bright dawn we may now hope to behold fuU 
 soon ; a dawn of best-plated, of real silver, and of silver- 
 gilt ; through the medium of the proposed association, 
 described as the Mutual Piece-of- Plate Club for the 
 encouragement of social \irtues, the publicity of private; 
 character, and the elevation of bashful retiring merit 
 upon a flaring brazen pedestal. 
 
 There can be little doubt tliat the world would have 
 been a witness of its own virtue and glory in this respect 
 long ago, but for the rooted prejudices existing among 
 certain orders of morahsts, who, though themselves 
 eminently meritorious, are bitterly opposed to a general 
 recognition of merit, and to all extension of its rewards 
 and honours. 
 
 It is argued by these enemies to remunerated merit.
 
 120 THE MUTUAL PIECE-OF-PLATE 
 
 who are of course inimical to tlie projected Piece-of- 
 Plate Club, that the principle advocated strikes at the 
 root of every constituted establishment in the country ; 
 nay, of every institution within the boundaries of civil- 
 isation. They allege it to be a doctrine which never 
 yet found favour in any age of the world ; it was never 
 tolerated but as a fable in any school ; never practised 
 but in caprice in any state ; and that, above all, to adopt 
 such a rule here in England, would be equivalent to 
 turning the globe completely over into the air, and 
 bringing New Zealand where the Observatory on Green- 
 wich-hill is. 
 
 Institute such a principle as the recognition and re- 
 ward of merit, and how, these morahsts contend, will 
 you provide for the extraordinary rush upwards in life 
 which must instantaneously take place ! Society would 
 all at once become " top-heavy ; " the people would be 
 all head. 
 
 How carry on a war with an army nine-tenths officers ! 
 How maintain a representative government with elec- 
 tors all members of Parliament to a man ! Could you 
 enforce the game-laws, they urge, when every poacher 
 turned out to be a justice of peace ; or expect the due 
 performance of multitudinous marriages, christenings, 
 and burials, when every harassed jaded curate had dozed 
 himself into a deanery, and was already dreaming of the 
 mitre. It really might be dangerous, this we may fairly 
 own, to make all your midshipmen rear-admirals at a 
 move. 
 
 How would you get your play acted, they cry, when 
 the whole company, including, of course, the " starved 
 apothecary," claimed an equal right, on the score of 
 merit, to be Romeo ! In fact, how could the stage go 
 on at all if merit were allowed to make its way on it ! 
 How prevent the boards from being crowded with
 
 PRESENTATION CLUB, 121 
 
 young Nervals, down to the very float-lights! How 
 stay the aspiring and meritorious call-boy, in his rush 
 forward to seek collision with the rival Douglas there 
 before him, whom he must be seen dashing scornfully 
 aside, Avith, " Your name is Norval ? Never. My name 
 is Norval," et cetera. And this also may be a grave 
 consideration with some of us : who on earth is to pay 
 us our diAddends, when every little clerk in Thread- 
 needle-street is figuring as a Bank Director, which is 
 sure to be the case the instant real merit shall be recog- 
 nised ! 
 
 These arguments may be taken for whatever they are 
 worth, without seriously afi'ecting our faith in the pro- 
 posed Club, More importance, perhaps, is due to other 
 moral objections to which we are bound to allude : that 
 a handsome recognition of merit often acts upon it as a 
 sentence of expatriation, and that its rcAvard is some- 
 times as an extinguisher to its luminous properties. It 
 may be worth while to reflect Avhether Ave have not, 
 before now, entirely lost sight of merit, by secui'ing for 
 it its due recompense and honour. 
 
 While your friend is unfortunate, neglected, and 
 obscure ; while his merit droops and pines in the bleak 
 wintry shade of the world, and is only heard of at all to 
 be scorned and denied ; while it continues to be impos- 
 sible, or nearly so, to persuade any man of ordinary 
 acuteness that your despised friend is not a rank cheat ; 
 so long he is all your own : but when he has been pro- 
 claimed no impostor, but a hero ; when he has found all 
 the long-missing honours ; when his merits are hand- 
 somely acknoAvledged, and Virtue publicly owns her stray 
 child, who is to be henceforth the pet ; you feel that you 
 have shaken hands with him for the last time. For- 
 tune's note of " Welcome ! " sounded like " Adieu ! " 
 He has gone where " Glory waited him," and where 
 
 VOL. III. G
 
 122 THE MUTUAL PIECE-OF-PLATE 
 
 you are not wanted. While you alone spoke, your voice 
 had a wondrous charm j but the world now echoes it, 
 and he only cares for the echo. If you had desired his 
 further companionship, you should have conspired with 
 the rest to keep his merits a secret, and to crush him. 
 But vou have obtained for him a crown of laurel, and 
 not being used to it, it falls down over his eyes, so tliat 
 he can hardly see you at all. 
 
 The effect of this is, to beget in many minds the sus- 
 picion, that merit is only merit while nobody takes the 
 smallest notice of it; that there are such things as spec- 
 tral virtues, which vanish into invisibility with the light. 
 
 To these, as to the former class of objections, the sage 
 and moral reader will give what ear he pleases. For 
 ourselves, having suggested to him, though with brevity, 
 a sufficient caution and guardedness, we proceed to 
 unfold the principles and purposes of the association 
 now about to be founded. 
 
 The idea of a " Mutual Piece-of-Plate Presentation 
 Club " was first conceived by a few estimable members 
 of society, whose merit, while possessing many charac- 
 teristics, is pre-eminently distinguished as of the kind 
 called "modest." Having been subscribers, upon at 
 least half-a-dozen raj)idly succeeding occasions, to funds 
 for the purchase of pieces of plate to be presented to 
 friends and acquaintances of about equal intellectual 
 pretensions and moral standing with themselves, it not 
 unnaturally occurred to their minds, sharpened as their 
 perceptions were by these repeated applications for two 
 guineas, that it would be a shorter, a more delicate, 
 and a far more economical way, to establish a regular 
 merit-discerning and plate-presenting society : of which 
 every one willing to subscribe, and possessed of suffi- 
 cient virtue, pubhc or private, might become a member, 
 in the exalted certainty of securing, each in his turn, a
 
 PRESENTATION CLUB. 128 
 
 glorious heir-loom, a touching and touchable tribute to 
 his character, a memento of his perfections or a token 
 of his services, rewarding them while liAing, and 
 descending a lasting legacy to his posterity, in what 
 seductive and insidious shape soever — salver or epergne, 
 tea-service, cup, or candelabra. 
 
 It was easy to perceive, on the instant, that the idea 
 involved numerous points of superiority to the practice 
 hitherto in operation, as respects presentation pencil- 
 cases, snuff-boxes, soup-tureens, and wine-coolers. 
 Everj^body knows that the present practice is, for some 
 backward, blushing, modest creature, who has been 
 sending his country for years and nobody the wiser — or 
 ennobhng the name of his species, utterly unnoticed 
 and unheard of — to get some conspicuously impudent 
 friend to start the project of a piece of plate, with a 
 subscription of ten guineas to begin Avith, which is, of 
 course, never to be paid, save by the bashful cup-hunter 
 himself; who is also good for sundiy other subscrip- 
 tions, entered at Coutts^ and Drummond's; "Anony- 
 mous " giNdng five guineas, " John Smith, Esq.,'^ three, 
 and a " Eriend to Retmng Merit,'' ten ; to say nothing 
 of several " Admirers," and a column or two of Initial- 
 ists, put down for small sums at the end, to make up 
 the protracted and unprocurable balance. But a check 
 for a moderate amount covers the whole; and, after all, 
 the heir-loom, with its handsome rims and handles, is 
 devilish cheap. 
 
 Another plan, highly popular amongst a more auda- 
 cious order of claimants, is to call on half-a-dozen 
 influential acquaintances, and boldly avow that a 
 splendid central ornament, with an appropriate inscrip- 
 tion, is an object of considerable importance to their 
 prospects, and of most anxious desire ; promising to do 
 as much for every one of them in turn, and exhibiting, 
 
 G 2
 
 124 THE MUTUAL PIECE-OP-PLATE 
 
 at the same time, a neat prospectus, witli a printed list 
 of the committee ; which at once makes it quite too 
 late to withdraw their names, and highly expedient that 
 they should collectively cui'se their friend's assurance, 
 and put down individually a gviinea. 
 
 Not to improve upon such experiments is impossible. 
 They may not invariably fail, but they always involve 
 great hazard of failure, much hard work, and pitiful 
 discomfiture. Even after the plate has been presented 
 and sent home, and while it stands on the sideboard, an 
 object of curiosity to envious visitors, it is awkward for 
 the otherwise fortunate and honoured owner of the 
 tribute to be compelled to account for the anomalous 
 natm-e of the design ; to explain why there is nothing 
 to be seen but serpents twisting about, and to lament 
 that there were not funds enough, the subscription 
 ha\ing perversely closed just as the work advanced to 
 the present interesting point, for a young Hercules to 
 strangle them. To be sure the omission has left a 
 guinea or two extra for the engraver, who has elabo- 
 rated the magnificent inscription accordingly, and given, 
 
 " An honest man 's the noblest work of God," 
 
 with surpassing efii'ect. 
 
 Now, not only by the plan contemplated in the 
 mutual-tribute principle of the new club, will all such 
 inconveniences and humiliations be avoided, but the 
 candidate for the honours of a piece of plate will be 
 enabled to take altogether a higher stand. His will be 
 a more exalted, because a more moral position. His 
 deserts will be fully recognised, and no thanks to any- 
 bodv. He will not be placed in that equivocal niche of 
 fame, wherein he is only elevated to glory by the kind 
 partiality of friends. He will be most independent of 
 the world, while in the act of reaping its honours. He
 
 PRESENTATION CLUB. 125 
 
 will be crowned as tlie deserved, the admired possessor 
 of genius and -sdrtue ; but he will honourably find his 
 own laurels. His splendid tribute will be voted to him 
 generously, not grudgingly. Whenever he may choose 
 to give a dinner, his guests will have no opportunity of 
 nudging each other, and cu'culating the whisper, ''He 
 sponged upon lis for the spoons," or " / paid for those 
 salt-ceUars." 
 
 Moreover, upon this newly-devised club-plan every 
 candidate for the glories of gold or silver-gilt, will, while 
 reheved from a shabby dependence on his friends, enhst 
 them notA^thstanding in his service, and make them 
 contributors to his honour. To his pride they will 
 administer ; with his pomp and splendour they will be 
 associated ; he will owe much to their honourable alli- 
 ance, and nothing to their bounty. 
 
 Again : as aU the piece-of-plate presentations must 
 necessarily be regulated by the golden rule, do as you 
 would be done by, the particular merit of each member, 
 entitling him in tm-n to a tribute, will always be 
 enhanced by that rarest of merits which consists in 
 acknowledging other people's. By the first constitut- 
 ing law of the club, no man can sccm-e the honoiu's due 
 to his own \irtue, without first joining in a testimonial 
 to his neighbour's. Need we say another word in 
 advocacy of the moral beauty of the plan ! 
 
 This point, however, may be here lightly noticed. If 
 excellence is to have its piece of plate, there can be no 
 harm in seeing that the tribute has the hall-mark upon 
 it. In other words, when we are receiving a reward, 
 reason tells us to look to the value and fashion of it. 
 Now, here the club opens up a great field of advantage; 
 for the meritorious man may not only secure his reward, 
 but select the very pattern of it. 
 
 By the plate-presentations, common in society, a man
 
 126 THE MUTUAL PIECE-OF-PLATE 
 
 too often gets what he has not the shghtest want of. 
 His friends spy out his virtues^ and handsomely agree 
 to give him what he has no wish for. Silver, in any 
 form, except the one it takes, the boot-jack form, would 
 exactly suit him; gold, in any shape but that of a shav- 
 ing-dish, would be eminently attractive. But he must 
 take what is offered, though it be absurdly inappro- 
 priate. He must take it with gratitude too, though it 
 be useless. Through his smiling hollow thanks, he half 
 blushes to think that the maxim, " beggars must not 
 be choosers," is not entirely inapplicable in his melan- 
 choly case. The reflection does not help to make him 
 feel that he has anything to be thankful for. 
 
 It is, possibly, in the discontent thus produced, that 
 we must seek the hidden reason why so many beautiful 
 memorials, the gift of admiring subscribers, are to be 
 picked up cheap at the pawnbrokers' and the curiosity- 
 shops. 
 
 How widely different will be the feelings engendered 
 by the principle of the new club ! There, every gentle- 
 man, having paid up his subscriptions and become duly 
 quahfied for a testimonial, will be consulted as to its 
 form and substance. If he happen to want a breakfast- 
 service of silver, he will not be obligingly presented 
 with a diamond snuff-box; and should he happen to 
 prefer a classic vase, elegantly chased, he will not be 
 expected to fall into grateful raptures with a set of dish 
 covers. Truly, there is some distinction between one 
 tribute and another ; and there is no reason why Virtue 
 should be utterly indifferent to the intrinsic value of 
 her testimonial. Humility may be content with a cer- 
 tificate of character written on vellum ; but that foolish 
 virtue ought to know that gold is far more durable, and 
 of most excellent solidity for inscriptions. 
 
 We must now, having premised thus far, in a spirit
 
 PRESENTATION CLUB. 127 
 
 not uncongenial, it is hoped, with the gentle reader's, 
 venture to afford him a little insight into the constitu- 
 tion of the club itself ; admitting him to a peep at its 
 machinery and prospects. All is far too incomplete at 
 present for full disclosure, but we may glance briefly at 
 a few of its proposed 
 
 RULES AND REGULATIONS. 
 
 The desire for honour, that is to say, for a friendly 
 testimony to those qualities of " head and heart " which 
 secure admii'ation and social esteem, is in all cases to be 
 held as prima facie e\idence of the possession of them. 
 In other words, the wish to attain, and to dispense too, 
 the honours distributable by the club, is to be taken as 
 ample qualification for admission as a member. 
 
 A subscription of (blank) guineas is to be paid in 
 advance by each member ; and the funds so raised are 
 to be exclusively devoted to the purchase of pieces of 
 plate, bearing suitable inscriptions, testifying to the 
 peculiar gifts (moral or intellectual), and to the eminent 
 sendees (public or private), of the several members of 
 the society ; such memorials to be presented by the 
 general body, with due honours and ceremonies, to each 
 individual, until the compliment paid by equal friend- 
 ship has been equally experienced by all, and the tri- 
 butary fire has, like an electric chain, encircled the 
 Club.^ 
 
 For priority of tribute lots shall be draAvn. In refer- 
 ence to the design, the taste of the receiver-elect him- 
 self shall especially l)e consulted. With regard to the 
 inscription to be placed on the splendid gift, the form 
 thereof shall be decided upon by a committee, of which 
 the respected winner of the memorial shall be an hono- 
 rary member, that he may be present Avhile it is being
 
 128 THE MUTUAL PIECE-OF-PLATE 
 
 drawn up, to give accurate information as to his virtues 
 and talents. 
 
 Every tribute to exalted excellence so voted by the 
 Club, and paid for out of the subscription fund, shall be 
 registered and regarded as a spontaneous free-will 
 offering of heart-felt devotion and admiring regard, 
 presented by the disinterested friends whose names are 
 there inscribed. 
 
 While every recipient of club -honours is free to 
 choose the pattern of his piece of plate, each will be 
 expected to receive it exclusively as a testimonial to his 
 own merits, and no bashful or super-virtuous member 
 can be allowed to substitute for his set of silver tank- 
 ards, richly embossed with delicacies of BacchanaUan 
 device, a necklace and bracelet for his wife. 
 
 Each memorial, as voted by the Club, shall be of a 
 stated value; but the member-elect may enrich the 
 tribute, turning silver into gold, or gilding it, at his 
 own cost, upon making a proportioned and specified 
 contribution to the funds. 
 
 The inscription, as adopted by the Committee, shall, 
 in like manner, be considered as fixed, and declaratory 
 of the universal sentiment ; but each elected subject of 
 the eulogies of the Club may alter, heighten, re-arrange, 
 and add to such eulogies in his own case, on the terms 
 indicated by the preceding regulation. 
 
 No member, however, can be allowed to make the 
 least abatement in such encomiums, or diminish, reduce, 
 or subtract from, any praises accorded to him by a vote 
 of the Club, on any pretence whatever ; and every 
 offence so arising from undue modesty on the part of a 
 member, must be visited by a forfeiture of the testi- 
 monial. The discharge of such painful duties will, it is 
 hoped, be seldom called for. 
 
 The scale on which contributions, in purchase of the
 
 PRESENTATION CLUB. 129 
 
 prmleges specified, must always be regulated, -w-ill be 
 equitably adjusted. Invariably, the highest intellectual 
 qualities must be acknowledged by the highest rate of 
 payment; and, as a general rule, it may be remarked 
 that the assignment of intellectual gifts to a member 
 must be paid for more liberally than moral excellence 
 of an equal extent. So, too, it may be understood as a 
 necessary regulation, that all recognitions of public 
 virtue, on tributes presented by the Society, Avould 
 prove costher to the member honom-ed than the most 
 lavish record of private virtue or the enumeration of 
 personal accomplishments, for the obvious reason that 
 they are so much more rare and valuable ! 
 
 Thus, such phrases as " an ornament of the social 
 circle,^^ " an undeviating practiser of the domestic 
 virtues,^^ " the stedfast champion of the rights of friend- 
 ship,^' and " the invariable promoter of disinterested 
 philanthropy;" these, though eminently desirable in 
 the catalogue of claims to an undying regard, are 
 praises commonly attainable on no extravagant terms : 
 but if it should happen that the member eulogised, 
 desired to add to the testimonial, "the enhghtener of 
 his age, and an honour to his country," the designation 
 would, of coui'se, involve an additional outlay. 
 
 No member who was honoured in the Club for his 
 virtues merely, and who had but contributed according 
 to the scale in that case made and provided, could be 
 allowed to squeeze into his inscription the obscurest 
 hint about his genius, without a fmthcr contribution to 
 the funds. " Admired and esteemed in aU the relations 
 of life" would be readily admissible ; but the most 
 distant allusion to " immortal fame" must be regarded 
 as a special insertion to be effected on the usual terms. 
 A motion that the word " advertisement" should be 
 prefixed, has, however, been negatived. 
 
 G 3
 
 130 THE MUTLAL PIECE-OF-PLATE 
 
 The regulations of this friendly institution allude to 
 another point which equally shows a discriminating 
 spirit, in marking the boundaries of eulogy, and 
 ensmdng fair play and full protection to every member 
 in his turn. A simple order of encomium, entirely 
 deserved, and not la^dsh in any respect, is provided for 
 by the brotherly feeling of the Club. A higher rate of 
 eulogy may be specially arrived at, by the liberality and 
 enthusiasm; rather, let us say, the superior self-know- 
 ledge, of the individual member appointed to receive 
 the honour of the tribute. But there is a third degree 
 of eulogium, of a still more special kind, which is only 
 to be attained by the boldest self-approval, and a most 
 ungrudging sacrifice. This will occur, whenever the 
 introduction of names illustrious in history is demanded, 
 with a view to particular reference and indirect com- 
 parison. Nothing points praise like a great name 
 dexterously introduced ; and nothing, according to the 
 just degree of the mutual-tribute Club, should be so 
 richly recompensed. 
 
 Thus, to speak proportionably, shillings might reason- 
 ably suffice for contributions, when the designation was 
 that of simple "philanthropist ;" but guineas would be 
 too poor to buy the honour of being ranked as "a 
 follower in the foot-prints of Howard," Any member 
 of the Club, if he had sat in Parliament during a single 
 session only, could find little difficulty 'in getting rated 
 as a " lawgiver of a liberal turn of mind and an enlarged 
 way of thinking ;" but if his ambition demanded that 
 he be styled " a direct descendant from Lycurgus," the 
 exchequer of the Club Avould instinctively yawn for its 
 deposit. 
 
 Every youthful patriot, when he had drawn his lot, 
 would have a clear right to ascertain that patriotism was 
 distinctly mentioned in the inscription upon his heir-
 
 PRESENTATION CLUB. 131 
 
 loom; but a delicate allusion to Hampden or Wasli- 
 ington could not be so clieaply conceded. So with the 
 poetical members of the Society. When the voice of 
 the Club had ranked them, without extra charge, as 
 " children of the Muses/' the ends of a generous justice 
 had been reached. Should the young poets crave an 
 express mention of Homer or Shakspeare ; should they 
 hint at a distant and respectful comparison, in the 
 inscriptions upon their gilt cigar-cases, to Collins, 
 Burns, or Keats; their modesty must be content to 
 blush in golden coins, paid into the treasury of the Club. 
 
 The fortunate members of the Mutual Piece-of-Plate 
 Presentation SocietvT will also find that a scale of 
 expenditure, admirably arranged, has been settled in 
 relation to the various domestic and social virtues, for 
 which they may incline to be considered famous. An 
 assignment of some of the best of these beautiful 
 qualities is to be seciu'ed, engraven on the precious 
 metals, at Uttle more than prime cost. The abstemious 
 and sober member drawing the lucky ticket for his 
 tribute, will not only obtain assent to his design ; 
 Temperance on a tea-urn sighing at Bacchus, but the 
 Club -will add the inscription without charge. On the 
 other hand, the intemperate member, who, beneath a 
 crowd of festive devices on his goblets and sauce dishes, 
 is anxious to introduce a stealthy insinuation touching 
 the moderation of his appetite, must pay roundly. 
 
 As a general rule, we should say, that those members 
 who would record as their chief characteristics upon 
 their heir-looms, the qualities most opposite to their 
 own in the flesh, would 1)e the largest contributors to 
 the funds of the Club. The larger the hypocrisy the 
 greater the expense. Conjugal fidehty seems to rank 
 high in cost. "An honest man" is almost a matter of 
 course. " An affectionate son," " a fond father," are
 
 132 EVERYBODY'S VISITOR 
 
 encomiums to be admitted, if desired, on every testi- 
 monial ; but " a husband, whose inviolable constancy 
 was beyond suspicion," rises into the class of special 
 eulogy, and ensures, by its comparative rarity, a contri- 
 bution to the fund. 
 
 After all, we have touched but on a few of the details 
 by which the principle of the projected institution is 
 hereafter to be worked out. As we hear more, we may 
 reveal more. But sufficient for the present is the moral 
 remark with which we close : that if the design should 
 save but one gentleman from an intrusion upon his 
 privacy by a deputation to present him with a piece of 
 plate, subscribed for on the hitherto approved plan, the 
 projectors of the Mutual Piece-of-Plate Presentation 
 Club will not have lived in vain ! 
 
 EVERYBODY'S VISITOR AND NOBODY'S GUEST. 
 
 Yes, he is the guest of Sorrow, the companion of 
 Fatigue. A philosopher of the peripatetic school, ever 
 on foot, we have asked him, for once, to take a chair, 
 and sit — shall we say for his caricature ? no, but for a 
 sketch of his moral lineaments and physical condition. 
 Reader, you know him ; for he is every reader^s con- 
 stant visitor ; but you have perhaps scarcely ever 
 bestowed a single sympathising thought upon him; 
 albeit you recognise in him a mighty and never-idle 
 agent of ci\ilisation, an essential instrument of social 
 communication, a link between heart and heart other- 
 wise separated, a unit drawing millions together; an 
 ever-winding channel of intercourse, bringing the 
 stream of intelligence to every man's door ; a society, 
 in his sole self, for the diffusion of all useful know-
 
 AND nobody's guest. 133 
 
 ledge. Reader, receive as a guest for once, your daily 
 ^^sitor, tlie Postman. A recent change, that has cruelly 
 affected him, gives him a claim upon your sympathy. 
 He is not what he was ; we fear to think of what he 
 may be. 
 
 Alas ! it is too true ; a change has come over the 
 spirit of the Postman's dream. His day has reached its 
 post-meridian. Thus far he has walked through life, 
 soaked vnih rain sometimes, but soon dried bv sun- 
 shine ; henceforward he must perambulate amidst un- 
 mingled gloom — no, not walking, but merely dragging 
 one leg after the other. 
 
 Ere we glance at the sad circumstance in which this 
 change consists, let us turn back into the past, and 
 accompany him on his diui'ual round. We shall find 
 him in his prescribed motion as regular as the sun ; 
 though he claims not to be the Apollo, but only the 
 Mercury, of letters. He puts on part of a pair of shoes, 
 indulges his head with a certain portion of hat, and 
 sallies forth upon his epistolary errand. We see at 
 once that he is the postman surnamed Twopenny ; he 
 who executes his functions in what may be called half- 
 dress, affording a striking contrast with the full field- 
 marshal's coat of the General. 
 
 Look at that terrible packet of letters, tied round with 
 a string, each of which he half turns up, one by one^ 
 to see if all are rightly sorted, and arranged according 
 to the regular succession of streets and numbers. And 
 here one's sympathy certainly sustains a momentary 
 check. It is impossible, even while we commiserate, 
 to help feeling sensible of a natural touch of envy ; for 
 happy is he, so experience tells us, who has merely to 
 deliver all those letters, and who is exempt from the 
 reading of any. How innocent is he of their contents ! 
 How harmless they are in his eyes ! How Little prone
 
 134 everybody's visitor 
 
 are his thoughts to penetrate into those folded mysteries ! 
 How blank are the insides to him who is only bent on 
 deciphering the addresses ! How utterly unconscious 
 he appears of the agitation, the anguish, the mortal 
 throes, the mental agony, he is carrying in embryo 
 between that left arm of his and his heart ! Ah ! little 
 does he know that every step he takes, hurrying on to 
 the completion of his task, hastens perhaps a fellow- 
 creature into the prison or the grave. The only reflec- 
 tion that occurs to him in delivering (for example) that 
 cruel notice of process (the hand is the hand of an 
 attorney's clerk) is, that the direction is very plainly 
 written, and the number in the corner perfectly distinct. 
 
 " A letter sent by Lawj'er Grim, 
 A wafered letter is to him, 
 And it is nothing more." 
 
 Observe this, with a black seal. He does not even notice 
 the proclamation of sad tidings ; he looks only at the 
 address, which is written with a trembling hand in 
 characters far less legible than the last ; he thinks it a 
 shame that people won't write plainer; and gives his 
 double knock, not dreaming that it is a death-knell. 
 He takes the twopence, and whistles as he crosses over 
 the way to leave the dinner-invitation at No. 11, which 
 to him produces exactly the same result — twopence. 
 He knows of no other possible consequence. The 
 blissful ignorance of his nature, deepened and made 
 happier by daily habit, contemplates but a mere two- 
 pence in all cases. The failure of your agent ; the mis- 
 fortune which your dear boy, who detests gambling, 
 happened to meet with at No. something in the Qua- 
 drant; long stories from sincere friends at a distance 
 about the children's hooping-cough and the blight of 
 the apple-blossoms ; obliging applications for the loan
 
 AND NOBODY^S GUEST. 135 
 
 of your Wordswortli^ wliicli you have just had bound ; 
 a demand for orders for six, either for Drury-Lane or 
 Covent-Garden, your acquaintance being (although you 
 never saw him but once) so very good as not to mind 
 which ; epistolary insults, annoyances and calamities of 
 every class ; all these are alike to the Postman : mere 
 occasions for paying twopences. If he have any thought 
 at all about letters, it is that they are very pleasant 
 and friendly things to get hold of. For although we 
 have said that he is nobody's guest, he once in five 
 years finds in his packet a letter for himself; from an 
 old rheumatic associate in the suburbs, asking him to 
 tea on Sunday; an agreeable mnd-up to his weekly 
 laboui's, and the more welcome as the letter is post- 
 paid; for in his cii'cle paying the post is no \dolation of 
 politeness. 
 
 We have here put the best face on the matter. That 
 exemption from the misery of opening letters is certainly 
 a bright feature of his lot. But the other side of the 
 pictui'e is dull almost to desolation. He is out at all 
 hours, in all seasons; at the sultry noon, the stormy 
 eve; May and December equally alike, find him a 
 pedestrian. He is a walkiny likeness of Patience on a 
 monument. He is a wanderer on the face of the 
 metropohs. His feet arc sore, his limbs sink under 
 him, ere his many-winding journey is half over; but it 
 is his arm that aches most, his fingers that are numb 
 with fatigue ; their strength is spent with overknocking, 
 with pulling gate-bells, and rapping at the heads of 
 lions, griffins, and gorgons. From house to house he 
 goes, and nowhere finds admittance. He knocks and 
 the door is opened unto him ; but weary as he is, nobody 
 asks him to walk in. He cannot even indulge in a 
 minute's gossip with the maid on the doorstep. He 
 has no leisure, as the baker has, for an innocent flirta-
 
 136 EVERYBODY'S VISITOR 
 
 tion. To the prettiest damsel that ever opened door, 
 he has only time to say, " Tibbs, esquire, twopence ; " 
 not a word about her eyes. The damsel, indeed, dis- 
 likes him, for his knock affects her nerves, and he calls 
 out to her to "make haste;'' she hates making haste. 
 These hardships are a part of his ordinary and inevit- 
 able experience ; but he has numberless accidental ills ; 
 vain hunts after those who are "gone away;" wearying 
 inquu'ies for people " not known in King-street ; " 
 infinite toil and disappointment in taking letters to the 
 wrong Mr. Smith. 
 
 But if his lot has been thus dreary in the past, how 
 darker than Erebus is its future aspect ! The stamp- 
 duty is reduced, and his duty will be doubled ! The 
 weight of the whole press is on the Postman; we 
 have lessened the burden of one to increase that of the 
 other. His mind staggered before, his body must now 
 totter also. The difference of burden is that difference 
 between a sheet of letter-paper and a double " Atlas." 
 Additional millions of broad sheets are to be put in the 
 post ; and if these must be delivered, who shall deliver 
 the Postman ? Pale cheeks there were, and saddened 
 hearts, in the newspaper-department of the Post-office, 
 when the first weekly supplies of penny stamps were 
 brought in, heaped in huge bundles, for transmission 
 into the country. Enormous packages of the old 
 unstamped, with the red mark of legality affixed to 
 them for the first time, Avere laid down one by one 
 before the wide-staring eyes of the appointed receiver. 
 He stood aghast at the omen, 
 
 " And are these," he asked, " these many bundles, 
 each of them a load, are they all one paper ? Has it 
 only a country circulation, and are we to transmit it ? 
 Why, there are several of the unstamped besides this ; 
 and those also are legahsed. There are, moreover.
 
 AND nobody's guest. 137 
 
 half-a-dozen new papers. Is the Post-office to despatch 
 them all, in addition to the increase upon the old 
 papers daily and weekly ? Impossible ! If this is a 
 specimen of the change, then farewell, for ever, blessed 
 peace of mind ; farewell content ! Mr. ,^^ he con- 
 tinued, turning to a petrified postman standing by, 
 " we can never stand against this new system. This is 
 really too bad. Our carts T^^ll break down under this 
 new load ; they were never built for such work. Look 
 here, here's a package to go by post. None of our 
 machinery wiU stand it ; the thing can't be done. But 
 the trial must be made, I suppose, and Heaven pity us 
 under it, say I. I guess what we have to go through, 
 I see it all. Well ; here, you Jem, try and lift this 
 package out of the way ; they must all go, they 're legal 
 I find, all stamjjed !" 
 
 His imagination daily threw deeper shadows upon a 
 prospect gloomy enough in itself. Within a week from 
 the horn- when the first penny stamp was passed through 
 the Post-office, the sensitive and forlorn functionary, 
 whose words we have recorded almost verbatim, was 
 dead. We are far from being sure that the feverish 
 excitement and morbid apprehensiveness evinced in his 
 first anticipation of the destructive change, are not to 
 be regarded as the direct cause of the calamity. Beyond 
 a doubt they were the predisposing causes of dissolu- 
 tion. He " saw it all," as he believed ; and persuaded 
 himself, from the evidences fiu-nished on the first 
 morning, that a state of things had begun which the 
 "oldest inhabitant" of the Post-office might quake to 
 look upon. The fear of the " pressiu-e from without," 
 impelled him suddenly onward into the grave. 
 
 If the new system should produce but a thousandth 
 part of the toil, pain, harassing and hopelessness, 
 anticipated as its natural effects by its first victim.
 
 138 everybody's visitor, etc. 
 
 what a dreary destiny must tlie Postman's be ! One 
 drop added to a full cup produces the overflow; the 
 last feather breaks the tough back of the camel : thus 
 the last newspaper, the one extra sheet, must weigh 
 down the pitiable carrier, body as well as spirit to the 
 dust. And a heavy, heavy additional burden is he 
 doomed to bear. His daily walk is prolonged; his 
 double knocks perchance are doubled. In the country 
 the extent of his delivery is threefold at least; in 
 the metropolis it is frightfully extended, for the news- 
 paper is charged but half-price. For a single penny 
 you receive your newspaper in town ; the consequence 
 is that many thousands are passed into the Postman's 
 hands, which otherwise he would have escaped. Nor 
 must it be forgotten, that as this becomes known, the 
 evil will increase. The wanderer will have no respite 
 from perambulation ; the walking gentleman will never 
 have time to sit down. He will move on, the very per- 
 sonification of the Movement ; the realizer of the Per- 
 petual Motion; the legitimate son of Restlessness. 
 "Walker's Dictionary" will furnish no superlative epithet 
 capable of describing the ceaselessness of his pedestrian- 
 ism, the monotony of his miserable toil. Yes, his long 
 lane will present no turning ; not a hope can visit him 
 in the thick meshes of that despair which surrounds 
 him wherever he goes. His life will not be life, but 
 merely mechanical motion, the action of the mo\ing 
 wax-figure which passes him in triumphal procession as 
 he proceeds on his round. Happy unconsciousness ! 
 Thrice-fortunate art thou, oh ! Avaxen wanderer ! The 
 mechanism by which the Postman passes onward to his 
 destined stopping-place; the pause of a moment; in- 
 volves a living sensibility to the pang of every move- 
 ment ; yet on he must go. Punch and Judy may hold 
 out temptations to stay, for a minute only, at the corner
 
 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS, 139 
 
 of the street ; but in vain for him. His fate is a relent- 
 less one. Were visions of Paradise siiddenly opened 
 upon his gaze as he crosses the end of an unpropitious 
 turning, he dare not pause even to gaze, still less turn 
 a letter's breadth out of his way. He must leave the 
 uppermost epistle of the pack in the next street : he has 
 no choice : he cannot comprehend what the voluntary 
 principle means. Passive obedience is his doctrine; he 
 never dreams of ha\dng a will of his own. He seems to 
 travel forward freely, and to cross the street as though 
 he really deemed himself a native of a land of liberty ; 
 but he is a bondman. He walks through life with the 
 gait of a willing agent ; yet ever as he walks, wears 
 fetters, clankless and in^dsible. 
 
 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 
 
 No. 1.— TUE THEATRICAL LESSEE. 
 
 The theatrical lessee is a practical logician. Being 
 destitute of money, he enters into contracts, binding 
 himself to pay some fifty thousand pounds per annum : 
 being equally destitute of morals, he undertakes to pro- 
 vide rational entertainment for a " discerning public." 
 Peculiarly innocent of all idea of the uses and objects of 
 the stage, he resolves upon taking the drama under his 
 special protection. In short, having nothing to lose, he 
 determines to risk all he is worth ; being Dogberry, he 
 becomes constable of the watch, as the " most dcsartless 
 man." He regards Shakspeare as an author properly 
 honoured in having his statue erected outside the theatre : 
 he confesses that if " Hamlet " were now to be offered 
 him, an entirely new play, he would not produce it ; 
 unless, perhaps, the author undertook to appear as the
 
 140 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 
 
 Ghost. As an indifferently bad actor, even Shakspeare 
 would have a claim upon him. He evinces his under- 
 standing of the scope and principle of the drama, when 
 he observes, "We don't want literature, we want pieces." 
 He objects to all productions that have much "talk" in 
 them; they only tend to encourage the high-priced actors. 
 First-rate performers he looks upon as necessary evils, 
 and he engages them, one at a time, at short intervals : 
 third-rates are his favourites, because they show by their 
 acting that the " regular drama sends people to sleep ;" 
 they jjrove that Shakspeare " don't draw ! " That is 
 the only point which he conscientiously struggles to 
 establish : that the public despises excellence : and upon 
 the truth of his proposition his chance of being tolerated 
 depends. He may, however, be brought to forgive an 
 actor for being a genius, always providing that he is not 
 likewise a gentleman : the actor who introduces gentle- 
 manly habits into the theatre is supposed to offer a per- 
 sonal insult to the lessee. In like manner he resents, 
 as becomingly as he can, the impertinent superiority of 
 the few ladies of his company who obstinately maintain 
 the singularitj^ of unsullied virtue ; purity of character 
 he considers to be a disgrace to his establishment. His 
 remonstrance is, " I may as well shut up my theatre at 
 once, if common decency is to be observed." The inte- 
 rests of the stage require that every pretty actress should 
 listen to honourable green-room proposals, and submit 
 to a change of viscounts occasionally, at the suggestion, 
 and for the accommodation, of the lessee. The qualifi- 
 cations of an actress are thought to depend upon the 
 question, not " what she can do ? " but, " whose cab 
 brought her to the theatre ? " The actor he engages on 
 the strength of his lungs, the actress on the strength of 
 her legs. If compelled, by perverse fortune, to come to 
 terms with the first tragedian of the day, and to engage
 
 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS, 141 
 
 him for the entire season, the lessee resorts to every 
 imaginable expedient of personal and professional an- 
 noyance, of low insult and irritation, to drive him from 
 the theatre in disgust, just at the moment when the 
 example of his high name and the exercise of his fine 
 genius are supposed to be no longer essentially requi- 
 site. He begins by "biting his thumb ^' to provoke, 
 and ends by biting the finger of the irritated. If we 
 take the portrait of the lessee in another attitude, we 
 find him instructing counsel to prove him "a rogue and a 
 vagabond according to Act of Parliament ;" proclaiming 
 himself a \iolator of the law, in having acted forbidden 
 tragedies and comedies, and showing that the man who 
 had lent him the purchase-money can have no partnership 
 in the profits of illegality. The lessee closes the house 
 for his own advantage and accommodation, and stops 
 one-third of the company's salary; he replies to the 
 general remonstrance, however, with the assurance that 
 all who demand it shall be paid ; and those who ask find 
 him better than his word, for he not only discharges 
 their claims, but them also. The lessee has one favourite 
 plan ; to reduce salaries when business falls off" : he has 
 another favourite plan ; to forget to raise them again 
 when business re^dves. His statesmanship consists in 
 making his actors take share in his losses, and not in 
 his gains. His idea of attraction is opposed to every 
 law of physics : for, when his audiences are scantj% he 
 thinks his company too numerous : the public will not 
 come, and he proceeds to discharge some of his actors ; 
 his treasury is low, and he takes decisive steps to dimi- 
 nish the receipts. A blank box-book suggests to him 
 the propriety, not of adding to, but of lessening the 
 attraction; when a forty-horse power is not enough, 
 says the lessee, a thirty must be tried. The lessee's 
 sayings and doings all tend consistently to one point ;
 
 112 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 
 
 all tend to lower public taste, to taint public morals, to 
 lessen public amusement ; to subvert the stage, to de- 
 grade the actor, to destroy the very profession ; to dis- 
 honour the drama, to repress imagination, and dry up 
 the springs of human sympathy; to make the existing 
 generation scoff where their fathers admired and rever- 
 enced, and to render a noble and humanizing art -a 
 mere convenience for ignorant pretension, licentious 
 intrigue, and sordid speculation. 
 
 THE " OLDEST IXHABITANT." 
 
 The Oldest Inhabitant's mind is a blank memoran- 
 dum-book, his head is a w^allet " wherein he puts alms 
 for oblivion." His experience convinces him, more and 
 more every day, that London is situate on the banks of 
 Lethe. Ask him for the date of an event, and, if of 
 modern occurrence, he has a distinct recollection of 
 having forgotten it ; if referable to a remoter period, he 
 forgets whether he remembers it or not. He knows 
 that he is of an ancient family, but cannot for his life 
 tell what has become of his ancestors : he conjectures 
 with much shrewdness that his forefathers must be 
 dead. His father, who was a soldier, had been, he 
 thinks, in the same regiment with the celebrated Captain 
 Shandy, and knew him well. His crest is a fore-finger 
 with a piece of thread fastened round it; his motto, 
 " Non mi ricordo." He tliinks he can recollect ha^dng 
 seen his grandmother when she was a little girl, and is 
 quite positive that Ms parents died without issue. He 
 is puzzled to know when, where, and how he acquired 
 possession of a daughter; and conceives that his son 
 must now be quite old enough to be his own father. 
 He, however, distinctly remembers the events of his 
 boyhood : the name of the head master of Christ^s
 
 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 143 
 
 Hospital in those days was the Rev. Cornelius Nepos ; 
 one of his schoolfellows was called Alcibiades ; he is not 
 certain that Juhus Csesar was in the same class with 
 himselfj but he has a vague notion that they were a 
 good deal in each other's company. He is confident 
 that he passed a considerable portion of his time, when 
 a lad, at a place called Troy ; though he cannot now 
 call to mind the county in which it is situate. Among 
 the minor matters that perplex him is the cu'cumstance, 
 that one corner of his pocket-handkerchief is always 
 tied in a knot, and he never can tell why. His memory 
 belongs rather to the past century than to the present. 
 Of all the days in the year yesterday perplexes him most ; 
 old events are newest in his mind, the past brightens as 
 it grows remote, and, as he facetiously remarks, he can 
 hardly get a glimpse of Time till he is out of sight. 
 Thus, he cherishes a settled coimction that her Majesty 
 Queen Anite has actually departed this life ; although 
 on the tenth of last November he was wholly at a loss 
 to guess why the Lord Mayor's show (at which he was 
 present) was put off the day before. Of all public 
 characters of the past generation, he best remembers 
 the person of Junius. Robinson Crusoe he never saw 
 but once, and cannot speak as to the accui'acy of his 
 portraits. He has a lively sense of the excitement 
 created by the shocking murder of Mrs. Brownrigg, 
 who was hanged in a coalhole by her two infamous 
 apprentices; and tells you of the public sympathy 
 which formerly existed in favour of a young man named 
 Gregory Barnwell, who was inhumanly stabbed by 
 his own uncle at Peckham. He is also quite clear in 
 the matter of Warren Hastings, only he is not positive 
 whether that gentleman was tried, or transported for 
 seven years. The latest London event of any note which 
 he unhesitatingly remembers, is the grand gathering
 
 144 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 
 
 in the City, when the AlUed Sovereigns, with the veteran 
 Blucher and the Duke of Marlborough, dined with Sir 
 Richard Whittington in Guiklhall. Indeed, there are 
 few events that he would not be able to recollect, if he 
 could but call them to mind. His memory has but one 
 defect, a want of retentiveness. Yet, after all, he 
 remembers Garrick's maiden speech in Parliament, and 
 retains his first impression of the inimitable beauty of 
 Munden's Macbeth. His health is often drunk in the 
 City; this is spoiling a fine compliment; they should 
 drink — his memory I 
 
 THE EDITOR. (BY ONE.) 
 
 The Editor is the dupe of Destiny. His lot was 
 knocked down to him a bargain, and it turns out to be 
 a take-in. His land of promise is a moving bog. His 
 bed of roses is a high-backed chair stufPed with thorns. 
 His laurel wreath is a garland of nettles. His honours 
 resolve themselves into a capital hoax; his pleasures 
 are heavy penalties ; his pride is the snuff of a candle ; 
 his power, but volumes of smoke. The Editor is the 
 most ill-starred man alive. He, and he alone ; the ten 
 thousand pretenders about town notwithstanding; is 
 indeed the identical martyr commonly talked of as the 
 Most Ill-used Individual. He seems to govern opinion, 
 and is in reality a \ictim to the opinions of others. He 
 incurs more than nine-tenths of the risk and responsi- 
 bility, and reaps less than one-tenth of the reward and 
 reputation. The defects of his work are liberally 
 assigned to him ; the merits of it are magnanimously 
 imputed to his correspondents. If a bad article appear, 
 the Editor is unsparingly condemned ! if a brilliant one 
 be inserted, "Anonymous" carries off the eulogium. The 
 editorial function is supposed to consist '^ in the substi-
 
 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 145 
 
 tution of if it be for if it is, and the insertion of the word 
 however here and there, to impede the march of a fine 
 style/^ Commas and colons are the points he is reputed to 
 make ; his niche of fame is merely a parenthesis ; he is 
 but a note of admiration to genius ! His Hfe is spent 
 in ushering clever people into deserved celebrity; he 
 sits, as charioteer, outside the vehicle, in which prodi- 
 gious talents are driven to immortality. It is his for- 
 tvme to insert all his contributors in the temple of glory, 
 and to exclude himself " for want of space." He is 
 always to " go in," but expires unpublished at last. He 
 bestows present popularity on thousands, without secur- 
 ing posthumous renown as his own share. His career 
 is in this life a tale of mystery, " to be continued in the 
 next." He is only thought of when things go wrong 
 in the journal. Curiosity then looks out at the corners 
 of its eyes, and with brows and lips pursed-up, queru- 
 lously ejaculates " Who is he ? " If, by any chance, 
 praise instead of censure should be meditated, the Avrong 
 man is immediately mentioned. People are only certain 
 of their editor when they design to horsewhip him. Is 
 there a bright passage or two in an indifferent article, 
 you may be sure they are not indebted for their polish 
 to the editorial pen. Is there a dull phrase or a harsh 
 period in some favourite contribution ? Oh ! the editor 
 has altered it, or neglected to revise the press ! But if 
 the editor is abused for what he inserts, he is twice- 
 abused for what he rejects. It is a curious feature of 
 his destiny, that if he strikes out but a single line of an 
 article, whether in verse or prose, that very line is infal- 
 libly the crowning beauty of the production. It is not 
 a little odd, that when he declines a paper, that paper is 
 sure to be by far the best thing its author ever wrote. 
 Accepted articles may be bad ; rejected ones are inva- 
 riably good. It is admitted that judgment is the first 
 
 VOL. III. H
 
 146 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 
 
 essential for an editorship^ and it is at the same time 
 insisted on, that judgment is exactly the quality which 
 the editor has not. An author is praised in a review ; 
 he is grateful to an individual writer, whose name he 
 has industriously inquired for ; an author is condemned 
 in a review; he is unspeakably disgusted with the editor. 
 Week after week, month after month, the said editor 
 succours the oppressed, raises up the weak, applauds 
 virtue, exalts talent; he pens or promulgates the praises 
 of friends ; of their books, pictures, acting, safety-lamps, 
 and steam-paddles ; but from the catalogue of golden 
 names his own is an eternal absentee. Greater self- 
 denial was not shown by the late Mr. Massingham of 
 Drury-lane, who held office in the theatre for nearly 
 forty years without once witnessing play or farce ! 
 Being solely responsible, the editor is compelled not 
 only to review, but even to read, new volumes. There 
 is another peculiarity in his condition. Of all theMSS. 
 that come before him, it is his fate to peruse only those 
 which will least repay the trouble. Observe : a contri- 
 butor writes nonsense ten times over, the articles are 
 returned ; he sends one much better, it is inserted ; a 
 third exhibits a striking improvement ; a fourth con- 
 tains touches of genius ; a few more papers are written 
 and accepted, and their author has won a character for 
 assured and established excellence of composition. It 
 is superfluous to read further. Of so masterly a style, 
 not another specimen need be perused. The editor can 
 rely upon his contributor. His productions were read 
 while they were worthless or indifferent, but they are 
 now so admirable, so full of thoughts ^^that give delight 
 and hurt not," that to inspect any more such MSS. 
 would be clearly a waste of time. May it be so with 
 ours !
 
 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 147 
 
 THE POLICE MAGISTRATE. 
 
 The traveller, when he came within view of the 
 gibbet, kncAv that he had entered a civihsed country. 
 The Pohce Magistrate is of opinion that a spacious and 
 well-filled prison is an object of national pride. He 
 measures the resources of a nation by the number of 
 offences it can afford in a year ; he calculates its moral 
 greatness by the square acres covered by its gaols. 
 That, in his eyes, is the land of liberty, where there are 
 plenty of prisons for the accommodation of the people. 
 He is a friend to popular rights, and contends that the 
 subject has the same right to his gaol which the sove- 
 reign has to his palace. He can see no reason why the 
 number of culprits should not be regularly kept up, on 
 the plan laid down in the Army and Na^y; when 
 volunteers are scarce, a bounty might be offered. He 
 has no objection to the project for building new churches, 
 and admits that the new workhouses may faii'ly claim 
 the approval of all who are friendly to the extension of 
 imprisonment ; but laments that there is a shameful 
 want of public spirit with regard to the erection of new 
 prisons. He is sure that there would be no want of 
 offenders, if there were more gaols. He begi'udges the 
 money spent on the National Gallery at Charing-Cross, 
 but hints that a House of Correction at the entrance to 
 Parliament Street is much wanted. He rejoices in the 
 reform of the Criminal Code, and would go yet further ; 
 for, as he says, to transport a man for life gives him no 
 chance of repeating his offence, which is unfair towards 
 the magistrate, and can only tend to depopulate our 
 prisons. The more depraved, however, are better away ; 
 for nothing grieves him more than sending a hardened 
 sinner to gaol. Prison discipline is too precious to be 
 wasted on a wretch without feeling, on one who only 
 
 H 2
 
 148 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 
 
 corrupts the morals of the innocent prisoners, and 
 teaches them not to mind picking oakum. He holds 
 that man to be unworthy of the tread-mill, who seeks 
 to lessen the misery of his fellow-prisoners. Those 
 whom he has the greatest satisfaction in committing are 
 the roving rogues, who, although they know they are 
 without food, are not ashamed of haAdng an appetite 
 that many a magistrate would be proud of when he 
 ffoes home to dinner. The wicked wanderers who own 
 to being houseless, and are nevertheless convicted of 
 sleeping in the open air — perhaps of singing in the 
 day-time — these he commits con amove; and often 
 does his heart ache at the reflection that imperious 
 custom and vulgar prejudice prevent him from award- 
 ing more than a fortnight's imprisonment. But he 
 never repairs to his club to dine, or visits the theatre 
 in the evening, with so hea^y a heart as when, by a 
 series of unlucky accidents, his morning has been 
 devoted to examinations that have ended in nothing — 
 in the discharge of the prisoners ; when, after a fierce 
 contest, he has failed to return a single member to the 
 House of Correction. On such occasions (they are rare) 
 he exclaims, with a bitterness never felt by the old 
 Roman, '^ I have lost a day ! " These misfortunes will 
 happen to the best of magistrates ; and they are chiefly 
 attributable to the indulgence shown to the accused in 
 the production of evidence to substantiate their inno- 
 cence. A man who would prove himself not guilty can 
 have little respect for the bench ; no sympathy with 
 the feelings of the magistrate, who is obliged to release 
 him. It is questionable whether, in such cases, the 
 complainant might not be committed instead: for surely 
 magistrates should not sit for nothing ? Prisoners, 
 however, of a certain station in life, may be acquitted 
 without violence to his feelings. If Sarah Jenkins,
 
 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 149 
 
 charged with shoplifting, be fashionably attii'ed, and in 
 affluent circumstances, she is addressed as Mrs. Jenkins, 
 and accommodated with a chair and a glass of water. 
 The magistrate laments that an investigation should be 
 called for, and casts a furtive glance to his private room. 
 The witnesses are in this case persons whose testimony- 
 must be received with exceeding caution. They have 
 something suspicious in then* aspects ; while the pri- 
 soner at the bar, or rather the " party accused,^^ looks 
 so very respectable. At every serious turn of the dis- 
 closure, he ejaculates, " The party is so respectable ; 
 it 's a pity ! " 
 
 But there is one class of persons whom he particularly 
 holds up for the reprobation of mankind ; the people 
 who don't come forAvard to prosecute. This he regards 
 as a moral offence of the blackest dye : nothing pro- 
 vokes him so much. Trial by jury is so excellent an 
 institution that it ought to be encouraged. The pri- 
 soner, he assumes, has faithfully done his duty ; and 
 shame be on the prosecutor who neglects his own. 
 
 THE BORnOWER. 
 
 The borrower, with admirable consistency of charac- 
 ter, borrows his motto from Shakspcarc, " Base is the 
 slave who pays ! " Ke understands the meaning of the 
 verb " to give," as in the case of a political subscription 
 or a charitable donation, of which lists arc pul)lished in 
 the papers. Generous people give ; poor-spirited people 
 pay. He looks upou himself as a professor of the most 
 ancient and noble art extant, the art of borrowing. He 
 is proiul to call himself an Englishman, l)ecausc the 
 said art has here been cultivated l)eyond any other. In 
 modern times, more especially, it has Ijc-cn brought
 
 150 PORTRAITS or NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 
 
 almost to perfection ; and has been so closely studied 
 and so fondly clierislied by statesmen and economists, 
 that it may justly lay claim to be distinguished as the 
 great national art. Mr. Pitt is, of course, his beau-ideal 
 of a minister ; and he holds Britannia to be the envy of 
 surrounding nations by virtue of her having been able 
 to get her acceptances discounted to the extent of eight 
 hundred millions. He thinks it the duty of every sub- 
 ject living under such a state to follow the staters 
 example ; and as he preaches, so he practises. 
 
 By the art of borrowing, he of course means borrow- 
 ing money. All other loans he despises except in cases 
 of extremity, as misapplications of great powers, and as 
 tending to bring a great principle into a familiarity 
 which breeds contempt. To be sure, the man who 
 borrows ready-made articles is no fool, but he is a small 
 dealer, and generally disgraces the art. What can he 
 promise himself ? What does he attain to? He can 
 seldom get beyond a set of books, an umbrella, or a 
 great-coat : this is poor work, and renders borrowing a 
 bore to both parties. The highest achievement in this 
 department is a horse and gig ; and what can you do 
 with it when you have got it? A borrower cannot 
 afford to injure his credit by driving anything so sus- 
 picious as a gig ; and to sell a borrowed one for even 
 twice as much as it is worth is an offence against the 
 laws : a borrower of this stamp can hardly pretend to 
 more sagacity than a lender. Borrowing a house, ready 
 fm-nished, of course, for the season, or a sailing-boat for 
 a month, may be a more respectable course, and it occa- 
 sionally receives high sanction ; but in the end both 
 the villa and the vessel must be delivered back to the 
 right owners (as the phrase is), which, to a borrower of 
 the smallest susceptibility of feeling, is always un- 
 pleasant.
 
 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 151 
 
 Money alone, the sure means of pui'cliasing pleasures 
 of any pattern ; the medium for the exercise of our own 
 free will ; the power of defying the world ; 
 
 " The glorious privilege 
 Of being independent ; " 
 
 this alone is worthy the great soul, the proud pui'pose, 
 the noble ambition of the enlightened borrower; he 
 should, as Cobbett used to say, " get gold and keep it." 
 He will take good care, at all events, if he have the 
 least pretensions to honour, never to pay it back. 
 
 We have akeady intimated that to pay back money 
 is inconsistent with the principle of borrowing ; but a 
 different doctrine, we are aware, has been craftily 
 broached in some quarters, and a different practice in 
 some cases prevails. Borrowers of some credit and cha- 
 racter are now and then known to create much disap- 
 pointment by actually returning the money, by observing 
 their " promise to pay" to the letter, and thereby vio- 
 lating the spirit of it. This occurs in cases where, a 
 smaU sum having been lent, there is thought to be no 
 chance of extorting the loan of a large one but by the 
 repajnnent of the trifle. Convenient as the plan may be, 
 and at first sight it seems defensible enough, it is in 
 point of fact tampering with an essential principle. It 
 is a descent from the high to the middle ground ; it 
 countenances the fatal doctrine of expediency, and com- 
 promises an intrinsic right. 
 
 The high-minded borrower is proof against the plau- 
 sibility of this practice. He is not of opinion that the 
 end justifies the means. He never can be persuaded, 
 under any circumstances whatever, to violate the first 
 rule of his art. All that he ever hazards doing in this 
 way, is to write to you to advance him a good round 
 sum, requesting that you will deduct what he owes you
 
 152 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 
 
 from the amount. His maxim is the earhest flush of 
 youth ; at the dawn of life, when the mind, conscious of 
 its purity, yet sensible of its frailty, looks out into the 
 great world of morals, and takes to itself some settled 
 line by which its true guidance may be ensured, and its 
 youthful rectitude preserved ; even then, ere yet he had 
 ventured into tlie moneyed world, or whispered for the 
 first time his want of a loan; his maxim was, "No 
 money to be returned." What was adopted by the 
 enthusiasm of youth shall be adhered to by the expe- 
 rience of age. No sophistry, no tenet of expediency, 
 no suggestion of convenience ever succeeds in inducing 
 him to pay back the money he has borrowed : he would 
 as soon think of turning lender. He gets his gold by 
 fair play, and he keeps it upon a defined principle. He 
 acts upon an upright and very simple system, that 
 of never taking a denial; he asks, and asks for 
 ever, but is always accommodating; he wants seventy 
 pounds, but he will put up with fifteen, and take your 
 bill for the rest ; or he will call to-morrow, or on Friday, 
 for the balance. He is not particular about guineas ; 
 make it pounds, and he will cheerfully allow the shil- 
 lings as discount. If you regret that you cannot accom- 
 modate him on the instant, he merely inquires when 
 you can ; next week will do for him. If you cannot 
 possibly name a time and see no likelihood, then he can 
 but drop in and take his chance ; and, in the meantime, 
 you will just be so good as to give him a note of intro- 
 duction to Mr. Loosecash, your agent in Lothbury. 
 
 Such is his urbanity that you cannot offend him; you 
 are " not at home" to him three times a-day for a whole 
 week, but on the eighth morning he meets you coming 
 out, and presses your hand with as much fervour as if it 
 had just written him a cheque. His disinterestedness 
 is equally conspicuous ; give him your acceptance for a
 
 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 153 
 
 hundred, and you may have his for a thousand at what 
 date you will. He is the first to rejoice at the repeal of 
 the usury-laws, because he can now offer you your own 
 terms; one rate of per centage is the same thing 
 to him as another. And let it not be insinuated to his 
 dispraise that he was ever known to break faith 
 with you. His frank and emphatic " Of com^se " in 
 reply to your doubtful, drawling " May I depend 
 upon you?" means just what it says. If you cannot 
 depend upon the man who never means to pay, where 
 can you rest dependance ? AYould you rely on him who 
 is trusting to a mere endeavour, to that rope of sand, a 
 good intention ? on one who will certainly pay you if he 
 can ! No, here there can be no dependance. But on 
 him who, like the sentimental traveller, is predeter- 
 mined not to give you a single sous, you may rest an 
 unhesitating reliance. A resolution to pay is scratched 
 on glass, a determination not to pay is cut in marble. 
 
 The Borrower is a vehement advocate for the strict 
 administration of all laws conservative of property. He 
 is a deadlv enemy to the swindler. His soul sickens at 
 the sight of a pickpocket. Even forgery, though more 
 genteel, he denounces as infamously unfair. All these 
 pursuits, he contends, militate against the successful 
 practice of borrowing, and all might be more profitably 
 and peaceably carried on upon the pi'inciples of that art. 
 He insists that in a free country no man should be plun- 
 dered without his consent, but that at the same time 
 every man has a right to be robbed if he likes. He is 
 arbitrary in his judgments upon vagrants and other 
 riff-raff; he has no pity for the poor: fellows who pay 
 their way while they can, and when they can't, take to 
 stealing ; who know nothing of the golden mean ; who 
 have probably " frittered their money away in paying 
 their debts," when, by spending it rationally, they might 
 
 h3
 
 154 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 
 
 always have borrowed in an honourable independence. 
 Yet it is curious that these two negatives, the beggar 
 and the thief, make up that grand affirmative, the Bor- 
 rower. It is simply so. How weak the elements that 
 compose this strong and subtle spirit ! Anybody can 
 beg, anybody can steal ; but to unite the two — to bor- 
 ROAV, requires profound genius. 
 
 Now the world, as we daily see, is ftdl of profound 
 genius. 
 
 THE MAN WHO BELOXGS TO NO PARTY. 
 
 This gentleman is the living personification of the 
 Malaprop Cerberus; thi'ee gentlemen at once. He is 
 Tory, ^Vhig, and Radical, and belongs to neither party. 
 In his excess of impartiahty he joins all three, and 
 discards them in turn. The three goddesses are con- 
 tinually contending on the Httle Mount Ida of his ima- 
 gination, and each wins the prize once a- day. At 
 breakfast Sir Robert Peel is unanswerable ; by dinner- 
 time, Lord John has stammered out something con- 
 \incing ; and with the third bottle, O'Connell reels in, 
 to the air of " See the conquering hero comes.^' He is 
 a more exquisite monster than that of the enchanted 
 island, for he has three voices; and if he had three 
 votes would give one to each party, to preserve the 
 balance, and prove his independence. 
 
 His is a comfortable creed, for it entirely excludes 
 the workings of that antiquated inconvenience called a 
 conscience. The man who belongs to no party can 
 support each in succession, without damage to his cha- 
 racter. Deviate as he may from the direct path, he 
 cannot forfeit his consistency. It is his privilege, and 
 his only, to take that com-se upon every occasion which 
 his inclinations or his interests point out. He it is
 
 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 155 
 
 who can, with, perfect impunity, with no possibility of 
 impeachment, allow fair play to be the first law of 
 nature, that of self-preservation. He is bound by no 
 principle but that which is comprised in the duty of 
 " taking care of yourself/^ That he considers to be the 
 "VVTiole Duty of Man. Teach us that, he thinks, and 
 you have taught us all. If every subject would but 
 fulfil that duty, if every individual only knew how to 
 " take care of himself," the doctrine of perfectibihty 
 would be no longer a dream, and the Millennium no 
 longer moonshine. 
 
 It is one of his maxims, that the man who is indif- 
 ferent to his own interests can have no concern about 
 those of other people. If he be unmindfid of himself, 
 how can he be thinking of Ids fellow-creatures ? And 
 yet, he remarks, nothing is more common than to hear 
 self-sacrifices lauded. People not only neglect their 
 duty towards themselves and abandon the very interests 
 they are most bound to guard; but afterwards they 
 walk abroad into the public streets and uroclaim what 
 they have done ; as though there were nothing criminal, 
 but something glorious, in inflicting injury upon a 
 human being. Nay, so strong is this delusion, that the 
 very people (and this indeed is curious) the very people 
 who are prone to take care of themselves, are generally 
 the first to boast their self-sacrifices. The innocent 
 absolutely stand self-accused, and beg to be condemned, 
 quite glad to be even suspected of the very folly they 
 would be ashamed to commit. 
 
 Amongst these vou will not find the " Man of no 
 Party." He is a gentleman of too much decision of 
 character ; too upright and too downright. According 
 to his creed, that man is the true patriot who never 
 misses an opportunity of serving himself; he alone is 
 the real lover of his country who constantly devotes his
 
 156 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 
 
 mind, through good and ill report, to the prosperous 
 working out of his own individual ends. 
 
 Although these ends may be often attained by an 
 obstinate attachment to a particular party, and the 
 shallow think this the certain way ; they are only to be 
 effectually accomplished through the medium of a deli- 
 cate independence of all parties, and this the cunning 
 know. Independence is nothing more than a sense of 
 dependence suppressed; as contentment is the art of 
 hiding your desires, or as innocence is guilt undetected. 
 The man of no painty, then, is independent, because he 
 contrives to conceal the fact that all parties are essential to 
 him. Concealing that, he becomes essential to all parties. 
 
 Now suppose him to make choice of one ; directly he 
 does so, he ceases to be of consequence. He is a con- 
 vert to the right creed, and is never heard of afterwards. 
 A party cannot afford to reward a friend whose suf- 
 frages it is sure of for nothing. It is throwing a good 
 thing away to bestow it where it has been earned ; 
 favours in the political world should be employed to 
 bribe, and not to recompense. He is a party-man, and 
 must look for his reward in the triumph of his cause. 
 With his party he must vote, right or wrong ; that is, 
 for or against his own interests, being equally sure of 
 receiving no indemnification from the other side. He 
 has made up his mind, and he may die a beggar when 
 he likes. His opinions are known, his vote certain ; 
 there is an end of him. 
 
 But look at him as he is, a Man of no Party ; joining 
 either of the three when it suits him, bound fast to 
 none, an object of desire to all : 
 
 " What more felicity can fall to creature 
 Than to enjoy delight with liberty ?" 
 
 He is a creature who has both ; whose movements are
 
 PORIRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 157 
 
 matters of importance^ wliose intentions are universally 
 speculated upon. Everybody is curious about his 
 opinion on the subject^ because it is only to be guessed 
 at : evervbodv wants to know what he thinks, because 
 he has not made up his mind; everybody conceives his 
 vote to be of consequence, because they wonder on 
 which side it will be given. Each party fancies him 
 its own, and " the eyes of Europe are upon him." 
 INIeantime he saunters from side to side, prjdng into 
 everything and looking out for the shortest and surest 
 path to his own advantage : 
 
 " There he annvuig round about doth flie, 
 And takes survey with busie, curious eye, 
 Now this, now that, he tasteth tenderly — " 
 
 deciding at last according to his sovereign will and 
 pleasure. He has no predilections, no prejudices ; he 
 is bound to no pledge, trammelled by no party ; he is 
 himself alone, and is hke no brother; he can do what he 
 likes with his own opinion and his own vote; the minister 
 going out and the minister coming in are the same to 
 him ; he is a free-born, independent Englishman, who 
 proves his anxiety for others by taking care of himself, 
 and his good wishes for the interests of his country by 
 assiduously promoting his own. 
 
 TUE ANTI-PUNSTER. 
 
 The man who would scruple to make a pun would 
 not hesitate to commit a burglary. Why we think so, 
 Ave don't know ; but we have just as much right to our 
 opinion that there is a direct connection between a 
 dislike of puns and a taste for burglaries, as Dr. 
 Johnson had to his, when he chose, most arbitrarily and 
 alliteratively, to confound a pun perpetrated with a 
 l)ocket to be picked.
 
 158 PORTRAITS OP NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 
 
 The anti-punster is the incarnation of the spirit of 
 intolerance. His aversion knows no cold medium. He 
 has no mercy for the man who differs from him, on the 
 point of a pun. He is a man of one idea, and that, 
 though an odd one certainly, is no joke. His singleness 
 of apprehension cannot stand the shock of a double- 
 meaning. One is as much as he can manage to 
 comprehend ; and he can no more stand up against the 
 force and confusion of two, than he could brave the 
 discharge of a double-barrelled gun at his head. 
 Besides, he regards a pun as a most reckless and 
 extravagant waste of meaning. He would rather you 
 used a word that meant nothing. " True no-meaning" 
 does not puzzle him more than wit ; and a passage that 
 leads to nothing, affords him more profit and recreation 
 than an insane attempt to walk in two paths at a time, 
 
 " Like to a man on double business bound, 
 Who both neglects." 
 
 He would infinitely prefer a stroll in the dark through 
 grounds beset with traps and spring-guns, to joining in 
 conversation with a punster. He resents an unprovoked 
 quibble as a personal insult. He never called anybody 
 out on this score, because, in his opinion, a man once 
 convicted of a premeditated pun has forfeited all claim 
 to be treated as a gentleman ; but he never fails to kick 
 the offender down-stairs, with his mind^s foot. Horatio, 
 having discovered that his eldest son had called the 
 cock an ornithological Cerberus — three birds at once, 
 his throat being a swallow, and his voice a crow — 
 threatened to cut the culprit off with a shilling; and 
 ascertaining that the young wag had remarked upon 
 the difficulty of " cutting off " a son with a shilling, a 
 shilling being undeniably " blunt," he put his threat 
 into execution. He sneers at Shakspeare as an inspired
 
 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 159 
 
 idiot; and condemiis as vicious, not only in taste but 
 in morals, the final exit of Mercutio, who is sent into 
 purgatory with a pun in his mouth. You increase his 
 disgust if you tell him that the same thing has happened 
 on the real stage of life; that EUiston's ending was 
 even as that of Mercutio, whom he had so often repre- 
 sented ; that when, an horn' or two before the parting 
 of soul and body, the patient's head was raised on his 
 pillow, and, to induce him into one more hopeless 
 spoonful of medicine, he was told that " he should wash 
 it down with half a glass of his brown sherry ;'' that 
 even then the actor's glazed eye brightened under the 
 influence of the ruling passion, as he articulated with 
 almost moveless lips, " Bri-bc-ry — and — Cor-rup-tion V 
 Nothing incenses the anti-punster so much as 
 detecting in a distaste for puns an incapacity for 
 making them. Charge him with that, and he will 
 immediately prove himself incapable by offering proof 
 of capacity. He can neither make a genuine good pun, 
 which is a good thing ; nor a shocking bad one, which 
 is a better. "Whatever he hazards is bad, to be sure ; 
 but not bad enough : it is a wretched, dull piece of 
 impotence, wholly innocent of drollery. He has no 
 soul for a \dllanous quibble; he cannot for his life 
 make it vile enough to succeed ; he has not the grasp 
 of mind reqiusite to gather up two remote meanings, 
 and compress them into a single word, which the eye 
 rather than the tongue italicises to the apprehension. 
 In short, he is unconscious that the excellent and the 
 execrable meet together upon a point which genius 
 alone can reach ; and that in the art of punning, to be 
 good enough and bad enough are the same thing, the 
 difficulty being as great, and the glory as unequivocal. 
 In his attempt, therefore, he tries hard at working out 
 a good one, and consequently fails to arrive at the
 
 160 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 
 
 proper pitch of badness. The anti-punster is an inca- 
 pable ; all he can do is, to take his hat because he can^t 
 take a joke. He breaks up a party, because somebody 
 breaks a jest. He thinks he shows his sense by not 
 relishing nonsense ; and seeks credit for profound 
 thought, by abhorring a play upon words. He carries a 
 sneer on his lip for want of a smile. 
 
 THE PENNY-A-LINER. 
 
 The penny-a-liner, like Pope, is " known by his 
 style.^^ His fine Eoman hand once seen may be sworn 
 to by the most cursory observer. But though in this 
 one respect of identity resembling Pope, he bears not 
 in any other the least likeness to author dead or living. 
 He has no brother, and is like no brother, in literature. 
 Such as he was, he is. He disdains to accommodate 
 his manner to the ever-altering taste of the times. He 
 refuses to bow down to the popular idol, innovation. 
 He has a style, and he sticks to it. He scorns to 
 depart from it, to gratify the thirst for novelty. He 
 even thinks that it improves with use, and that his 
 pet-phrases acquire a finer point and additional em- 
 phasis upon every fresh application. Thus, in relating 
 the last fashionable occurrence, how a noble family has 
 been plunged into consternation and sorrow by the 
 elopement of Lady Prudentia a month after marriage, 
 he informs you, as though the phrase itself carried 
 conviction to the heart, that the " feelings of the injured 
 husband may be more easily conceived than described.^^ 
 If he requires that phrase twice in the same narrative, 
 he consents to vary it by saying that "they may be 
 imagined but cannot be depicted.'^ In reporting an 
 incident illustrative of the fatal effects of taking prussic
 
 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 161 
 
 acid, he states that the " -sdtal spark is extinct/^ and 
 that not the smallest hopes are entertained of the 
 unfortunate gentleman's recovery. A lady's bag is 
 barbarously stolen from her arm by " a monster in the 
 human form." A thunder-storm is described as ha\dng 
 " visited" the metropolis, and the memory of the oldest 
 inhabitant fiu'nishes no parallel to the ravages of the 
 " electric fluid." A new actress " siu'passes the most 
 sanguine expectations" of the public, and exhibits 
 talents " that have seldom been equalled, never excelled." 
 A new book is not simply published, it " emanates 
 from the press." On the demise of a person of emi- 
 nence, it is confidently averred that he had a hand 
 ''open as day to melting charity," and that "take him 
 for all in all, we ne'er shall look upon his hke again." 
 Two objects not immediately connected are sure to be 
 " far as the poles asunder ; " although they are very 
 easily brought together and reconciled in the reader's 
 mind by the convenience of the phrase " as it were," 
 which is an especial favourite, and constantly in request. 
 He is a great admirer of amplitude of title, for palpable 
 reasons ; as when he reports, that '' Yesterday the 
 Right Honourable Lord John Russell, M. P., his 
 Majesty's Secretary of State for the Home Department, 
 dined with," &c. He is wonderfully expert in the 
 measurement of hailstones, and in the calculation of 
 the number of panes of glass which they demolish in 
 their descent. He is acquainted with the exact circum- 
 ference of every gooseberry that emulates the plenitude 
 of a pumpkin; and can at all times detect a pheno- 
 menon in every private family, by simply reckoning up 
 the united ages of its various members. But in the 
 discharge of these useful duties, for the edification 
 and amusement of the public, he employs, in the 
 general course of things, but one set of plu'ases. If a
 
 162 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 
 
 fii'e can be rendered more picturesque by designating it 
 the " devouring element/' the devouring element rages 
 in the description to the end of the chapter. Once a 
 hit always a hit ; a good thing remains good for ever ; 
 a happy epithet is felicitous to the last. The only 
 variation of style that he can be prevailed upon to 
 attempt^ he introduces in his quotations. To these he 
 often gives an entirely new aspect, and occasionally, by 
 accident, he improves upon the originals. Of this, the 
 following may stand as a specimen : 
 
 " 'Tis not in mortals to deserve success ; 
 But we'll do more, Sempronius, we'll command it." 
 
 THE CREDITOR. 
 
 It has been remarked by a hving writer, a moralist 
 as well as a wit, that it is most absurdly the custom 
 among all ranks to designate the debtor, the " poor 
 debtor/' and the "unfortunate debtor/' Avhile, by 
 equally general consent, the creditor is styled the 
 "grasping," the "hard-hearted," and the "relentless." 
 We gratefully pay in an instalment to the stock of 
 proof, that the creditor is herein infamously libelled 
 whether the debtor be rightfully designated or not. 
 
 We have seen many creditors; we have met them 
 often in life, by accident ; seldom by appointment, for 
 appointments with creditors are rarely kept. And of 
 them all, without exception, we can honestly declare 
 that they were fellows truly worthy of giving credit ; 
 kind, sensible, polite souls, whose books it was quite a 
 pleasure to remain in. It is really a pity to pay such 
 people j you deprive them thereby of so many oppor- 
 tunities of showing their excellent qualities, and their 
 continued claims upon your custom. Payment can
 
 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 163 
 
 only be completely justified by being coupled with a 
 condition that you immediately run a much larger score, 
 and take longer time. To offer them ready money is to 
 narrow their chances of doing that which they were 
 expressly sent into the world to do. 
 
 Such creditors have we seen, and few of any other 
 class. Xow and then you may find a " a hard-hearted 
 creditor,^^ one whom a long course of prosperity has 
 petrified ; whom singular good fortune in collecting his 
 debts easily has rendered impatient to the exception ; 
 you may stumble occasionally on a " relentless" creditor, 
 one who would rather receive a small part of his account 
 than fifty excuses, who has no taste for ingenious 
 evasions, who actually expects you not merely to make 
 a promise, but to keep it ; who stupidly supposes that 
 you are to pay him because the money is due, and who 
 then proceeds to what he calls proceedings against you. 
 But, depend upon it, if you ever come into collision with 
 such a burlesque of a man of business, you will find him 
 young in trade, inexperienced in the art of dunning, 
 and unused to giving credit. He knows nothing of 
 the duties of a creditor, and your best plan will be to 
 pay him at once, and have done with him ; getting his 
 receipt, and having it framed and glazed, unless you 
 Hke to keep out of his way until he gets more versed in 
 his calling, and sees the absurdity of his applications. 
 
 But out of the way of the creditor who knows him- 
 self, and who deserves the distinction of having a round 
 of debtors, you never can have occasion to get. Never 
 avoid him if you wish to spare him the trouble of 
 writing a receipt. Perhaps you, like Romeo — 
 
 " do remember an apothecary, 
 
 And hereabout he dwells." 
 
 But is that a reason why you should skulk past his
 
 164 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 
 
 door on the other side of the way, or dive down a 
 turning to evade him, instead of nodding at him as you 
 pass, as though you knew his worth and put trust in 
 him as an honest fellow ? If you see your creditor at 
 a distance, walk boldly up to him, and as you go by, 
 hope his rheumatism is better ; if he be about to stop 
 you, seem to stop him, and, before he can remind you 
 that you faithfully promised to pay him three weeks 
 ago, hint to him that he has neglected sending in your 
 account, and that you must have it by the twenty-fifth 
 of next month. Tell him to call for the amount on 
 that day. You need not be not at home, for he won^t 
 come. We have said that appointments with creditors 
 are seldom kept ; it is the fault, we do not hesitate to 
 say so, it is the fault of the creditor, he thinks it hardly 
 worth while to attend. Some years ago punctuality 
 was exceedingly prevalent amongst all classes of duns ; 
 they knocked as the clock struck; you were sure of 
 their visit if they promised to call. But the system has 
 changed with the times ; and you may now desire your 
 tailor to call at twelve on Tuesday, with a perfect 
 reliance on his non-attendance, unless you want, not 
 to diminish, but to lengthen his account, by another 
 order. People used to feel quite happy when they 
 discovered a creditor who was content with calling once 
 a day ; a patient, civil creature, who was satisfied with 
 knocking till he was tired ; a fine fellow of the come- 
 again school : but now, in such a case, yoiu* thoughts 
 would recur to a horsewhip, or the police ; the most 
 moderate course you could take would be to address a 
 letter of complaint to the " Morning Herald." 
 
 Lest it should be thought by somebody who has 
 happened to meet with a hard-hearted suitor once in his 
 life, that compassionate creditors are scarce, we shall 
 establish the existence of this class, by introducing a
 
 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 165 
 
 specimen of a set still further removed from the 
 "grasping" and "relentless" few. Our specimen is 
 the most diffident and gentle-minded creature living; 
 he is therefore marked out for a creditor; and he is 
 one, in fifty places which he scrupulously avoids. He 
 takes a thousand times more pains to get out of the 
 way of a debtor, than some people foolishly take to 
 escape the glance of a creditor. He would not meet a 
 man who owes him money for the world, lest it should 
 be voluntarily tendered, or he should be supposed 
 capable of asking for it. Twice only has he been 
 wrought upon to do this ; we played the lever in both 
 cases. In the first, knowing his timid and irresolute 
 character, we urged him to apply for payment of a 
 considerable sum which had been long due, and only 
 wanted asking for. To call would be better than to 
 write, but he would write. One morning he astonished 
 us by a specific and decided announcement; we could 
 hardly believe him ; " Well, I've written to Tomlinson." 
 He received in return thousands of compliments and 
 congratulations on his nerve and resolution ; he had 
 done wonders, and the thing seemed settled. But three 
 weeks after this, we were again startled by the same 
 announcement — " Well, IVe written to Tomlinson !" 
 " Written ! Why you said you had written three 
 weeks ago." "Yes," was the explanation, "Yes, I 
 know, and so I did, but I didn't send the letter /" To 
 write that letter was a giant efi'ort ; to put it into the 
 post required three weeks' thought, self-communion, 
 composure, and deliberation. 
 
 Pen and ink applications were evidently hopeless. 
 He must be screwed up, for once at any rate, to a 
 personal visit ; and on another debtor of his, one not 
 likely to pay unsolicited, we boldly determined he should 
 call ; yes, actually knock at the door, enter the family
 
 166 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 
 
 apartment, and ask for liis money. Well, lie would 
 call, next week. No, lie must resolve on going at once. 
 Well, lie would go, tlie next day, or tlie day after. No, 
 lie must start tliat very morning, nay, tliat very moment. 
 His hat and gloves were brought, and go he must. 
 " By heavens \" he muttered, as he felt his resolution 
 forming under the influence of a will not his own, and 
 his limbs obeying the impulse of a mind quite made 
 
 up, but not belonging to him, " by heavens, B , 
 
 you're a fiend V But he was moved slowly forward ; 
 coaxed one half of the way, and dragged the other half. 
 Still he did go on. The point of destination is in sight; 
 yes, that is the street ; but to get him to turn down it 
 is a task exquisitely delicate, and difficult exceedingly. 
 Compared with him, a pig is the most tractable of 
 creatures. At last, however, the corner is turned, the 
 house is before us, and with a step the most faltering 
 and reluctant he advances towards that " debtor's door," 
 as though a rope were round his neck and eternity 
 awaited him on the tlireshold. Fifty excuses are offered 
 and rejected, fifty reasons why writing would be better. 
 He will pledge himself to despatch a letter before he 
 dines, he will be quite peremptory in his tone, and 
 absolutely request payment whenever it may be per- 
 fectly convenient. But he is not to be so let off, when 
 on the very verge of the door- step. One effort more 
 and his foot is upon it. We relieve him from the task 
 of knocking ; a loud rap shakes his soul, and he feels 
 as though his fetters are being knocked off, that his 
 time has come. Conscious that he cannot now escape, 
 we leave him to his fate, and retire to a print-shop 
 window a little way off, to wait the issue of his first 
 " stand and deliver" to a debtor. Short was the interval 
 allowed us for speculation upon the result. We turned 
 round to see that he had safely entered, and perceived
 
 PORTRAITS OF NOTORIOUS CHARACTERS. 167 
 
 him just descending the steps vnth a face ht up with 
 satisfaction and a sense of having discharged his duty. 
 Another moment, and down the street he came with 
 elasticity in his tread, and pleasure in the very palms 
 of his hands as he rubbed them together. What could 
 this portend ? " It^s all right," he cried, as he ap- 
 proached. All right ? Could he have asked for the 
 three hundi'ed pounds, and received the sum, or even a 
 promise, in that brief space of time ? it could not be 
 possible. '' It's all right," he repeated. " What's all 
 right ? Have you got the money ?" " No," exclaimed 
 the happy, the more, oh ! far more than contented, 
 creditor, " it's all right, he's out of town /" 
 
 Sceptical reader, there is even such a creditor as this 
 in the world; and millions of others, we doubt not, 
 worthy of associating with him, people this world of 
 trust. Before you revile the creditor, and defame him 
 as hard-hearted, think upon what you owe him, how 
 long it has been due, how much he may want it, and 
 how seldom he has asked. Look around you, and say 
 if you do not see among your acquaintances many in 
 whom the repugnance to ask for what is due to them is 
 almost unconquerable; who could almost beg, who 
 have been known to borrow, rather than assume the 
 mean, cold character of a dun. The unwilling to ask 
 is quite as numerous a class as the unwilling to pay. 
 Inquire of that man who traces what he calls his irre- 
 trievable ruin to the obstinate folly or the revengeful 
 persecution of his creditors, whether the mischief did 
 not originate in the spite or stupidity of one, and whether 
 he had not experienced lenity and good-nature from the 
 rest. The creditor is an injured angel, let ingratitude 
 per-contra the account as it may. The three grand 
 virtues are his in turn ; he commences in faith ; that 
 gone, he rests long in hope ; and that departed, he is
 
 168 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS CONSISTENT. 
 
 content to have been a dispenser of charity. His life 
 is spent in paying compliments to human nature, that 
 pays not him in return. He gives his fellow-creatures 
 credit for honesty; let them give him credit— for 
 generosity. 
 
 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS CONSISTENT. 
 
 "Parallel/' said the dying Mr. Placid to his only 
 son, " in your dealings with the crooked and deviating 
 world, be upright and straight-forward. Take your 
 course, and keep it. Be just to others, be true to your- 
 self; you will then be consistent. Men will call you 
 by all sorts of names, but never let them call you the 
 man who has no consistency." 
 
 And Parallel Placid (junior now no longer) went 
 quietly upon the high-road of life, determined to be 
 consistent. 
 
 He had one idea : it was only one numerically, but 
 in moral value, it was a thousand. Up or down, rain 
 or shine, right or left, north or south, he would be true 
 to his point. His conduct should be marked by unde- 
 viating consistency. 
 
 Consistency would be a glorious thing, if what is con- 
 sistent in one place were consistent in another ; at one 
 time, were consistent at another ; in one person, were 
 consistent in another. But consistency is considerably 
 less comfortable and wise-looking, when it wraps around 
 it in July the furs which were so welcome in January ; 
 or shivers at Christmas in the lace and muslin it flut- 
 tered in at Midsummer. 
 
 But the conduct of young Placid was to be marked 
 with unde\iating consistency. 
 
 " What is so simple ! " said Parallel to himself, as
 
 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS CONSISTENT. 169 
 
 he walked eagerly forward against a post that stood 
 before him ; " consistency is attainable by everybody. 
 What so safe, so agreeable ! It is but to go straight 
 on/^ he continued, striking his ankle against an iron- 
 railing that projected into the path ; " and ha\dng once 
 taken the precaution to select the right course, how is 
 it possible to go — " 
 
 But here Parallel was stopped at the very edge of a 
 broad, deep ditch, into which he had nearly plumped, 
 being ignorant that it crossed the road, and cut off all 
 possibility of further progress in that direction. 
 
 It needs scarcely to be said, in the first instance, that 
 the man of unde\iating consistency is essentially a hero 
 of matter-of-fact. Everything that is not mathematically 
 correct, is to him inconsistent. When I told Parallel 
 the other day, that a man whom I had met in Shrop- 
 shire, a descendant of the giants, was of a height and 
 bulk so enormous, that it took me ten minutes to ask 
 him how he did ; he said the occurrence was incon- 
 sistent, for the question ought not to have occupied one 
 instant more than the same inquiry addressed to a 
 dwarf. And when we mentioned that on the railway 
 we had shared a common danger, 'Ojcing all in the same 
 boat," he pronounced it to be highly inconsistent to 
 travel in boats upon railways. 
 
 The consistency of Parallel is systematic and unim- 
 peachable : it begins with the beginning. First for his 
 thoughts. He is consistent from thoughts to words. 
 What he thinks he must say. He believes that he 
 forms an opinion, and thinks that he conceives an idea; 
 then out it must come. The opinion is not only un- 
 asked, but unwanted; it is probably erroneous, and 
 certainly ill-timed; but the suppression of it would seem 
 to him grossly inconsistent. Nobody wants to know 
 what he thinks and feels ; but that is unimportant ; he 
 
 VOL. III. I
 
 170 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS CONSISTENT. 
 
 speaks out, because he is cou\inced that the man who 
 has thoughts and feelings, and does not talk about 
 them, can have no consistency. 
 
 Then, for his words. He is consistent from words to 
 acts. What he says, that he must do. Observe most 
 particularly that he takes care generally to say nothing 
 to his own personal cost or inconvenience ; but even 
 should it happen so, the thing said is the thing done. 
 Having declared in the morning that he meant to walk 
 home, seventeen miles on a bad road, at night, he would 
 consider it an inconsistency to ride, although the rain 
 has come down soakingly and suddenly, and a convey- 
 ance is unexpectedly on the spot. 
 
 Then, for his acts. Here he is equally consistent; 
 from act to act. What he has once done, that is the 
 thing he must do again ; or where would be his con- 
 sistency ! The road, whether the best or not, must be 
 taken now, because it was taken before. Nine may 
 not be the right number exacth^ but it is the figure 
 chosen, for the reason that it stands next to eight, and 
 ten would be consequently inconsistent. 
 
 From thoughts to words, from words to acts, and 
 from acts to a repetition of them, ParalleFs practice is 
 easily traced ; and at this point we find him consistent 
 in a thousand respects besides. Thus he is consistent 
 from a beginning to an end. Parallel, ha\dng once 
 commenced, goes on to the legitimate close. Having 
 advanced to the middle of the proposed work, he finds, 
 perhaps, that lie is wrong ; that it is all a failure ; but 
 this is a discovery that never induces him to stop, for 
 how inconsistent it must appear to finish before the 
 conclusion, and come to an end in the middle ! He 
 moves forward therefore to the completion, conscious 
 of error indeed, but in perfect consistency with his 
 commencement.
 
 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS CONSISTENT. 171 
 
 As he goes abroad into social life, you may follow 
 him in his relations with mankind, and detect more 
 consistency everyAvhere. Thus, however others may 
 change, he is the same in his bearing to them all. The 
 scrub of a lad whom he called Mike when he wanted 
 his boots pohshed, he still calls Mike, when the scrub 
 of a lad is known amongst his fellow-peers as Lord 
 Japan. He is no enemy to courtesy ; far from it ; but 
 he prizes consistency above everything, and smacks his 
 independent lips as he salutes a noble by the ancient 
 name of " Mike." 
 
 The acquaintance, however, who happens to have 
 descended in exact proportion to the elevation of Mike, 
 dropping down from the peerage to boot-polishing, does 
 not always command the exercise of a like virtue. To 
 him, in his changes, Parallel cannot be the same ; for 
 he proves that the man's conduct in life has been so 
 utterly inconsistent, that no rule of consistency will 
 precisely apply to it. But upon some points he even 
 here contrives to adhere to his princijjle. 
 
 " I can do nothing for him, sir. Not a shoe can he 
 ever shine for me. He never blacked for me when a 
 peer; how can I consistently employ him in his present 
 condition? In former days, he never wanted a shilling 
 of me ; could I give him one now, or at any time here- 
 after, without inconsistency ? " 
 
 As thus he reasons in the case of one, he would 
 reason in the case of many; and indeed the rule of 
 consistency laid doAvn by Parallel, always extends from 
 an individual to a whole family. If he is to set foot in 
 a circle, he must go all round it, and be at home every- 
 whcrc. It would be quite inconsistent to be known to 
 you, and not to know your friends. He must of course 
 become acquainted with your relations and companions ; 
 with the country ones, as they come successively to 
 
 I 2
 
 172 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS CONSISTENT. 
 
 town. All that is consistent. Or he is ready, if you 
 like, and have any rustic connections to lodge him with, 
 to take a trip with you out of the smoke, when London 
 smoke is not consistent with his comforts. 
 
 Numerous are the Parallels running (not very con- 
 sistently) in all directions about the social world ; whose 
 principle it is, from one link of acquaintance to forge 
 many. 
 
 " So, you know that family, do you ? I must get 
 you to introduce me.^^ 
 
 '' Now is it not odd rather, that I should never have 
 heard before of your intimacy with the commissioner, 
 so much as I have desired an introduction ! " 
 
 " Ha ! — well — yes — God bless me ! and you visit 
 often at the lodge ! only think. We ^11 go up there 
 together some morning or other ; say to-morrow ! '' 
 
 These men of consistency carry the principle rather 
 far, when they thus lay it down as a law that a friend^ s 
 friends should be one^s own friends; but the practice is 
 a thousand times worse when it embraces friend's wives 
 as well. Now Parallel, be it known, is upon this point 
 of his system most positive and fixed. It is one of his 
 favourite tenets, that between married people there can 
 be no single friendships ; but that friendship necessarily 
 includes man and wife. His maxim is, that a wife's 
 proper place is to be at her husband's side, and that in 
 every new intimacy he may form, she should be, in her 
 sphere, participant. His friend's wife must therefore 
 be in heart and soul the friend of Mrs. Placid. If A. 
 and B. take a fancy to each other, Y. and Z. must swear 
 eternal constancy. 
 
 Show to the consistent man his glaring inconsistency. 
 Explain to him that two rational men may easily con- 
 ceive and cherish for one another the purest regard ; in 
 opinions and sjnupathies they may be one, in pursuits
 
 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS CONSISTENT. 173 
 
 and habits allied, in tastes and dispositions all that is 
 congenial; their companionship productive of nothing 
 but pleasure, mutual service, and mutual entertainment. 
 But does it follow as a consequence, ask him, that the 
 introduction of wife to wife would be the prelude of a 
 similar delightful intercourse ! That their natures 
 would at once assimilate, and their souls become knit 
 together, in compliment to the confraternity of their 
 lords ; or that Mrs. Parallel Placid would rush to meet 
 her dear new friend^ s embrace Avith any feehng short of 
 that sweet and genial confidence which one crocodile 
 reposes in another ! 
 
 Pai'allel will, however, insist in reply, that the intro- 
 duction is imperatively demanded by every rule of con- 
 sistency, and that nothing can be more consistent than 
 a friendly attachment between wives whose husbands 
 are similarly united. 
 
 " Crony cut me, to be sure, after years of intimacy, 
 because my wife, becoming wonderfidly friendly with 
 Mrs. Crony, happened to speak of her as she richly 
 deserved ; and we also broke up our old estabhshed 
 acquaintance with the Doubleshuffles, because that 
 woman, bound always in the closest ties of affection to 
 Mrs. Placid, could never by any chance give her a good 
 word. But Avhat of that ! What docs it matter so long 
 as the intercourse terminates consistently ! " 
 
 Think, Parallel, if thought be not utterly inconsistent, 
 think of the infinite friendships sacrificed to your prin- 
 ciple. Think of the radiant prospects obscui'cd, the 
 towering hopes struck down. Think of the visions of 
 lasting amity, the glowing pictures of never-ending 
 sympathy and companionship, the anticipations of con- 
 viviality in the careless time, and of succom^ in the 
 sorrowful hour ; of tlie promise attending mutual en- 
 deavours and aspirations, struggling side by side, and
 
 174 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS CONSISTENT. 
 
 perhaps together achieving success in an after day; 
 think of that one only dream of early friendship in 
 which the inexperienced heart is all confidence, and 
 rainbows seem to have acquired an astonishing solidity 
 and permanence, and the gayest-coloured bubbles never 
 break in the grasp, and the hard stone pavement springs 
 like grass under the feet, while rascally " flesh and 
 blood," blushing for their past tricks, appear to be the 
 most honest and uncorrupted pair imaginable, and 
 " body and soul," both content, carry on their partner- 
 ship without wrangling ! Think, man, of these rap- 
 turous images, all conceivable by the sentiment of an 
 inspired friendship, and familiar to its passionate eyes ; 
 and then vainly attempt to calculate how many crystal 
 chalices have been dashed from the lip, how many of 
 those rosy dreams have been dispersed ; by what ? 
 
 By a mere breath : the mingled breath of two fond 
 wives, hitherto only nodding acquaintances, but at 
 length eager, like their husbands, for the ecstasies of 
 friendship : and now met together by appointment, over 
 their first uninebriating cup of gunpowder, to lay the 
 foundation of a perpetual alliance, and to love one 
 another, oh, immensely ! 
 
 To those who may like the pursuit of friendship under 
 difficulties, these Parallel amities, and right lines of 
 sympathetic communion, must prove eminently con- 
 venient ; husband shaking hands with husband, and 
 wife embracing wife ; the sons and daughters, on both 
 sides, all evincing an uncontrollable reciprocity of devo- 
 tion, according to their ages. 
 
 But, following Mr. Placid, as is our purpose, from 
 this point, we trace him into the path political. Here 
 we find the hero of consistency, admirably, nay, exqui- 
 sitely consistent ! The one maxim with which he 
 started was this; that the wisest, greatest, and most
 
 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS CONSISTENT. 175 
 
 virtuous expedient ever devised for the service and secu- 
 rity of the state is, an Opposition ! Upon Opposition 
 he looked, not as a necessary evil, or a disguised good, 
 an accelerator, or a drag-chain, as the case may be ; but 
 as a glorious institution, a mighty pillar, and a grand 
 bulwark ; to be consistently maintained in the best as 
 in the worst of times. His advice to a minister would 
 have been, " First, catch your opposition." Of course, 
 therefore, Parallel went at once into opposition; but 
 "moderate opposition;" all extremes are inconsistent. 
 With the party so regulated, and of coui'se against the 
 administration, he invariably voted; he joined no scat- 
 tered sections of the opposing body on any occasion, 
 however excellent their cause ; but sat in the centre of 
 the fixed and formidable row opposite the Treasury 
 bench, and ten times a night moved off in the division 
 against government with unvarying fideHty. 
 
 But when this had been done once too often for the 
 minister, and the defeated captain of a cabinet gave 
 place to the hero of opposition, Parallel, as a man of 
 consistency, steadily supporting his party, and pledged 
 to the principles they upheld, naturally (so you think) 
 crossed the house, took his seat on the other side, and 
 gave all his votes with the same unvarying fidelity to 
 his new leader, the premier, who, for his part, had 
 already settled Parallel high up on his bench of un- 
 flinching adherents, and entered him upon the thick- 
 and-thin list. 
 
 What a mistake ! Parallel never shifts at all. He, 
 the consistent man, just to others, and true to himself, 
 scorns to cross the house. He seeks no right-hand seat, 
 but may be seen sitting as before to the left of the 
 Speaker's chair. 
 
 Well, some people have odd predilections for particu- 
 lar seats, and he amongst them has a whimsical liking
 
 176 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS CONSISTENT, 
 
 for liis old pet place. Not he, lie has no such prefer- 
 ence; a Treasury bench would suit him as well. Then 
 he has sunk into the degraded office of a spy and eaves- 
 dropper in an adversary's quarters. Not he ; he does 
 not esteem himself to be in the enemy's camp at all. 
 
 But surely he comes from amongst them all, and 
 faithful to his principles, now developed in govern- 
 mental forms, votes in the division with his ministerial 
 leader ! No, all that is quite wrong. Parallel sits 
 where he sat before, and votes as he voted. In other 
 words, he is a member of Opposition, and in " moderate 
 opposition" divides, as he ever divided. 
 
 " Inconsistency ! " he exclaimed, in answer to charges 
 which w ill get abroad in whispers upon these occasions; 
 " what ! in retaining the very seat always so appro- 
 priated; in refusing to shift when hundreds change; in 
 voting against the minister as I have ever voted ! This 
 house I entered as a member of Opposition : I shall 
 remain in no other chai'acter. Enemies I must expect, 
 but the sharpest of them shall never prove me guilty of 
 inconsistency." 
 
 Parallel is clearly of opinion, formed upon experience, 
 that although the executive duties of an administration 
 in its several departments, are of importance, and 
 require to be discharged, its legislative and parliament- 
 ary functions are of the slightest possible moment, com- 
 pared with the vast concerns and interests of opposition. 
 
 " Let the ministry go on saving the country, but let 
 the country (he argues) see that there is always a force 
 to oppose them : that is what is wanted. Protect the 
 Cabinet if you please ; but always cherish and support 
 your Opposition. A Government is never wanting; 
 there will ever be statesmen to form an administration : 
 but if Parliament should once consent to part with its 
 glorious Opposition, if the day should ever arrive when
 
 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS CONSISTENT. 177 
 
 the ministerial benches fill to an overflow, and there 
 are none opposite to oppose ; not one ; then will the 
 state have lost one of the firmest of the pillars which 
 now render it indestructible ! the invaluable support 
 derived from the antagonistic principle ! " 
 
 But it in some way happened, notwithstanding this 
 steadiness and inveteracy of pm^pose, that Parallel, in 
 his Parliamentary practice, failed to obtain in the right 
 quarters a high character for consistency ; nor was his 
 reputation in that respect advanced by the course which 
 he pursued from time to time, with regard to many 
 motions and measui'es brought forward. One he re- 
 sisted this session, because it was resisted last session ; 
 and though others agreed to carry it now, alleging that 
 the difference in respect to time had removed every 
 objection, he took the more consistent course of perse- 
 vering. Again : to a certain measure, which was likely 
 to prove when introduced in a particular form, mis- 
 chievous in practice, he ofi'ered his strenuous oppo- 
 sition, and was one of a large majority ; but upon 
 another occasion, when the measure was again intro- 
 duced, and his resistance to it was equally strenuous, he 
 found himself rewarded for his consistency by being 
 left in a whimsically small minority. 
 
 Now why was this ? and why call him inconsistent ? 
 The inconsistency was wholly theirs, who had either 
 altered the tendency of the bill, or reproduced it under 
 the most dissimilar circumstances ; thus wheeling com- 
 pletely round, while Parallel, steady, honest, plain-sailing 
 feUow ! simply repeated his vote, and maintained the 
 integrity of his principles. 
 
 Parallel's consistency was not understood in that 
 house ; it was not appreciated ; and one example of it, 
 made in the character of a free and independent elector^ 
 
 I 3
 
 178 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS CONSISTENT. 
 
 cost him his seat as soon as an opportunity offered for 
 ejecting him. The occurrence was simply this, and 
 surely it speaks to the skies for his consistency. 
 
 In two places, a county and a borough, in each of 
 which Parallel had a lawful vote to give, two candidates 
 appeared bearing the same name; and to an elector 
 interested in both contests, it appeared but consisten t 
 voting for one, to vote for both. It may be mentioned, 
 however, that the politics of the two candidates were as 
 opposite as their colours, and these, perhaps, were crim- 
 son and sky-blue. But Parallel only saw, in the sup- 
 port of the namesakes engaged in different contests, a 
 clear case of consistency. 
 
 "I have given my vote this morning to Wood, in 
 Southwark," he said, " and it would be grossly incon- 
 sistent now to refuse my vote to Wood in Middlesex \" 
 
 And it is true enough that, though the two Woods 
 flemish in such different soils, when asked by the proper 
 officer for whom he wished to vote, he consistently 
 answered, "Wood!^' 
 
 Tliis straightforwardness of purpose did him no ser- 
 vice, and indeed the vote is said to have been his last 
 public act, and a kind of leave-taking of political life. 
 Some moral philosophers in these days scarcely know 
 consistency from crookedness. 
 
 Parallel's conduct, as a free and independent elector, 
 was condemned. But we must accompany him into 
 social life, and see whether, in yet a different light, he 
 be still the same. Here, in his various paths, he kept, 
 it is superfluous to say, his old principle ever before 
 him ; but then this same consistency was often, or rather 
 continually, his rock-a-head. He practised tyranny in 
 place of affection, perpetrated mischief where he designed 
 benefits, entangled himself in scrapes and dilemmas.
 
 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS CONSISTENT. 179 
 
 and destroj'ed the fairest chances of creeping forward 
 to security or soaring upward to success, by a rigid 
 obsen^ance of his whimsical rule of consistency. 
 
 WTien he found that his youngest boy had broken 
 the new pier-glass, reluctant to punish the dear little 
 fellow alone, he flogged the whole seven for consistency's 
 sake; and when some kind soul (there's plenty of 
 Christianity in the world yet) offered to get the second 
 lad into a public office (thus passing over the eldest son), 
 and to send the fourth to a commercial academy (where 
 the third had never yet been), the proposition so per- 
 plexed Parallel with its extreme and intolerable incon- 
 sistency, that he rejected it past recall before he could 
 escape from his bewilderment. 
 
 Then, though he esteemed himself a prudent father, 
 and had in reality a deep and strong flow of affection, 
 he could not be prevailed upon to settle his children in 
 life according to their aptitudes; leading them with 
 gentleness, yet allowing scope to their natural inclina- 
 tions : but instead, he determined arbitrarily, though 
 placid in disposition as in name, to bring up one boy to 
 this and another to that calling ; not because the trade 
 was prosperous, for it was an expiring one ; nor because 
 the lads Ukcd it, for they hated it ; but simply because 
 all such important steps in the world should be taken 
 with consistency, and his grandfather, who had also 
 seven sons, had brought them up to those very profes- 
 sions at a period when they were the high road to 
 fortune. The apprenticeship once commenced, the term 
 of years must be completed, and, in the teeth of ruin, 
 the trade must be followed ; for, as he always said, what 
 can be more inconsistent than to learn an art and not 
 practise it ! 
 
 To this " complexion " then consistency brings him, 
 when set in operation upon the family scene ; and in
 
 180 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS CONSISTENT. 
 
 relation to various other essential points of social and 
 domestic experience, he hardly fares better. One or 
 two objections have been raised which some moralists 
 would think as damaging to his character, as politicians 
 would deem his black-and-white electoral vote. 
 
 Thus, he has been charged with allowing an insult to 
 pass unexpiated, because the tone of the speaker was 
 the tone of several at table. He pleads the gross incon- 
 sistency of exacting redress from one, when the offence 
 was offered by twenty. And it has further been alleged, 
 although many will think this much less injurious to 
 his morals, that at one time he would pay nobody. 
 Consistency imperiously forbade it, and such a proceed- 
 ing would be profligacy. 
 
 " It is true,'^ he is represented to have declared, as 
 he sent his simple creditor away empty-handed, "it is 
 true that the money is here, and that your claim is 
 just ; but, as I cannot at this moment pay everybody, 
 it is clear that I cannot at this moment, with any pre- 
 tence to consistency, pay you !" 
 
 His peculiarity discovered itself more or less dis- 
 advantageously in many of his tastes and habits. He 
 never read a line of Walter Scott. To peruse all that 
 so voluminous an author had written was barely pos- 
 sible ; and to read a poem and a novel or two would be 
 absurdly inconsistent. He never quitted England. 
 Why ? To go to Scotland without going to Ireland, to 
 see France without seeing Italy, to traverse Asia with- 
 out crossing the Atlantic, would be to render himself a 
 monument of inconsistency. 
 
 Among his country preferences, sometimes, is a ten- 
 dency still to take the old coach road, crawl along it as 
 he may, though the coach is gone and the engine roars 
 in the distance ; and among his town predilections is a 
 liking for the old London inns with queer names. His
 
 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS CONSISTENT, 181 
 
 father liked them, and his partiality is consistent. But 
 Parallel would scorn to patronise only one at a time ; 
 there would be little consistency in that : so when he 
 has dined at the Bolt-in-Tun^ he feels that he ought to 
 sup at the Bull-and-Mouth ; it looks so consistent. 
 
 A different habit, however, is Parallel beginning to 
 carry with him in his \dsitations among acquaintances. 
 His consistency seems to tell him here, in language 
 more exphcit than new, that where he dines he should 
 sup ; in other phrase, that where he calls he ought to 
 stay. Leaving a hoiise after supper where there is a 
 spare bed, appears to him a mere inconsistency. His 
 family being away, home seems so very inconsistent, 
 such an absurd place to go to. It would be equally so 
 to prefer a stranger's tenement to a friend's. Parallel 
 stops. 
 
 He has a tendency to be religiously consistent in his 
 cups. At one house, demons could not tempt or inti- 
 midate him into drinking a third glass ; at another 
 house, angels could not persuade him to stop on the 
 staggering side of intoxication. There consistency ab- 
 solutely requires him to go quite down, and perfect 
 propriety stretches Parallel under the table. 
 
 It will be found on investigation that he drank soda- 
 water the first time he dropped in at one place ; and 
 that he struck his head against the bottom of a punch- 
 bowl on his first visit at the other. He is consistent 
 ever afterwards. The return visit to Parallel is sure to 
 be attended with precisely the same consequences, and 
 the toper who was his host yesterday, admits that the 
 new orgie has at least consistency to excuse it. 
 
 One allusion may here be made that will show as well 
 as any the present temper of Parallel, and prove that he 
 is not invariably an answerer to his surname. Far less 
 placid indeed than indignant is he, when he hears of
 
 182 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS CONSISTENT. 
 
 that ever audible and ubiquitous compound of simples, 
 the great perambulating invisibility, Young England ! 
 
 Young England ! He cannot understand the name, 
 and he knows there is no such thing. He understands 
 Old England. Ah ! that indeed is consistent. But 
 there never was so monstrous an inconsistency as the 
 bare idea of a Young England. There 's the Isle of 
 Man, he remarks, you may as well call that Young 
 England. Britannia has now braved the battle and the 
 breeze for a thousand years, and it is notorious that she 
 has never had a boy. Search the births in the " Times " 
 from before the Conquest. The British Lion himself 
 might as reasonably be expected to present the nation 
 with a cub. Young England ! the whole thing is the 
 wildest of inconsistencies ! 
 
 Parallel, of course, is not theatrically given. Open 
 theatres with a banished drama, constitute, as he de- 
 clares, the climax of the inconsistent. He never goes 
 to the Opera ; he holds it to be inconsistent to pay for 
 French dance and Italian song with English gold, 
 especially as we have a little of that sort of thing of 
 our own. 
 
 A sentence or two will sufl&ce to indicate the opinions 
 of the consistent man upon one or two topics of the 
 day. He deems it extremely inconsistent to describe 
 the smaU allotment system as a little cluster of para- 
 dises for the poor ; but he is convinced at the same 
 time that the refusal to acknowledge, in the allotment 
 of even half an acre, a something infinitely more bene- 
 ficial than nothing, is a decided inconsistency. He is 
 friendly to bathing and wash-houses ; thinks soap a 
 blessing, and rejoices when everybody is well off for it. 
 But soap he believes to be a material that requires 
 something like consistency, or the peaceful ablution 
 may end in hot water and a bubble.
 
 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS CONSISTENT. 183 
 
 From these, a few of his late opinions, we pass to a 
 late event, and to Parallel Placid himself; and with a 
 rapid sketch of the very last incident of his life with 
 which we have been made acquainted, shall we bid him 
 adieu. 
 
 Parallel then, after running a consistent course of 
 wedlock for thirty years, is a widower. The lady who 
 traduced Mrs. Crony in so friendly a spirit, and who in 
 turn was belied by Mrs. Doubleshuffle with such genuine 
 affection, that fair breaker-up of consistently-formed 
 friendships between married immacidates, is no more. 
 Parallel Placid might well say that home was an incon- 
 sistent place to go to. 
 
 Parallels seven sons are in seven different counties 
 just at present ; he prefers the consistency of that equal 
 dispersion. He himself is in an eighth ; almost sixty, 
 and quite solitary. What remains for such a man as 
 Parallel to do ? Is he to remain a widower ? that at all 
 events would be perfectly consistent. Is he to marry 
 again ? Consistency, the most rigid and scrupulous 
 consistency, has not invariably condemned the alterna- 
 tive. Speculation may take to her perch upon the 
 ground and sit on either end of it, while her eggs are 
 being hatched in the clouds. 
 
 Will Parallel continue widower, or become Benedick 
 the Second ! a " married man" the second time ! Fur- 
 ther catechising would be inconsistent. Parallel will 
 marry again, and there 's an end. 
 
 Yes, the end is here, for what remains ! The man of 
 consistency is to take a second wife, and being " always 
 consistent" his choice is doubtless made. It is. Parallel 
 is nearly sixty, and chooses accordingly. He is not old, 
 though far from young. He may count twenty white 
 winters upon his dark gray hair yet. He looks well, is 
 well, and is likely to be well. His family are self-sup-
 
 184 THE MAN WHO IS ALWAYS CONSISTENT. 
 
 ported, sheltered, liavened, so far beyond all fear of peril 
 to any of them, that even the youngest of the seven 
 revels in a sunshine where he can never feel a fit of 
 shivering from the chilling embraces of a step-mother. 
 With a consistency, almost, if not entirely unimpeach- 
 able. Parallel may marry again at fifty-five and upwards ! 
 
 And yet there is something in a marriage at that age ! 
 sons ! grandsons ! But this is perfectly absurd. All 
 depends on a consistent choice; and that once made, 
 the world may well wish the wedded joy, and the wedded 
 may well calculate on the reahsation of the wish. Hap- 
 piness, therefore, will light on the choice of Parallel. 
 He is a man of undeviating consistency, and the new 
 Mrs. Placid will be gay, charming, good-humoured, 
 vastly good-humoured ; she will be pretty, ripe, radiant 
 with a desire to please, hospitable to a fault (if such a 
 thing could be), kind to every body that deserves kind- 
 ness, and a few here and there who do not ; resolved to 
 please all her husband's friends, but especially deter- 
 mined, of all earthly things, to delight her husband. 
 Such is the lady whom Parallel will choose, and her age 
 must be 
 
 Ah ! there 's the point. All else is unexceptionable. 
 But Parallel you know is a man of consistency ! 
 
 And addresses himself to a lady — 
 
 True, of the exact age of his first wife ; and he and 
 his first wife married almost as a girl and boy. 
 
 " I am consistent in everything," placidly remarked 
 Parallel. " My first wife when we married was eighteen ; 
 my second wife when we marry next week will be eighteen 
 also ! Ah ! I am always consistent ! " 
 
 Alas ! for the man of unde\dating consistency ! Every 
 body is wishing every body else a happy new year just 
 now ; and possibly Parallel may come in for his small 
 pickings in the scramble of the millions. But, if we
 
 KEEPING IT UP. 185 
 
 remember rightly, lie once pHlosopliically remarked 
 that having long since made up his mind to live, he 
 thought he should one day or other make up his mind 
 to die; just for the sake of consistency. Now when 
 
 sixty marries eighteen but he knows best about the 
 
 time. He is ahvays consistent ! 
 
 KEEPING IT UP. 
 
 " Oh ! what a pity ! " exclaimed little Lucy S , as 
 
 she read in the newspaper the other day how Mr. Green, 
 instead of attempting to fulfil his design of crossing the 
 Channel in his balloon, had, in consequence of adverse 
 weather, descended on the coast of Sussex ; " how pro- 
 voking ! Why didn^t he keep it up .'" 
 
 Lucy S is certainly one of the liveliest little 
 
 ladies living, but desperately bent upon running to an 
 extreme, and alarmingly prepossessed by a fondness for 
 keeping it up. 
 
 Ah ! poor child, thought I (though she 's as old as I 
 am, and wiser, in all things but this one), that pretty, 
 fair-haired head of thine will sui'cly go, some of these 
 days, bump against the full moon. No need of a bal- 
 loon to help you to rise into the air ; and once aloft, 
 you would be for keeping it up though you were within 
 a mile of Mercury ! 
 
 What notions, to be sure, some people have of keeping- 
 it up ! Squarer and sohder heads than Lucy's are often 
 known to run themselves against the same wall, though 
 from a different point ; heads, well-lined with lead, too, 
 yet there is no keeping them steady. 
 
 Keep it up they will, like Lucy S at a ball. 
 
 She, the small, slight, fragile thing, apparently incapa-
 
 186 KEEPING IT UP. 
 
 ble of undergoing fatigue^ is untireable. Her delicate 
 frame seems little formed for toil and exertion, even in 
 tlie pursuit of pleasure, yet she will wear out the 
 strongest, and laugh afterwards at the bare idea of 
 exhaustion. Fatigue to her is what fear must have been 
 to Nelson, when hearing it spoken of, he asked, " What 
 is fear ? " 
 
 At every fresh dance after five in the morning, you 
 would say she was beginning again, if it could be said 
 that she had ever left oS since the first commencement 
 at ten in the evening. In the full hght of day she is 
 but in the middle of her night's frolic. The laws of 
 time, of sleep, of physical endurance are set aside, and 
 she defies human nature to droop while it can be kept 
 up. Long after the last disappointed sandwich-seeker 
 has glided away, the last listless fingerer of the piano has 
 dozed over the keys, the last dangler of the dance has 
 dragged his slow length down stairs to the door, where 
 a rush of beauteous daylight makes the revellers of night 
 hideous, will the exclamation rise for the hundredth 
 time to her lips, sharp and prompt as ever — "Come, 
 beffin ; who are in the next dance ? " 
 
 Small, dehcate, aerial Lucy S ! yes, one might 
 
 swear that she could no more toil or spin than one of 
 the lilies of the field which she eclipses in its native 
 glory j and yet there she is, toiling and spinning through 
 life as though it had no end ; never once wanting that, 
 which so many troubled and weary hearts are doomed 
 to want always — rest, rest, rest. 
 
 When she has seen an exhibition in the forenoon, she 
 is ready for a concert at one ; and the opera or a play at 
 night, admirably qualifies her for her evening's pastime 
 afterwards; her few songs, or her quadrille, or her 
 laughing, innocent game of romps, or an eager, animated 
 dissertation on all the new novels ; oceans of them are
 
 KEEPING IT UP. 187 
 
 not too many. Her day is thirty hours long at least ; 
 and when her little wild head does at length drop upon 
 its pillow, it is only to dream that she is keeping it up 
 still. 
 
 Well might she marv^el, in her innocent and heedless 
 enthusiasm, that one who had gone up in an air-balloon 
 should ever have entertained the strange idea of coming 
 down. 
 
 Lucy S ^s giddy exclamation suggested to my 
 
 mind remembrances of the many modes of " keeping it 
 up/' by which people contrive to get driven out to sea 
 when they might be safely lodged on the coast of Sussex; 
 of the mjTiads of balloons that are adventurously kept 
 up, until that unlucky and unlooked-for minute, when 
 the descent becomes an involuntary one. 
 
 The angry wife is an aeronaut of this order. Know- 
 ing that words are but air, she fancies that she cannot 
 have too many of them. Up she shoots, heedless 
 whither the gust of passion carries her. Some uncom- 
 fortable sensation ; a sudden chill at the heart ; a pang 
 produced by a nervous bite self-inflicted on the tip of 
 the talking organ, whispers, perhaps, that she is going 
 too far, and Avarns her to descend in time ; but pride 
 and folly tell her to keep it up in spite of everything, 
 and just as she succeeds triumphantly in having what 
 she was resolved to have, the last word, she suddenly 
 drops, and sees herself "alone on a wide, wide sea,'' 
 without a chance of rising more. 
 
 I thought as quickly of the perversity which the other 
 sex exhibits in that and a thousand similar respects. I 
 pictured the dissipated speculator who, finding that he 
 has taken tlie wrong path, resolves to pursue it to the 
 end, if only for the sake of seeing whether there is a 
 thoroughfare or not. I drew an image of the foolish 
 crotcheteer, who, rather than acknowledge that his is a
 
 188 KEEPING IT UP. 
 
 crotchet, would quarrel with the whole world ; call friend 
 and neighbour, knave and fool ; and at last dashes his 
 brains out to demonstrate his coolness and good sense. 
 I saw in idea the hobby-hunter who, having just been 
 thrown by one vicious jade, mounts with weakened limbs 
 another of the same breed, and so continues riding 
 between hospital and hospital ; bravely resolved ever to 
 keep it up, though evermore destined to be cast down. 
 
 The infinite shapes which folly assumes, when the 
 principle of keeping it up has once taken possession of 
 the soul of a sane being, occurred in rapid succession to 
 my mind. One man gets trapped on the turf, only to 
 learn the lesson that, once entered there, he must keep 
 it up, or be ruined; another cannot for his life help 
 riding after a pack of hounds of his own, and when he 
 has shown that he can keep it up at a pretty good pace, 
 everybody knows what animals he is going to. 
 
 A taste for farming takes hold of one sensible fellow, 
 and when it has converted his head into a turnip of a 
 very indifferent sort, he discovers that farming is a thing 
 which requires to be constantly kept up, or else it is apt 
 to prove a failure; while another, equally judicious, 
 having sought the bubble reputation by inditing a pam- 
 phlet, finds out that fame requires to be kept up by 
 continual effort, and so prints away a respectable fortune 
 in pamphlets for private circulation. 
 
 If the same man entered Parhament, and succeeded 
 in fixing the attention of the House, he would try to 
 keep it up until two in the morning. If the country, in 
 defiance of painful and high-priced experience, had been 
 hoaxed into a belief in his patriotism and independence, 
 he would keep up the old tone and the old air, long 
 after the mask had fallen off, and go on trying to hoax 
 still, to the end of life"*s stormy and unprofitable session. 
 
 Even in their pastimes, people exhibit the same par-
 
 KEEPING IT UP. 189 
 
 tialities, with, where this principle prevails, the same 
 inevitable tendencies. The professor of boating keeps 
 it up by rowing under a paddle-wheel, as the man of 
 whist keeps it up by putting do-^Ti double stakes. 
 
 In short, every man has his kite to fly, be it of what 
 shape it may, and the majority are led on to constant 
 but unreluctant sacrifice in the endeavour to keep it up. 
 
 Of all conceivable forms in which the false strain can 
 betray itself, the most pitiful and humiliating, perhaps, 
 is that which is commonly described by the expression, 
 " Keeping up appearances." The ludicrous, to be sure, 
 in many cases here, prevails over the lamentable. The 
 shifts remind us too forcibly of our farcical friend Caleb 
 Balderstone, to carry with them our graver sympathies, 
 or to aAvaken serious resentment. 
 
 We laugh, for example, at the impotent attempt to 
 make "plain Bill" look like "the page Adolphus;" 
 and to om* immense amusement, can see clearly through 
 the clever window-blinds, carcfidly newspapered-up, to 
 publish the false intelligence that the family are out of 
 town for the season. The display of aristocratic cards 
 on the little table in the passage, and the occasional 
 mention of dear Lord Somebody, are nothing worse 
 than a good joke ; nor is it worth while, save for the 
 sake of fun, to inquire too curiously into the bargain, by 
 which the comfortable fly is to be made to look as 
 unhired as possible. 
 
 But if we would see this sort of "keeping it up" in 
 all its meanness and all its misery, we must step inside, 
 become a boarder, and be as one of the disguised, the 
 desperate, the forlorn family. Then shall we witness a 
 series of anxious, agonising struggles, continued hour 
 by hour throughout the long day, compared with which 
 the life-and-death struggles of utter poverty itself are 
 but as sports and pastimes under the wall of Paradise.
 
 190 KEEPING IT UP. 
 
 Of all torture, none can equal that wliieli is forced to 
 hide the natural expression of its suffering under a look 
 of elegant and languishing repose ; and of all the pangs 
 of poverty, none can equal the anguish of a protracted 
 and indeed endless effort to mask want under the 
 appearance of ease and affluence. It is one of the pecu- 
 liar miseries of this condition, that every attempt to 
 conceal the cruel need is a sacrifice that adds to it; 
 the guinea gracefully rendered to the superfluities, is 
 actually stolen from the necessities, on purpose to show 
 that they have no existence. 
 
 For the ends of true comfort and dignity, not a doit 
 can be spared; all, to the very uttermost fraction, is 
 needed to keep up the display of whatever is comfortable 
 and dignified in the eyes of strangers, to the increased 
 stringency of the hidden want within doors. Most 
 melancholy, most degraded, yet wide-spread condition 
 of the ci\dlised lot ! It is heart-sickening to think how 
 many thousands, in every rank of life except the lowest 
 of all, voluntarily submit themselves to the false law ; and 
 give up their hearts to the tearmg and grinding of 
 real suffering, suffering unspeakable, for the sake of 
 keeping up a hollow, laughing fiction, that after a brief 
 time imposes upon nobody ; that nobody cares a straw 
 about except in his own case; that excites neither 
 respect nor envy, but ever insults the misery it helps to 
 cause. 
 
 Is there a tyrant named in any language known to 
 man, figured even in horrible fancy by any mind exist- 
 ing since the gloomy and portentous birth-day of the 
 first Hypocrite, " a long time ago," that ever held, or 
 ever can hold, so relentless and crushing a sway over all 
 that is honest and naked in our souls, as this detestable 
 and deadly tyrant. Appearances ; this masked monster 
 of whom nine-tenths of the human race are in some
 
 KEEPING IT UP. 191 
 
 shape^ and in some degree, the slaves, the worshippers, 
 and the victims ! 
 
 A story occurs to my recollection, illustrative of 
 another operation of this variously-acting principle, 
 keeping it up, that will be novel to most readers, and 
 not uninteresting to any. Many years ago it made its 
 appearance where it now perhaps lies buried, amidst a 
 mass of parliamentary news and political disquisition ; * 
 but it is an excellent stor}^, and is related by a pen 
 which, whatever may be its defects, never wanted the 
 English literary \drtue of being clear, homely, and 
 expressive. It is as true and dii^ect as Defoe. 
 
 "I was once acquainted with a famous shooter; he was a barrister of 
 Philadelphia, but became far more renowned by his gun than his law 
 cases. We spent scores of days together a-shooting, and were extremely 
 well matched ; I having excellent dogs, and caring little about my repu- 
 tation as a shot, his dogs being good for nothing, and he caring more 
 about his reputation as a shot than as a lawyer. The fact which I am 
 going to relate respecting this gentleman, ought to be a warning to yoimg 
 men how they become enamoured of this species of vanity. We had gone 
 about ten miles from our home, to shoot, where partridges were said to 
 be plentiful. We found them so. In the course of a November day he 
 had, just before darli, shot, and sent to the farm-house, or kept Ln his bag, 
 ninety-nine partridges. He made some few do\Me shots, and he might 
 have a miss or two, for he sometimes shot when out of my sight, on 
 account of the woods. However, he said that he killed at every shot ; 
 and, as he had counted the birds when he went to dinner at the farm- 
 house, and when he cleaned his gun, he, just before sunset, knew that he 
 had killed ninety-nine partridges, every ©ne upon the wing, and a great 
 part of them ui woods very thickly set with large trees. It was a grand 
 achievement ; but, unfortunately, he wanted to make it a hundred ! The 
 sun was setting ; and in that country, darkness comes almost at once ; it 
 is more like the going out of a candle than that of a fire ; and I wanted to 
 be off, as we had a very l>ad road to go, and as he, being under strict 
 petticoat government, to which he most loyally and dutifully submitted, 
 was compelled to get home that night, taking me with him — the vehicle 
 (horse and gig) being mine. I therefore pressed him to come away, and 
 moved on, in haste to be off. No ; he would kill the hundredth bird ! 
 In vain did I talk of the bad road, and its many dangers for want of 
 
 • In Cobbett's Register.
 
 192 KEEPING IT UP. 
 
 moon. The poor partridges, which we had scattered about, were calling 
 all around us ; and, just at this moment, up got one under his feet, 
 in a field in which the wheat was three or four inches high. He shot, 
 and missed. ' That's it ! ' said he, ininning as if to piclc up the bird. 
 ' What !' said I, 'you don't think you Jcilled, do you ? Why, there is the 
 bird now, not only alive, but calling in that wood ;' which was at about a 
 hundred yards distance. He, in that form of words usually employed in 
 such cases, asserted that he shot the bird, and saw it fall ; and I, in 
 much about the same form of words, asserted that he had missed; and 
 that I, with my own eyes, saw the bird fly into the wood. This was too 
 much ! — to miss once out of a hundred times ! To lose such a chance of 
 immortality ! He was a good-lmmoured man ; I liked him very much ; 
 and I could not help feeling for him, when he said, ' Well, Sir, I killed 
 the bird ; and if you choose to go away, and take your dog away, so as to 
 prevent me from finding it, you must do it : the dog is yours, to be sure.' 
 ' The dog,' said I, in a very mild tone ; ' why, there is the spot ; and 
 could we not see it, upon this smooth green surface, if it was there 1 ' 
 However, he began to looJc about ; and I called the dog, and affected to 
 join htm in his search. Pity for his weakness got the better of my dread 
 of the bad road. After walking backwards and forwards many times 
 upon about twenty yards square, with our eyes fixed to the ground, look- 
 ing for what both of us knew was not there, I had passed him (he going 
 one way, and I the other), and I happened to be turning round just after 
 I had passed him, when I saw him putting his hand behind him, take a 
 partridge out of his bag, and let it fall upon the grownd I I felt no temp- 
 tation to detect him, but turned away my head, and kept looking about. 
 Presently he, havuig returned to the spot where the bird was, called out 
 to me, in a most triumphant tone, ^ Here! Here! Come here !' I went 
 up to him, and he pointmg with his finger down to the bird, and looking 
 hard ui my face, at the same time, said, ' There, I hope that will be a 
 warning to you never to be obstinate again ! ' ' Well,' said I, ' come 
 along ;' and away we went, as merry as larks. When we got to Brown's, 
 he told them the story, triumphed over me most clamorously ; and though 
 he often repeated the story to my face, I never had the heart to let him 
 know that I Imew of the imposition, which puerUe vanity had induced so 
 sensible and honourable a man to be mean enough to practise." 
 
 This, oh ! sweet little Lucy S , is no uninstructive 
 
 chapter in the history of human character, if you will 
 but bow your head quietly to read it. This all comes 
 of the determination not to give in ; in other words, of 
 that same disposition to " keep it up/-* whereof we are 
 discoursing; and he who permits himself to be so
 
 KEEPING IT UP. 193 
 
 carried away by vanity, may perchance fall headlong 
 into a deeper sea than the aeronaut whose machine 
 bursts a mile above the broad ocean. Cobbett's " famous 
 shooter" had a reputation to keep up, but he was at 
 least as expert with the longbow as with the gun, and 
 could maintain a falsehood as easily as he could fire. 
 
 Let those, dear Lucy, who are but just beginning 
 their course of lies in life, only think for an instant, 
 how and by what means sportsmen of this order, when 
 they have once declared that they brought down their 
 bird, will dare to keep up their fiction ! by what means, 
 being wrong at first, they "will at all risks move further 
 from right, rather than own the error ! What cloaks 
 of falsehood (that become as winding-sheets) they "snll 
 fling around them, to conceal the first flimsy garb of 
 deception which vanity had prompted them to put on ! 
 What blackness they will dye their brows in, rather 
 than be seen to blush ! 
 
 Oh ! my Lucy S , never in your own person can 
 
 you need a lesson so grave as this ; but you may 
 require to learn that people should not keep it up over- 
 much, even when the object is but a shuttlecock. Some 
 will keep up their very jokes, until they are echoed by 
 sighs of pain instead of laughter; their little friendly 
 hoaxes and mystifications, until they become offences 
 dire. Some cannot so much as fall into the humour of 
 a lively laughing game of frights, without frightening 
 somebody else into fits; they must keep it up. Be 
 not this fault thine. 
 
 But to show thee that every rule has its exception, 
 take this loving, if still needless, hint into thy gentle 
 keeping. WTien thou hast a good cause to uphold, a 
 cause just and generous, uphold it perscveringly, let it 
 not fall : and as, unbui'dcned by ill thoughts or ill 
 deeds, thy conscientious little head, amidst the many 
 
 VOL. III. K
 
 194 WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 
 
 that hang down abashed and afraid, is turned, in thy 
 wanderings upon earth, toward the heaven where 
 angels weep over the fantastic tricks of mortals — why, 
 " keep it up .'" 
 
 WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 
 
 « Most women have no characters at all." — Pope. 
 
 No characters! What then, thought I the other 
 evening, as Martha entered to light the reading-lamp, 
 whilst I again took up the volume which had been laid 
 down as the shadows of twilight came on, and prepared 
 to pursue my pleasant way through the curious and 
 original pages of "Woman and her Master;^' what 
 then must become of that hapless majority of the 
 female race (poor things !) who depend upon servitude 
 in some shape or other for existence ; who in infinite 
 forms and endless diversities of occupation, are hand- 
 maidens unto us the masculine ringers of bells and 
 issuers of mandates; and who, if destitute of "characters,'' 
 can have no situation in society, no place in creation ! 
 
 It was, perhaps, the entrance of Martlia that turned 
 the tide of my thoughts into this channel, suddenly 
 diverting the course of speculation from the grand 
 subject of woman and her master to a single branch of 
 it ; to the condition of one great class of womankind, 
 maids of all-work, mop-spinners multitudinous, house- 
 hold varieties, all coming under one sweeping denomi- 
 nation, though all ranking in due degree, whether as 
 plain cooks or pretty nursemaids — Betty Finnikins ad 
 infinitum. 
 
 Lady Morgan's researches and reflections had pre-
 
 "WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 195 
 
 \iously suggested a train of ideas associated, not with 
 Woman and her Master, but with Man and his Mistress, 
 which it would here be irrelevant to pursue at any 
 length. Enough if we turn from any historical facts 
 that may be adduced in proof of the injustice and bar- 
 barity of the mastership which man has claimed and 
 established over woman, to contemplate the state and 
 condition of the half-dozen powdered and gold-laced 
 lackeys whose souls hang on the breath of any mortal 
 dowager that shall be named ! Turn we to that picture 
 and see what a fearfully avenging spirit it portrays ! It 
 may be perfectly true, for aught we know quite posi- 
 tively to the contrary, that the profligate Menelaus 
 deserted his fond and faithful wife, and then ac- 
 cused her of eloping with the Trojan youth; and it 
 may be equally ti-ue that Mr. BroA^^lrigg, about a 
 century ago, was in reality the perpetrator of that 
 atrocity in the coal-hole upon two unfortunate appren- 
 tices, of which it was the fate of poor innocent Mrs. B. 
 to bear the punishment and ignominy. Still that pair 
 of flashy footmen yonder, specimens of the lordl}^ supe- 
 riority of man, having a soul apiece, and hanging on 
 behind my Lady Lacklustre's carriage, as it is whisked 
 from shop to shop, and house to house, on errands the 
 most frivolous, and enterprises the least dignified inia- 
 ginable; those two samples of the " beauty of the world,'' 
 the " paragon of animals," the " quintessence of dust," 
 reduced tcp that extremity, are evidences of a horrible 
 system of retaliation, and prove woman to be exceed- 
 ingly well inclined to pull do^v^l, wherever she may, tlie 
 boasted dignity of the master, man. 
 
 " Man to man so oft unjust 
 
 Is always so to woman," 
 
 insists another great authority; but man is not so unjust 
 
 K 2
 
 196. WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 
 
 as to dress up two women in the most grotesque and 
 ludicrous finery, and set them swinging behind the 
 vehicle he lolls in. Great conqueror and despot as he 
 is, he does not absolutely drag the other sex victims at 
 his chariot- wheels in triumph. From what is, we infer 
 what would be. Every woman would be a lady of 
 quality if she could, and where is the lady of quality 
 that would be content with two beings of the '' superior 
 race^^ behind her coach, if she could conveniently have 
 four ? Who are so fond of parading the costly trappings 
 of a crowd of wretched coxcombs in livery as women ? 
 What fine people take such pride in their footmen 
 as fine ladies? It would be pleasant to know what 
 Mrs. Sparklers rascals in peach-coloured plush think 
 upon the great question between woman and her 
 master. 
 
 But, passing all such considerations, let us return to 
 the race of female domestics, of whom there are about 
 a dozen rushing at once to memory, as you may see 
 them crowding round the door of a registry-office, 
 waiting, as they would phrase it, to be put into black 
 and white. " No characters at all ! " Why, every man, 
 bachelor or Benedick, who has looked or listened to 
 any purpose, must have detected in the genus " Maid- 
 servant,^' instances of the most extraordinary chai'acter; 
 character as strongly marked, as widely various, and as 
 richly comic, as in any heroine of farce that has been 
 seen realised to the very life on the stage by our most 
 popular actresses. What exquisite oddities and what 
 outrageous opposites have we not all beheld, if we would 
 only take the trouble to call them to mind i It is their 
 mistresses generally who vow that they are all ahke ; 
 the mistresses, who do bear a striking resemblance to 
 each other, in the view they take of the characters of 
 the maids ! Poor drudges ! If one be slovenly, the cry
 
 WOMEN' AND THEIR MASTERS. 197 
 
 is, it 's the way with them all. If another purloin the 
 tea and sugar, for which she has received an allowance 
 in her amount of wages, the particular judgment involves 
 a general censure, and the impossibility of finding one 
 that is honest is estabhshed. But so far from being 
 like each other, the variety extends even to the bounds 
 of a probability that you can't find two alike. The class- 
 likeness goes scarcely further than certain habits and 
 usages common to most people ; the disposition to lie 
 in bed of a morning as long as they are allowed ; to go 
 to the play or the fair as often or oftener than possible ; 
 to relieve the tedium of a domesticated lot by letting in 
 frequent visitors, seeing that their entertainment is as 
 cheap as it is cordial. All maidservants are alike per- 
 haps in other points. Each possesses a box, which is 
 thought to contain a prayer-book, a dream-book, and 
 six yards of songs; ^ith probably a lock of hair, or a 
 valentine, much worn at the folds, and certainly the 
 holiday ribbons. They are all alike moreover; all 
 under forty-five; in a taste for flirting with the gen- 
 teeler section of the vai'ious purveyors who pull the 
 area-bell every morning. But else how opposite is each 
 to each ! how broadly distinct ! as different as their eyes 
 are from their ears ! 
 
 The maidservants in large towns, and in quiet country 
 residences, in great families, and in tradesmen's houses, 
 are all separate classes, of course ; as apart from each 
 other as the servant of the inn may be from the servant 
 of the court, or as the drudges of the inns of court are 
 from the select society of ladies' -maids. But the dif- 
 ference does not end here ; for the lady's-maid docs not 
 less resemble the fat scullion than one individual of a 
 class resembles another. It Avas ray fortune, in those 
 days when independent bachelorship had succeeded to 
 parental subjugation, to note in one queer lodging-
 
 198 WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 
 
 house a succession of Sarahs and Betsies that was 
 almost as rapid as the transformations on the stage 
 when six characters are sustained by one performer, 
 but the characters themselves formed a variety beyond 
 the ordinary reach of such representations. Some are 
 wholly forgotten, but of several the recollection remains 
 to this hour, rendered vivid and complete by some say- 
 ing or doing that serves as a key-note to the peculiarity 
 of the character. 
 
 For an example to begin with : the first that comes 
 to mind, and it happens that the catalogue, like the 
 list of the ladies (not to be more particularly alluded to) 
 whom the poet loved, opens with Kitty. "WTiat a curi- 
 osity she was ! She ought to be a cabinet-minister, or 
 a representative of the people in parliament at least ; 
 not because she was distinguished for punctuality in 
 the discharge of her duties, but because she was so 
 wonderfully expert in the art of making excuses for 
 neglecting it. She was certainly the most careless 
 little chit that ever spilt hot water over you, or left 
 your new boots burning in the fender ; but it could not 
 be otherwise ; so unceasingly and so profoundly must 
 her mind have been intent on devising excuses for 
 negligence and vindications of her conduct. Her small, 
 keen, fixed gray eye told you plainly before you began 
 to find fault, that she had made up her mind not to 
 admit she was in the wrong, and her lips, the instant 
 she opened them to explain, confirmed the ocular asser- 
 tion. It was not merely that her excuses were generally 
 first-rate, but that she was never without one. A dozen 
 times a day she would be put upon her defence ; but 
 you might be sure, in that case, of witnessing exactly 
 twelve apparently unstudied exercises of startling inge- 
 nuity in clearing herself from the charge. She threw 
 her flip-flaps, if the metaphor may be allowed, with the
 
 WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 199 
 
 readiest grace in the worlds and so quickly, that you 
 could never catch her off her feet. Her figments were 
 uttered Tvith the most inartificial air ever witnessed. 
 When you thought she had not a word to say for her- 
 self, out she would come with a volume. Her system 
 of excuse involved a most philosophical supposition, 
 that as human nature is a more precious thing than 
 aught else in creation, animate or inanimate, so any- 
 thing was to be blamed rather than that. If this be 
 not new in theory, it was at least novel in practice, to 
 the extent to which she carried it. Mats if she tripped, 
 coals if she scorched anything, bore the blame. As the 
 feminine is more worthy than the neuter, the neuter 
 Avas of course shown to be in fault. 
 
 You complained of her bringing you an unpolished 
 tumbler : " Kitty, whenever you bring me a glass, see 
 that it is quite bright ; of all tilings I hate a dull glass." 
 Yes, I think I see her taking the glass, holding it up to 
 the Ught, and pretending to examine it with a puzzled 
 look, saj-ing half to herself, " Curious tumblers these 
 are somehow ; I never seed glasses catch the fluf off" the 
 napkin like these do." I was rash enough to set her 
 to bring me down a rare old china jug, prized for the 
 sake of a former possessor. Of course she broke it, and 
 had there been two she would have broken both. Into 
 the room she came with the beautiful handle swinging 
 upon her fingers, saying with the most delicious air of 
 simplicity and wonderment that can be conceived, 
 " Dear me, well ! If I wasu 't coming so softly down 
 stairs, and had hold of it so, when just as I set my foot 
 on the very last stair, the jug let go of my hand!" She 
 could never be brought to admit more upon such occa- 
 sions than what in efi'ect amounted to this : that the 
 smash was an act of pure volition on the part of the 
 broken jug ; that she, innocent as she was, had been
 
 200 WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 
 
 sent to fetch a very wilful and obstinate utensil, a piece 
 of china resolutely bent on self-destruction. 
 
 There were traces of a curious perception of certain 
 zoological distinctions, in some of Kitty^s self-defences 
 and evasions. I remember that some small delicacy, or 
 what remained of it at dinner, had been specially put 
 by for me as a relish for my breakfast ; but when Kitty, " 
 to whose care it had been consigned, produced it next 
 morning, the edge of the dish bore evident marks of the 
 excursion of some small four-footed invaders. "Oh, 
 the mice ! " exclaimed my landlady in horror. " Wliy, 
 Kitty, how could you now — ?" &c. But Kitty was 
 quite certain that the muscipular footmarks could have 
 no connection with the feet of a mouse ; no, the dish had 
 been where mice could never be ; it was quite impossible. 
 
 " Well, Kitty, look ; do look, and beheve the e^d- 
 dence of your own eyes.'' " I 'm right, ma'am," said 
 Kitty, after she had taken a careful and conscien- 
 tious survey all round the edge. "I'm right; and 
 if I wasn't positive certain, I wouldn't say so; no, 
 they're not our mice" Our mice! To detect a 
 difference between other people's mice, and our own ! 
 Why, all the zoological council assembled couldn't 
 have done it ! 
 
 Kitty was succeeded by a little damsel who was called 
 Ellen, a sprightly, bright-eyed thing, far too shght for 
 the coarse offices allotted to her, and with something of 
 childish elegance about her air that might have graced 
 a lot far different from a life of servitude. Her charac- 
 ter was as strikingly seen in all she did as Kitty's was. 
 In her the ruhng principle was politeness. To be poUte 
 ivas an instinct which she could not but obey. The first 
 glimpse I had of the girl, was on the morning after she 
 came, when, glancing from the window while dressing, I 
 saw her running down the steps very prettily, and in 
 
 V
 
 ■WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 201 
 
 sweet clear tones calling out, " Sir ! sir, if you please V* 
 to the dustman. His bell drowned the small voice, but 
 she went springing after him a little way, and I could 
 perceive that she brought him back with an air not less 
 full of natural grace, but less ostentatious, than that of 
 the nymphs who precede the great princes in romantic 
 operas and ballets, and throw flowers in their path. The 
 scene ended in her smilingly begging his pardon, and 
 would he have the kindness to come in and take away 
 the dust that morning! The next day I heard her tell 
 the fishmonger's boy when he called for orders, " Soles, 
 sir, if it 's quite convenient." So completely was this 
 principle of excessive urbanity and deference a part of 
 her nature, that it was in operation on all occasions, 
 and extended to all comers. It was no respecter of 
 persons, recognised no distinctions, real or false : 
 
 " But like the sun, it shone on all alike." 
 
 There was nothing; no, not a dash of the high-life- 
 below-stairs \Tilgarity in her courtesies to the gardener, 
 or the stable-boy. The chimneysweep was just as sure 
 of a gentle and gracious reception. In short, little 
 Ellen could not, though she had tried, have laid aside 
 the bland and most urbane qualities of her manner. As 
 little was she capable of divesting them of their real 
 grace, or of ha\ing them mistaken for affected airs and 
 mock ci\'ilities. She was polite merely because she 
 could not help it. True, her politeness was excessively 
 ludicrous sometimes, and now and then rather embar- 
 rassing, when it implicated others by taking upon itself 
 to speak for them. Thus I overheard her one morning 
 prefacing a message I had given her for the bootcleaner, 
 ■with, my " compliments" (she was polite enough to call 
 me her master, which I was not), her master's compli- 
 ments, and he thought the boots had not been quite so 
 
 K 3
 
 202 WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 
 
 well polished of late ! She never received even a com- 
 mand from any one without a "thankee/' and she 
 always took a letter from the postman with a nice little 
 courtesy, and a smile of acknowledgment that imphed 
 a sense of obhgation for his kindness in bringing it. 
 "My master's much obliged/' she would sometimes 
 say, as she handed the twopence. I 'm not sure that 
 she did not, one wet day, crown her politeness by 
 offering to come and ask me to lend the postman my 
 umbrella ; she was certain he would get wet ; and car- 
 rying other people's letters too ! 
 
 One occasion I particularly recollect, and it affords a 
 good illustration of Ellen's sensitiveness on the score of 
 giving trouble. A man had brought me some books, 
 for which, on delivery, she impressively thanked him ; 
 when, as he was turning away, it occurred to him that 
 he had a letter to deliver with the packet, and he began 
 to search industriously in his bag. Observing the 
 anxiety with which he pried into the corners of it, she 
 said to him, in her excess of good-nature, " Oh, sir, pray 
 don't trouble yourself." 
 
 " Trouble myseK ! " returned the honest man, ele- 
 vating his eyebrows rather contemptuously, " why, if I 
 have a letter to deliver as well as the books, I must 
 dehver it, musn't I ?" and he proceeded with his search 
 for a minute or two, when Ellen's good-natured concern 
 for him broke out again, with, " I 'm sorry to keep you 
 waiting." 
 
 " Waiting ! " muttered the messenger ; " why, it ain't 
 you that keeps me waiting. But no, there's no letter 
 here ; certainly not ; well, I thought I had one." 
 
 " Oh, sir ! " cried Ellen, bent on tranquillising his 
 mind, and settling the matter with the truest politeness 
 and delicacy of feeling, " oh, sir, never mind ; I dare 
 say it doesn 't signify; another time perhaps /"
 
 WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 203 
 
 Ellen's stay in my landlady's service was not of long 
 duration ; for my landlady herself was taken suddenly 
 ill, was djdng. A friend of the invahd sent twice a day 
 to inquire how she had slept and how she had sat up. 
 Ellen regularly brought down the answer, " My mis- 
 sis's compHments, and she has had a very indifferent 
 night ; " or " My missis's compliments, and she feels 
 very weak to-day." This went on for six weeks, twice 
 a day for six weeks, and Ellen seemed to grow more 
 and more sensible of the kindness and attention every 
 time the messenger came. The compliments were sent 
 back as usual, but the intelligence became sadder and 
 sadder. At length, one day, when the friendly inquiry 
 after the health of her mistress came as before, poor 
 Ellen crept to the door with swollen eyes streaming 
 with tears, and sobbed out the melancholy answer, "My 
 missis's compliments, and she died this morning at 
 eight o'clock."* Here is the "ruling passion" display- 
 ing its strength, not exactly in death, but in its close 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 This change brought other servants, though it did not 
 render my removal necessary. Among them came a 
 girl of a most literal and matter-of-fact turn of mind, 
 who persisted in calling herself Sophonisba, because she 
 was so christened, but Avho for that reason I remorse- 
 lessly cut down to Soph. She never could comprehend 
 why the other three syllables should be lopped off; why 
 people should be called "out of their names." The 
 first specimen of her " characteristics " that I noticed, 
 was when I sent her to Longman's (years ago) to get 
 some old book, and she brought back the answer in 
 
 • A friend to whom I related this strange story, thinks he- has heard 
 something like it before. That may be, but it does not disturb my fact. 
 In recording these little whimsicalities of character, 1 am recollecting, not 
 inventing ; and will vouch for every word of them.
 
 204 WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 
 
 these terms : " Please, sir, Messrs. Longman, Hurst, 
 Rees, Orme, Brown, and Green, say that the work is 
 out of print.^' She would rather have perished than 
 omitted a partner, and she would have added " and 
 Co.^^ had she found it on the doorpost. 
 
 The gentleman who denied that the Duke of Welling- 
 ton could ever have reaped any of his laurels in India, 
 seeing that the laurel does not grow there, was less 
 literal than Soph. It was absolutely necessary to speak 
 by the card when you spoke to her ; but even then you 
 were not safe. Her capacity for not comprehending, 
 was as profound as Kitty^s ingenuity in framing an 
 excuse. You took especial pains, say, to warn her 
 against the hard-egg-boiling principle ; you picked the 
 plainest words out of the dictionary to impress upon her 
 mind the simple fact in natural philosophy, that three 
 minutes will suffice for the boiling of an egg. At last 
 you make her clearly comprehend, and feel that you 
 may safely calculate on a breakfast. No, the eggs come 
 up as before, hard as undertakers' hearts. " Now 
 Soph," I cried out, on such an occasion, " how is this ? 
 Here they are boiled fit for a salad, in spite of every 
 du-ection. What did I tell you?'' 
 
 " Oh ! sir, I remember exakly what you told me, and 
 acted according. The eggs was in the water, to a 
 moment, percisely nine minutes." 
 
 " Nine ! I told you three." 
 
 " Yes, sir, but there 's three eggs. Of course, if one 
 takes three minutes boiling, th^ee must take nine. I 
 may be a fool, sir, but I happen to know what three- 
 times-three makes for all that!" Soph was incorri- 
 gible ; she was a plague perpetually, and longer. 
 
 But though Soph had not an iota of imagination, the 
 excess of the matter-of-fact of which she was made 
 sometimes bordered on the imaginative, as the ridicu-
 
 WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 205 
 
 lous approaches the confines of the subhme. She under- 
 stood no more of Life and Death than a great philoso- 
 pher. If she ever conceived an idea in connection with 
 them, it was perhaps that the second is what we may 
 call a mere " carrjdng out " of the principle of the first, 
 the continuation of what is. She had no notion of 
 their being distinct or dissimilar. It was impossible 
 that she could imagine a difi'erent state of being to that 
 which, living, she experienced; nor could she more 
 readily understand how the present state should termi- 
 nate. The somebody that was dead, she could never 
 picture to herself as in the sUghtest degree changed 
 from the somebody that had been alive. A winged 
 angel was not more unapproachably raised beyond the 
 scope of her ideas, than was a mass of senseless clay, 
 mute and motionless matter, cut off for ever from the 
 life it had held and enjoyed. She knew nothing of 
 either. She only knew that Susan Hicks, deceased, 
 had been her fellow-servant in this world, and she con- 
 sidered that Susan Hicks, when she was carried to the 
 churchyard, had simply taken another situation ; in 
 short, that she had gone to another place. We all 
 know with what blank and unspeculativc eyes a prim- 
 rose by a river's brim would be seen by Peter Bell, 
 
 And what it was to Wordsworth's oaf, 
 A yellow primrose was to Soph, 
 And it was nothing more. 
 
 But then, as was observed above, the acuteness of her 
 sense of the actual, touched sometimes upon the verge 
 of the ideal ; and it might be said that she dived pro- 
 foundly into the very surface of things. 
 
 A simple anecdote will help to explain all this. When 
 the day fixed for the funeral of her old fellow-servant 
 came. Soph evinced considerable sensibility on the score 
 of the weather, which looked di'cadfuUy unpromising.
 
 206 WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 
 
 I suspected that Soph^s feelings were enlisted on behalf 
 of the bombazin of the mourners, but it was not that, 
 as I found out presently. From my place near a 
 window, it happened that I could see her coming 
 every five minutes to the garden-door to look at the 
 clouds. " It ^11 rain presently, and preciously too," 
 was the first cry. Then with her hand stretched out 
 into the pelting shower, to feel whether it was real 
 water or not, " Ah ! here it comes down sure enough." 
 Then in ten minutes more, " It ^s set in for the day, 
 that / can see, with my two eyes." (Some Sophs would 
 have said, " with half an eye," but our Soph had no 
 idea of any such optical subdivisions.) However, the 
 day began to promise better presently, and out she 
 came again, ogling the scattered clouds, and decided 
 that she shouldn't wonder if it were to clear up after 
 all ; till at last, when it began to brighten beyond mis- 
 take, she came once more, with her mind now made up, 
 " Yes, yes, it 's giving over now, Susan will have a fine 
 day to be buried ! " Not a thought about the followers 
 in bombazin, the living clad in crape at so much per 
 yard, but only about the late Miss Hicks, who was to 
 set out on a long journey. She thought of Susan as 
 having some business of importance to perform that 
 day, as a traveller nolens volens, or as being doomed to 
 take, without further delay, a very serious step in life. 
 She would have said the same thing had it been a 
 wedding that was to take place. " Susan will have a 
 fine day to be married ! " Here, again, is the ruling 
 passion strong in affinity with death. 
 
 What is the name of the good doctor, who, propped 
 up on his pillow, desired his servant to stir the fire and 
 shut the door gently, for he was going to die ? How 
 scrupulously, and as a matter of regular business, would 
 Soph have obeyed his orders ! Rare Soph ! How she
 
 WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 207 
 
 used to make me laugh ! When she leaves her last 
 place, and her name is headed with a large " Wanted/^ 
 in death's list of advertisements, all I can say is, may 
 she have a fine day to be buried ! 
 
 The next name in my catalogue is Jane, who was old 
 enough to have had a system of her own, and who 
 invariably acquired one in whatever place she happened 
 to be, but never acted upon it until she found herself in 
 another service. What you expressly desired her to do 
 in your own way, she did in point blank opposition to 
 your orders, and according to the instruction she had 
 received in her previous situation. This had evidently 
 been her rule tlu'ough life. She was a pattern of a 
 servant after she had left yom' house. All your regula- 
 tions were sure to be observed when she had quitted 
 your ser\dce. Her rule of pleasing you was simply a 
 dutiful observance of the whims of other people. 
 
 Jane was quite as original in all her proceedings as 
 any of them, an odd mLxture of the tractable and the 
 obstinate. She blundered unceasingly upon the strictest 
 system, and was so anxious to give satisfaction that she 
 would never do what she was told for fear it should be 
 wrong. Her best conscience was, that as she served 
 you, so she had served her previous master ; and though 
 she had been inattentive to his desires, she was doing 
 him ample justice in your family. She interfered with 
 every thing and every body in the house, because all 
 was not arranged in the order observed in Mr. Fitzcox's 
 estabbshment. She worried the cook out of her life. 
 
 " Lor ! do you put citron into that pudding ? Mr. 
 Fitzcox's cook never did. I 'm sure I should never send 
 up currant jelly with the haunch; Mr. Fitzcox couldn't 
 abcar it." 
 
 In defiance of the strictest injunction, she contrived 
 to smuggle a climbing-boy up the chimneys because
 
 208 WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 
 
 Mr. Fitzcox^s flues could not be swept nicely by a 
 machine. Thus the rules of her last place^ which she 
 had rigidly disregarded there^ were in your house brought 
 into conscientious operation, and what you wished her 
 to do would be faithfully done for your successor. 
 
 The only prank that she played off at my expense 
 was, first, when she was caught tampering with the 
 newsman, and endeavouring to exclude the " Morning 
 Chronicle" from the house ; I fancied from a horror of 
 Whig principles, but it turned out that Mr. Fitzcox 
 had always taken in the "Morning Postj" and, secondly, 
 during my absence for a day or two^ when she must 
 needs carry my letters and newspapers down to the 
 Travellers' club, to which I did not belong, because she 
 had been in the habit of leaving Mr. Fitzcox's there, 
 when he was not expected to return home. I told her 
 she wanted a much more arbitrary mistress than the 
 one she served ; to which she answered, " I often won- 
 der, sir, why you don't marry, and have an establishment 
 of your own." 
 
 " Good heavens ! why ? " 
 
 " \\Tiy, sir, Mr. Fitzcox did ! " 
 
 Rebecca succeeded Jane, but Rebecca was overmuch 
 religious, and did not stay long. I believe I frightened 
 her by a habit, not very moderately indulged in at that 
 period, of spouting Hamlefs soliloquies and Othello's 
 address, before the looking-glass of a morning, some- 
 times during the perilous operation of shaving. This 
 profane practice, with the duty of setting out a card- 
 table, two evenings a week, for a rubber at whist, was a 
 shock she couldn't stand. All I can relate of her with 
 certainty is comprised in her address to the cat, that 
 was muttering " deep-mouthed thunder" at the door of 
 the room, as she was qmtting it one day. 
 
 " Ur — r — r-^rh ! " Rebecca growled forth as she went
 
 WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 209 
 
 down stairs, " ur — r — rh you ! Where do you expect 
 to go to when you die ? swearing in that manner ! " 
 
 How little do any of us remember compared with the 
 quantity we forget ! These, such as they are, and a 
 dozen more quite as strongly marked, as distinct from 
 each other, and as consistent with themselves, were 
 noted within the space of two or three years. How 
 many maid-servants worthy to be noted might the 
 reminiscence of a lifetime recal to \iew ! The Cloes, 
 Flavias, and Narcissas of Pope live in the rare and 
 exquisite beauty of the painting ; but else how com- 
 mon ! How much of the extraordinary in character is 
 unseen in women of all ranks, merely because it is not 
 looked for or expected, or because it has not been 
 fashionable to recognise it. It is detected in the draw- 
 ing-room only ? Look into the kitchen, " up stairs and 
 down stairs, and in my lady's chamber;" and wherever 
 there is a woman there is a wonder. 
 
 " Of all the girls that were so smart," in one sense or 
 other, I have a \A\\^ recollection of fair Fanny. She 
 was a curiosity of the Nervous School. How she used 
 to faint away ! Fainting is, in other girls, a weakness, 
 an accident, or an expedient ; in her it was a principle, 
 it was her destiny. Her ruling passion pointed ever to 
 a little purple cut-glass bottle, filled with pungent salts, 
 the stopper of which was seldom allowed to remain in it 
 more than an hour at a time. Exactly half her wages 
 were spent in the purchase of staylaces, which were 
 continually being cut. It came out, upon inquiry, that 
 she was the victim of sensibility. Fanny had fallen 
 head over heels in love, yet decorously withal, with 
 some gentleman's gentleman, who, insensible to the 
 value of his conquest, had accompanied his master 
 abroad, and left her to pine and wither in single un- 
 comfortablcness. But this would not have been her
 
 210 WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 
 
 lot either, had she not, one fatal Whitmonday, resolved 
 on spending the evening of her holiday in the two- 
 shilKng gallery at Drury-lane. There, for the first time 
 in her life, she saw a popular actor performing the cha- 
 racter of Rolla. Now it might have happened to any 
 other actor, at all events that particular actor is not 
 responsible for the result, but it did so fall out that 
 Fanny discovered, or fancied she discovered, something 
 in the face, or voice, or manner, or the soul that shone 
 through the eyes of Rolla, so strangely, so startlingly 
 like the faithless gentleman's gentleman in Italy, that 
 her heart leaped up as it never did when she beheld 
 
 " A rainbow in the sky." 
 
 One long, shrill, piercing cry of " Richard," rang 
 through the crowded theatre; setting the dear little 
 child of Cora (a stunted babe of eleven) screaming with 
 sudden terror; and then Fanny fainted. From that 
 moment fainting became a passion. It was a propensity 
 that grew upon her with use, and she could no more 
 have got through a day without it than she could have 
 got through a week without sleep. It was her constant 
 relief, her sweetest recreation. Merely to mention the 
 name of Rolla's representative was at all times more 
 than enough. Even the first syllable of that agitating 
 name, as articulated by some pigeons that recreated in 
 the next garden, sufficed to send her off six tinles a day. 
 Nay, so strong is the sympathy, so subtle the affection, 
 in these nervous cases, that, beheve it or not, I only 
 happened to make some allusion to " The Last of the 
 Mohicans," while she was in the room, without men- 
 tioning the author's name, which she could never have 
 heard of, when I saw her turn pale, and the little purple 
 bottle was in additional requisition that morning. She 
 used to tremble every time she saw the water-butt for
 
 WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 211 
 
 the supply of the garden, thinking from whose hands it 
 came. My landlady was obliged to have her interme- 
 diate taken in in bottles ; the barrel would have been 
 heart-breaking. 
 
 Poor Fanny ! she used to enjoy her holiday now and 
 then so much, it aflPorded her such leisure for going off; 
 she allowed herself a double supply of the pungent 
 essence on those days. It was quite a matter of coiu'se 
 to be told of a morning, "Fanny will finish dusting 
 your books directly ; she 's only going to faint /^ or to 
 hear the sensitive creature, when desned by her mistress 
 to Hght the candles, cry out, "1^11 bring them in a 
 minute or two, ma'am, as soon as I We fainted !" Little 
 did she resemble 
 
 " Her who in sweet vicissitude appears 
 Of mirth and opium, ratafie and tears." 
 
 Here there was no -vicissitude. If there was a minute 
 of the day when she was not " going," it was when she 
 was gone. But it agreed with her, like a good cry. 
 
 There was a Sarah, too, who stayed a few days, and 
 claims to figure in the queer collection. She was 
 noticeable chiefly for her prodigious volubility, and a 
 genius for the obscure. Unless she made a long speech 
 she was wholly unintelligible. The first words I heard 
 from her ran thus : " There 's never an umbrella in the 
 house but two in the world, and t'other two 's in use." 
 She would have been Irish, if any one country could 
 have claimed such a compound. Wliat Sarah said you 
 might not understand, but you must hear, for her voice 
 was loud enough to proclaim her quarrel with some 
 " first cousin," one evening, outside the gate. 
 
 " It 's not," she remarked on that occasion, " as if I'd 
 been an infidel to you ; in fact it 's rather more not than 
 t'other."
 
 212 WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 
 
 The " t'otlier/' in both cases, is characteristic of the 
 exquisite confusion of meaning. But when she could 
 let her tongue fairly loose, to wander at its own sweet 
 will, then was Sarah in her glory. The windows open, 
 we could hear her holding forth to her companion 
 below : 
 
 " This Easter Sunday ! Bless my soul, and such bad 
 weather ! I assiu'e you I remember the time having 
 gooseberry-pudding for dinner on Easter Sunday ; it 
 was the time my poor mother was out nursing at 
 Kingston ; yes, it was Kingston, Kingston-on-Thames ; 
 and my sister made a gooseberry-pudding, and I know 
 I didn't like it j yes, my poor dear mother, who's dead 
 and gone now, was nursing of Mrs. Hai'dliugton, and I 
 know it was Easter Sunday, for I had a new frock on, a 
 pink stripe it was, because I remember it had wire 
 buttons down the back ; it was too late on Saturday 
 night to get cambric ones, so I put wii'e, and INIr. 
 Macintosh came to see my sister Kate, and father 
 wouldn't let him in, for he 'd never seen him in his life 
 before ; but I went out for the dinner-beer ; I know it 
 was the dinner-beer, for it rained, and I had my green- 
 silk bonnet on ; so as I was a saying, as I came back, 
 Mr. Macintosh gave me twopence to tell Kate to come 
 out if she could, and my grandmother used to encoiu-age 
 it. Well, my sister made the pudding ; for poor dear 
 mother that ^s dead and gone, this time eleven yeai', was 
 nursing, and so Mr. Macintosh used to come and stand 
 opposite. I often think of that time when mother was 
 ahve, and we all had a mother then, though we haven't 
 now ; yes, we 've got a mother-in-law, because father 
 married agin, he married the cook at Waterloo House, 
 you know Hodgson's ; and I'm sm-e I shall never forget 
 Easter Sunday; for if vou beheve me, that dav five 
 weeks Kate was Mrs. Macintosh!"
 
 WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 213 
 
 Call her off you might, but she would return three- 
 quarters of an hour after to the scene, and take up 
 another thread of the story ; " Ah ! yes, and well do 
 I remember father saying one day, ' Here, hem me 
 these two white neck-handkerchiefs', just as I'm telling 
 you, for it was a square of mushn he gave me, so I had 
 to cut it in half; because he told me he was going out 
 on Sunday at eight o'clock on a day's pleasure. Well, 
 that happened on the 8th of May, and so I got up the 
 next morning with something on my mind that told 
 me, ' Sally, all isn't right.' So I was standing by the 
 pump, and a lady comes up and says to me, * Good 
 morning, I think your name 's Sarah ?' ' Yes, Sarah 
 Dixon is my name, I was bom, bred, and christened so, 
 and I shall carry it to my grave with me.' ' Well, 
 Sarah,' she says, 'if you look on the table in your 
 father's bedroom, that with the looking-glass, you nVill 
 see a parcel, it 's for you.' Well, sure enough there was 
 something wrapped up in paper, foolscap paper, and a 
 white wafer above all things. You might have knocked 
 me down with a feather. Lo and behold a piece of 
 cake, wedding-cake, and they'd actually been and 
 married. You may be sure my blood was up, for you 
 must know I'm rather fiery ; I take after my poor dear 
 mother for that ; but she was a good creature, though 
 she 's dead and gone." Quiet home was ours when the 
 head of the class of clacks was gone also. 
 
 — But I must come to a close, or my picture will be 
 growing too large for its frame. Many a maid, besides 
 this handful of Sophs and Sallys, whether of the cook, 
 the housemaid, the servant of all- work, or the first-rate 
 waiting-woman tribe, " wants a situation " in this little 
 collection, and might say what the insulted sweep said 
 to the dashing highwayman at the drop, " I've as much 
 right to be here as you have." But all this time, while
 
 214 WOMEN AND THEIR MASTERS. 
 
 attracted by the "women/' we have neglected their 
 "masters." The subject at its commencement had 
 suggested the inditing a few paragraphs^ which shall 
 now be a few sentences on that theory of gallantry and 
 devotion to " the sex/' the maintenance of which is, in 
 many handsome words, held by youthful, middle-aged, 
 and elderly masculines alike, to be both a pleasure and 
 a duty, but the practice of which, in so many handsome 
 acts, is held to be neither one nor the other. 
 
 The sex ! What does any one of us understand by 
 " the sex ? " What proportion of the female race does 
 the word include in our ideas of its practical meaning ? 
 How many women do we mean to admit the existence 
 of, as having a right and title to the exercise of that 
 generous gallantry which we call a duty and a delight, 
 when we speak of the sex ? Just those comparatively 
 few members of it who can afford to employ the rest to 
 wait upon their wills, and do their spii-itings gently. 
 The " sex," as the claimant of the exercise of gallantry, 
 and the inspirer of devotional respect, means women 
 who hire other women as servants, and who don't live 
 by arranging the caps and curls, or dusting the chairs 
 and curtains, of other people. Where were those gen- 
 tlemen educated, and at what hour of the day may they 
 be met with, and in what city of Europe do they chiefly 
 abide, who are gallant and tender to a maiden with a 
 mop, unless with a view to injure and degrade her ? 
 The gallantry of man to the other sex, is simply a nar- 
 row class-feeling, not a sentiment as universal as the 
 eyes and breath, and language and motions of woman. 
 It is the principle that stands by its order, and stops 
 there. The lady drops her glove, and a dozen cavaliers 
 would sacrifice theu^s, how white and well-fitted soever, 
 in the dust, to spare her the fatigue of even glancing at 
 it where it lies ; but the cavalier who drops his glove
 
 PEOPLE WHO PAY DOUBLE. 215 
 
 on the staircase, will allow any waiting-maid in the 
 house to descend and pick it up for him. He will rush 
 wdth an armful of shawls to save the lady "of his order" 
 from a hreath of air too much in her way from the door 
 to her carriage ; but you shall observe afterwards, that 
 he is not at all shocked when the maidservant runs out 
 into the rain, uncovered, to bring him his umbrella. 
 He must not serve his sister sp, he dares not serve his 
 wife so; stiU less would he dream of serving his friend^s 
 wife so ; but what does he care for Sue ? " Who on 
 earth,'^ would the man of gallantrv'- internally exclaim, 
 if required to put himself a hair's-breadth out of the 
 way, " who on earth, I should like to know, is Sue ! " 
 That she was mere woman, would go exactly for nothing. 
 
 PEOPLE WHO PAY DOUBLE. 
 
 Nelson, when he had but onq arm to do battle with, 
 had still two legs to stand to his colours on ; so may 
 honesty, with reduced means, with hundreds cut down 
 to fifties, honesty put as it were upon half-pay, be still 
 seen upright, strong on its feet, and holding to its 
 principle. 
 
 But how if bravery, when bereft of a limb, have to 
 do double duty ! How if honesty, when impoverished, 
 be doomed to pay double ! 
 
 Nothing more widely spread, in this country, than 
 poverty; and nothing more narrowly judged of and 
 understood. When we look at the poor, the paying 
 poor, who breathe the free air of meny England just 
 outside the workhouse gates, we recognise the chief 
 necessity of their condition, in the duty to persevere.
 
 216 PEOPLE WHO PAY DOUBLE. 
 
 summer and winter, in a rigid and self-denying economy. 
 But we rarely stop to note the working of a more cruel 
 necessity in their lot ; we do not mark that they are the 
 victims to an incessant and inevitable extravagance. 
 
 We overlook the fact that the poor cannot economise. 
 To possess too little, and to pay too much, are the chief 
 features of then- destiny. To stint, to spare, to make 
 hard shift, to feel that the half-farthing will be practi- 
 cally in countless bargains a saving coin to them, yet 
 to be constantly, hopelessly, necessarily extravagant; 
 this is the lot of the poor. 
 
 Our talk all the year round is of the cheapest markets. 
 These are exactly the markets to which the poor can 
 never repair. 
 
 " Act upon my plan," cries Mr. Fitz-croesus, thrust- 
 ing his hands into his breeches-pockets; "everybody 
 should do as I do. Come, I '11 let you into my secret. 
 Always buy the best. If you want to save, buy the 
 best of everything. It 's the cheapest in the end." 
 
 Fitz-croesus is right; but then the poor are not 
 " everybody." The poor, while they want to save, must 
 buy the worst of everything, the dearest in the end. 
 Their slenderness of means ever prevents them from 
 securing a bargain. The price of the best, the cheapest 
 in the end, obliges them to take the bad. With the 
 most urgent necessity to economise, they are driven 
 helplessly upon the improvident course. For the happy 
 " end" they cannot wait ; they must begin at once with 
 what the deeply-skilled in the arts of true cheapness 
 wisely reject. 
 
 The only riches that fall in the way of the poor are 
 rich maxims, dropping like diamonds from the lips of 
 the affluent. 
 
 " I buy three pairs of boots at a time ; they last four 
 times as long as a single pair." " I always pay six-
 
 PEOPLE WHO PAY DOUBLE. 217 
 
 and-twenty for my hat ; it lasts out half-a-dozen cheap 
 
 9) 
 
 ones " 
 
 And the poor mechanic, with his saved-up sixpences, 
 and these gratuitous gems of economy jinghng together 
 in his ears, passes on unprofitingly, to buy his country- 
 made shoes, and his sieve-like gossamer. He has not 
 half enough money to purchase the cheapest. He bids 
 as little as he may for the dearest in the end, which end 
 verj' soon arrives ; next Sunday, if it should happen to 
 rain ! 
 
 The food Avhich nourishes him not, the raiment 
 which wears and Avashes away with ruinous rapidity, 
 the poor man must be contented to secure ; contented 
 amidst his wants to be ever deepening them, contented 
 to pay double in Aartue of the excess of his poverty. 
 He knows his ill-fate, in this respect, but may not con- 
 trol it. Cheapness he esteems to be the peculiar, the 
 enAaable pri\dlege of the rich. 
 
 But such as his purchases are, they are made at the 
 lowest prices, nominally? on what is called "advanta- 
 geous terms ?^' Seldom. The little shopkeeper with 
 Avhom he deals is obliged to get credit, and obliged to 
 give it. The poor customer probably never possessed 
 in all his days so much as a single week^s wages in 
 advance of the world's claims upon him. That scanty 
 pittance, the receipt whereof gladdens his inmost soul 
 on a Saturday, is not capital, but income. It is not 
 often to be spent at his will, here or there ; but to be 
 paid in quarters where it is already due. He must 
 repair to the same familiar shop, rub off the regular 
 score, and be, as usual, re-supplied. He may see in 
 another window cheese more eligible, or a preferable 
 style of pork ; but his dealings are circumscribed ; his 
 little ready cash is bespoke. As the grand world boasts 
 l)ut one boot-maker, so his little world contains but one 
 
 VOL. III. L
 
 218 PEOPLE WHO PAY DOUBLE. 
 
 baker. He cannot always choose his mart even for 
 dear bargains. 
 
 Are there no other drains, peculiar to the nature of 
 poverty^ upon his slender resources ? Several. But we 
 shall exhibit enough when we show the tendency to 
 waste, the tmavoidable extravagance, of purchasing in 
 every instance the very smallest quantities. The poor 
 find out this hardness of their condition; but still 
 unavailingly. They are obliged to watch for the turn 
 of the scale, yet they lose some grains continually. 
 Their provisions, if they could keep a little store, would 
 improve in quality, and go further. Tlieu' half-ounce 
 of something will serve but for one occasion, one meal ; 
 but could they have afforded to lay in a whole ounce, it 
 might have served three times. Never by any turn in 
 the course of fortune, can the cheapest way be opened 
 to the poor. Every road has a turnpike for them ; and 
 as others seem to do on Sundays only, they pay double 
 every day. 
 
 The poor receive with one hand, but they pay with 
 both. We observe them living " from hand to mouth ;" 
 but when the hand barely reaches the mouth, and the 
 effort and the strain grow greater day by day, we 
 merely moralize on the evils of improvidence, and not 
 on the impossibihty of economising, after the fashion 
 of wealthier professors, who exult in " lying in a stock," 
 and securing the " cheapest in the end." 
 
 To pay double, however, is not the exclusive affliction 
 of the poor; nor is the attainment of cheapness the 
 easy privilege of the rich. The man of wealth, like the 
 man of need, must almost necessarily pay double. His 
 wide-necked purse may distend or collapse at his will, 
 but he must generally, against his will, pay double. 
 He may choose his servants, and change his tradesmen ; 
 but there are invariably two to one against him ; and
 
 PEOPLE WHO PAY DOUBLE. 219 
 
 the continual consequence is, the abominable double 
 payment. 
 
 He pays the highest premium for confidential ser- 
 vants, who plunder him cum privilegio, and play the 
 cankerworm sub rosd. He gives the best wages, that 
 his trusty servitors may be beyond the reach of temp- 
 tation : and they sell his wax-lights to his own chandler 
 before they have burnt half way. This is surely bui'ning 
 the candle at both ends, or, in other words, paying 
 double. 
 
 The only choice he has is, not whether he will pay 
 too much or enough, but whether the sum to be pur- 
 loined from him shall be extracted from the right-hand 
 pocket or the left. He may reduce his estabhshment, 
 and keep but a single servant ; yet a single servant is 
 quite sufficient to make a man pay double. He may so 
 watch the solitary extortioner, so cramp him in his 
 sphere of action, so bind him down upon the rack of 
 undeviating honesty, as to prevent all ordinary inroads 
 upon his own pocket ; but to do this, he must spend 
 more in time than he can save in cash ; more in labour 
 than a statute-fair could reheve him from; more in 
 health than his physician could restore him in fifty 
 visits. It would be the very extravagance of economy. 
 He would rob himself of his peace to save his purse. 
 He would hang himself in a twelvemonth, through 
 sheer anxiety to prevent another from incurring the 
 penalty. He must keep his eyes open in sleep, and 
 receive his guests by the kitchen-fire. He must be 
 prepared to die the death of a martjT every day he 
 lived ; which would be paying the debt of nature, oh ! 
 more than double. 
 
 But without rendering himself a slave to servants or 
 tradesmen, the rich man may exercise an ordinary 
 sagacity, and forestal the practiser of imposition, by 
 
 L 2
 
 220 PEOPLE WHO PAY DOUBLE. 
 
 striking off as an overcharge one lialf of tlie amount of 
 every demand made upon him. Still, has he any 
 security, granting that his deduction is assented to, 
 that he is not agreeing even then to pay double ? 
 
 " Five hundred is too much for the mare, Mr. Sharpe, 
 two hundred and fifty is my maximum." " Ruinous !" 
 returns Mr. Sharpe ; '' but I must trouble your lord- 
 ship to draw the check." And the rich man still pays 
 double. 
 
 Such is the tenor of every verse throughout the 
 chapter. An individual is seldom so cunning as the 
 world j and the world is ever lying in ambush near 
 the rich man's pocket. If to counteract the elBfect of 
 his losses, and to retort the aggressions which he cannot 
 avoid, he sues his debtors, or squeezes his tenants 
 without due secrecy and method, then the world pounces, 
 not upon his pocket, but his reputation. He is damaged 
 in character, ruined in temper, hurt a little perhaps in 
 conscience; and thus, again, to avoid the evil of over- 
 charge, he pays double in another way. The rich know 
 that they are expected to pay, not at an ad valorem 
 rate, but according "■ to their own honour and dignity ;" 
 which exactly doubles that of the class half-way down 
 in the gulf of society. 
 
 Then it must be this class of persons, who seem to 
 have just enough for their wants without a super- 
 abundance, by whom the penalty of paying double is 
 felicitously avoided ! We should judge hastily in so 
 deciding. They have their debts, and duns, and diffi- 
 culties, and consequently their double payments ; like 
 the notoriously rich and the notoriously poor. They 
 borrow money at a hundred per cent., for the purpose, 
 as they prettily phrase it, of settling with their creditors, 
 and starting clear. They expect to receiye cash in 
 September, and therefore buy upon trust in spring
 
 PEOPLE "WHO PAY DOUBLE. 221 
 
 what they could get at half-price with ready money in 
 the autumn. They promise to pay, and really do pay 
 for the stamp on which the promise is written. Then 
 follow law-expenses, and these soon leave mere double 
 payments far in the distance. When the prison-door 
 is double-locked upon them, they find that they have 
 been papng both in money and repute, destroying their 
 credit for probity, by actually gi^^ng forty shilhngs for 
 a sovereign. If they can raise the wind high enough to 
 blow them over the walls, they turn out to be rigid 
 economists ; and call a hackney-coach to drive to a 
 cheap shop two miles off for a half-crown pair of gloves. 
 
 " Misfortunes never come single ; " and if there be 
 people, as some think there are, who deem the payment 
 of debts a misfortune, they must of coiu'se pay double. 
 We have heard of persons who pay beforehand, and 
 who, being looked upon as the worst of paymasters, are 
 made to pay again. This species of liquidator is fast 
 dwindling away, and A^ill soon be as extinct as Old 
 Double himself, who died in the time of Shallow. 
 
 But Money (Heaven be praised !) is not the only 
 substantial thing in this world of debtor and creditor. 
 There is such an article as Love ; but with the despe- 
 rate determination of securing it, men, corrupted by 
 habit in pecuniary affairs, will not scruple now and then 
 to pay double; paying their addresses, that is to say, to 
 two ladies at a time', or to one rather rapidly after the 
 other. Then there is the social principle, which involves 
 the pajang of visits ; and these are sometimes paid 
 double, by guests who linger with the door in their 
 hand an unconscionable time ; promising, when they 
 do go, to return speedily and spend a long day with you. 
 
 So, too, there are other purchases than those made 
 in the cheap markets, which rich and poor have such 
 difficulty in finding. Men buy fame and glory appa-.
 
 223 PEOPLE WHO PAY DOUBLE. 
 
 rently at a marvellously cheap rate ; by the mere ex- 
 penditure of sixty years of their lives, or at the total 
 cost of their domestic happiness and quiet. But when 
 they have bought fame and glory, they find themselves 
 imperatively obliged to expend whatever may remain of 
 liver or intellect, of worldly ease or moral energy, in 
 protecting their purchases from the libeller, the de- 
 tractor, the assassin. What a painful, what a sicken- 
 ing exhibition have we here, of the common lot, to pay 
 double ! 
 
 Self-love, no less than enmity, often enforces the 
 double payment. The irascible and the obstinate, for 
 example, inflict the evil upon themselves. The hasty 
 unjust expression, at once recalled, seldom re-acts with 
 fearful echoes in the breast of the utterer. But he has 
 spoken it, and pride forbids him to retract ; the sum- 
 mons to unsay it only irritates him to a fiercer extent ; 
 the consciousness that he is wrong galls him into a 
 resolu!i(5Rs*o make bad worse ; and the little word, the 
 honourable admission, which frankly offered at first 
 would have been received as an atonement, and have 
 purchased him peace, deepens into the abject apology, 
 a jury's verdict against a slanderer, or the djdng groan 
 of a duellist. 
 
 To obviate a gloomy ending, which our little essay 
 needs not, we shall offer a simple suggestion. The 
 surest way to prepare ourselves for a just and necessary 
 resentment of injuries, is to cultivate a faith in kindli- 
 ness, and to yield to instincts of generosity. There is 
 at least one situation in life, and it is by no means of 
 rare occurrence to any man, in which with immense 
 advantage to ourselves we may liquidate a debt as it 
 were by double entry, and savingly discharge a claim 
 twice over. Reader, as often as you may experience 
 that invaluable blessing, a liberal and timely opportunity 
 of returning a kindness — pay double.
 
 223 
 
 ANYTHING FOR A QUIET LIFE. 
 
 Whenever you meet with a poor MTetch whose fate 
 it is to be cuffed continually ; buffeted by his betters, 
 abused by his fellows, and halloed after in the streets 
 by those free-born Britons, the little boys ; tossed up 
 and down like a crazy hull on a rough sea ; driven to 
 and fro Hke a canine lunatic, and assailed from morn- 
 ing to night Avith thoughts that scold, and words that 
 hit ; whenever you meet with this poor fellow, depend 
 upon it, he is one who, from his very cradle, was fond 
 of a quiet life. 
 
 Is he a fag in a factoiy when the world of machinery 
 is all at work ; is he a porter stationed in the rotunda 
 of the Bank, a waiter at a London chop-house, an usher 
 in a genteel seminary, a drudge to a letter of lodgings, 
 a prime-minister, a curate in a populous metropolitan 
 parish, a clo"mi in the comic pantomime, an engineer on 
 a railway, a cab-driver, or a queen's counsel in full 
 practice; — be sure that his maxim ever has been and 
 ever will be, anything for a quiet Hfe ! 
 
 The lovers of quiet lives are rarely to be found at the 
 lakes, or among the hills ; in the solitudes of the land, 
 the rustic paradises of nature, amid simple dreamy 
 scenes, far from the noisy haunts of the populace, Avith 
 all their rabid passions and riotous pursuits; no, but 
 they are to be met with constantly in Cheapside. They 
 spend their days in a great Babel, hungering after quiet, 
 and fancjang eternally that they are just securing it. 
 
 The doctrine laid down in their ever-ready exclama- 
 tion, " anything for a quiet life,'' implies the wisdom 
 of making continual sacrifices to attain a desired end,
 
 224 ANYTHING FOR A QUIET LIFE. 
 
 but not tlie wisdom of previously ascertaining whether 
 it be possible by sacrifices ever to attain it at all. 
 
 It is clear that what seems the shortest road to an 
 object is often no road to it at all. There is an example 
 in the story which the witty moralist relates of the false 
 expedient adopted by a mournful son to procure sor- 
 rowful faces at his father's funeral. He gave the mutes 
 crownpieces, to purchase their sad looks; but they 
 seemed now Kvelier than before, and he accordingly 
 advanced their pay to half-guineas ; whereat, instead of 
 sighs and moiu-ning airs, they smiled outright ; when, 
 to buy their deepest gloom, he paid them down guineas, 
 at sight of which every vestige of sorrow vanished — and 
 indeed he found that the more money he gave them to 
 look gloomy the more merriment was in their faces. 
 
 In hke manner, we may cite the popular practice of 
 calling out in public assemblies, "Silence!" and "Hear, 
 hear ! " with sufficient loudness and constancy to ensure 
 the vast and regular increase of the tumult ; and it 
 may happen that a continual struggle to secure a quiet 
 life, is the very reason why it is invariably missed. A 
 constant endeavour of any kind is scarcely compatible 
 with the idea of quiet ; and a life spent in sacrificing, 
 in giving up every bit of ground, in yielding every 
 point, and in beating an incessant retreat, for the sake 
 of quiet, can hardly perhaps be called a quiet life. 
 
 Squalls was the person who of all others used to act 
 most doggedly upon the principle of sacrifices for the 
 sake of tranquillity. When he first entered the world, 
 he set out on a journey in search of Quiet, and a 
 precious noise he always made about it. His life was a 
 pilgrimage to the shrine of Peace, but he was for ever 
 getting into a "jolly row^' on the road; and getting 
 out of it, by a sacrifice that was sure to come too late ; 
 a surrender that purchased no quarter; a desire for
 
 ANYTHING FOR A QUIET LIFE. 225 
 
 pacification that only provoked the enemy to further 
 hostihties. 
 
 He never in all his days avoided a quarrel for the 
 sake of quiet ; he only avoided^ for the sake of quiet, 
 the sole means of bringing the quarrel to a peaceful 
 end. He would begin a contest, but would never fight 
 it out; content, when it was at the highest, when 
 victory was all but his, and the desired calm could be 
 commanded, to give in philosophically, to put on the 
 air of a martyr, and to re-nerve his adversary by an 
 exasperating panegyric on quiet. When the prize con- 
 tended for was within reach, he would infallibly run 
 away, but not in time to save himself. After an hour^s 
 yelping and barking, the dog would lie down, expecting 
 to be allowed to repose because he left ofi". 
 
 How pleasant it was to obey his social summons, to 
 take one's seat at his round table, and prepare, with 
 three or four kindred spii'its, to enjoy what he used to 
 call a quiet evening ! What a rare notion Squalls had 
 of a quiet evening ! After the toil and hubbub of a day 
 of business, delicious indeed it was to settle do^vn, all 
 peace-lovers together, for a quiet evening ! 
 
 The only misfortune was, that Squalls would wrangle; 
 and it is not sui'prising, therefore, that the instant we 
 had finished the prelude, the little discussion upon the 
 weather, and had agreed that it was a delightfully calm 
 night, a stiff breeze sprang up, and the storm opened 
 upon us. In other words, the moment the contemplated V 
 quiet chat commenced, the " argument " began. Start 
 what subject you might, Squalls had just one quiet 
 observation to make, totally objecting. Remind him 
 that the point might hardly be worth a dispute, and he 
 would beg leave quietly to remark that a more vitally 
 important point never could be pointed out. He would 
 advance from an opinion to an allegation, meekly 
 
 L 3
 
 226 ANYTHING FOR A QUIET LIFE. 
 
 suggesting now, and confidently asserting by and by ; 
 combating every principle laid down, resisting every 
 argument raised, and protesting against everything that 
 had been said; until, when he had succeeded, by fierce 
 disputation, in setting us all by the ears, disturbing the 
 peace and endangering the safety of the table, he would 
 discover that the question of vital importance was really 
 not worth talking about. 
 
 " I give in," he would cry ; " I yield the point ; dare 
 say you 're all right, anything for a quiet life ; a little 
 quiet is worth all the argument in the world \" 
 
 And even this point, he would at the same moment 
 be ready to defend most turbulently; just as a man 
 might bet you two to one that laying wagers is an 
 insane practice. 
 
 Squalls wrangled by the hour, by the day, week, 
 month, and year; but was all the while in love with 
 nothing but a quiet life. If, in the nightly contention 
 for the prize of tranquillity, there were sometimes added 
 to the horrid din of many human voices bellowing for 
 peace and order, the clatter of tongs and poker; or, if 
 a shower of glasses aided their contents in taking a too 
 powerful efiect upon his brain, he rather enjoyed than 
 otherwise his broken head and fever-draughts, with the 
 blinds drawn down, and the kind servant creeping so 
 softly about in thick shoes, and the door creaking so 
 very gently that it only just sufficed to wake him every 
 time it closed or opened. 
 
 " There is something deliciously lulling," he would 
 say, as he rolled his eyes about, "in this profound calm; 
 I hope my head won't be better to-morrow ; anything 
 for a quiet hfe." 
 
 He resided in one of the streets in the Strand, lead- 
 ing to the river, " out of the noise," as he said. But 
 he had a country-house, a most serene and rural retreat,
 
 ANYTHING FOR A QUIET LIFE. 227 
 
 in a district dedicated to silence and solitude, where 
 there was never noise enough in a day to break the 
 flpng slumbers of a lynx ; a spot where you might hear 
 nothing but 
 
 " The motion of the elements, a song 
 Of silence that disposed the listening soul 
 To meditative quietness, and lulled 
 Not passions only, but the animal powers 
 With all their violent feelings. . . 
 
 . . So entire 
 Was the Dominion of Tranquillity." 
 
 " Come hither," wrote the sympathetic Squalls from 
 his remote retirement ; " hither, where peace and I 
 reside, and finish your Ode to Contemplation." Once, 
 and once only, was the imitation accepted. What a 
 dominion of tranquillity it was ! 
 
 For the quiet morning, after the early crowing, caw- 
 ing, and chirping were partly over, there were the ring- 
 ing of bells, the shouting of childi'en, the clatter of 
 forks and tankards at a never-ending breakfast, the 
 barking of dogs, the rolling of wheels, the lowing of 
 cattle, the laughter of rosy girls in high spirits, the 
 report of fire-arms, and the loud bawling of divers of 
 the smock-frock-tribe uttering no language at all, 
 though severally convinced that they were all speaking 
 plain English. 
 
 Then for the quiet evening : there were the most 
 riotous rubbers of whist, tumultuous piano-playing, 
 harp-playing, and flute-playing ; forfeits, and how-d^ye- 
 like-it; loud haw-hawing at frequent intervals, with 
 songs comic and sentimental ; and an occasional ear- 
 splitting " yoicks " from a lively sportsman, when his 
 heavier partner in the field-adventures of the A?iy began 
 to snore a little too vigorously. 
 
 Strolling into the garden to walk off the deafening
 
 228 ANYTHING FOR A QUIET LIFE. 
 
 effects of the day's delights, " How charming is the 
 quiet country ! " would Squalls exclaim. 
 
 " Very," was the natural answer, " impressively re- 
 minding one of the soothing serenity of Covent-garden 
 Market, and the silent pleasures of Smithfield-bars." 
 
 Quiet to Squalls was what the rasher of ham was to 
 the thunder-stricken Jew; a delicacy which he could 
 not enjoy, because there was such a terrible noise about 
 it. At length, by and by, when by a course of acci- 
 dents, our friend dropped down in the world, and it 
 became necessary to seek some occupation, he made a 
 rather sagacious choice. Far from the neighbourhood 
 of noise he could not prevail upon himself to go ; but 
 he nevertheless sought freedom from trouble and tumult. 
 He therefore accepted the office of money-taker at one 
 of the leading theatres. " Here," he said, tranquilly, 
 " I shall have a quiet time of it." 
 
 The desire of peace took a much firmer but scarcely 
 more consistent hold upon another member of the same 
 circle. Poor Pax ! you and your wife, Bella, were an 
 ill-matched pair. How came you to marry her ? it was 
 like going to Donnybrook-fair in search of some New 
 Harmony ! 
 
 The truth was, she would have him. She claimed 
 him for her partner in waltz, galope, and quadrille seven 
 times in one evening, and screamed him six bravuras 
 between the dances. She talked him into fits, and 
 assailed his nerves by means of the thundering double- 
 knocks of postmen. The affair began to make a little 
 noise, which he couldn't bear. Anything for a quiet 
 life. It was easier to marry than to escape. He 
 therefore quietly offered her his heart and hand, well 
 knowing that as a wife she would neither want to dance 
 with, nor to sing to him, to pour agreeable nothings in
 
 ANYTHING FOR A QUIET LIFE. 229 
 
 his ear incessantly, nor employ tyrant-postmen to 
 hatter at his peace. 
 
 Pax had but a single idea, and a single mode of 
 putting it in action ; the idea of quiet, and the giving 
 up eveiy thing, but one, in the wide world, to attain it. 
 The one thing excepted was the one thing he should 
 have given up first ; but this he never thought of. It 
 was his wife, Bella. 
 
 He was as meek as a mouse, but with a soul so small 
 that a mouse would have been ashamed to be caught in 
 a good-sized trap with it. He would not have dared 
 to nibble cheese, while there was a cat left in Christen- 
 dom. He would have preferred dying, half a grain a 
 day ; anything for a quiet life. 
 
 When he had put on his hat to go to his whist- club 
 for the evening, he was desired to take it off again. 
 Well, quiet was everything to him ; so he sat down 
 opposite his wife to hear the maid-servant rung for 
 every five minutes to be fresh scolded. 
 
 When clad in a new sable suit, just readj^ to attend 
 the remains of his relative to their last quiet home, he 
 was desired to array himself again in his brown and 
 drab, stay where he was, put some coals on, and keep 
 his feet off the fender. Mrs. Pax " could never see, 
 for her part, why a man should want to follow people 
 to their graves, while he has a quiet home of his own." 
 Well, compliance was easier than resistance; so down 
 he sate, to be lectured in shrill tones, for the remainder 
 of that day. 
 
 But there is always one bright spoke in Fortune's 
 Wheel, and it comes round now and then ; in Pax's 
 case the bright spoke consisted in this : his wife was 
 sometimes sulkv, and wouldn't speak to him for davs. 
 " How providence tempers the wind to the shorn lamb !" 
 he would cry. "What a blessing it is that even the
 
 230 ANYTHING FOR A QUIET LIFE. 
 
 best of wives have a sulky fit occasionally; one lias 
 such a quiet time of it then \" 
 
 The life of Pax was, during many hours of the day, 
 a cool and easy one, in a public office ; his official duties 
 were chiefly mechanical, and his mind was generally 
 far away from his desk, deep buried in a monastic 
 seclusion ; dim, quiet, and monotonous. He en\ded the 
 old monks ; their repose was true rapture. To do 
 nothing, and be undisturbed, uninterrupted all the 
 while, was an existence more glorious than that of the 
 gods ; unless we except the supreme fehcity pictured in 
 the line of Keats : 
 
 " There sate old Saturn quiet as a stone." 
 
 Quiet, in the mind of Pax, had long been associated 
 with '' a stone ;" but Bella was not destined to be laid 
 under it yet. So home he daily went, to a tranquil 
 abode, situated between a boarding-school for young 
 gentlemen, and the residence of a '^thorough bass^^ at 
 the Opera. This house Mrs. Pax always refused to quit, 
 because it afibrded her the full enjoyment of these two 
 nuisances, of which she approved when he complained, 
 and complained (thus doubling the noisy evil) when he 
 was silent. The thorough bass would have carried him 
 off to the Opera on some occasions, but Bella opposed 
 the proceeding, and, anything for a quiet life. Pax 
 always stayed at home to be soundly '"^rated.^^ 
 
 Plays of any kind pleased him but little. The 
 comedies were too noisy; and the actors themselves 
 laughed, instead of following the excellent example of 
 the audience ; while the tragedies were moving, and he 
 liked everything quiet. Once, when the people ap- 
 plauded, the quiet little soul, not liking the noise, set 
 up a " hish,'' which, being mistaken for a hiss, provoked 
 a desperate assault upon him by a theatrical enthusiast
 
 ANYTHING FOR A QUIET LIFE. 231 
 
 beliind. By command of liis wife, lie had the enthu- 
 siast bound over to keep the peace. " Ah !" sighed 
 Pax, " I wish his worship could bind me over, to keep 
 it. Wouldu^t I !" 
 
 Of course he never attended a public meeting, except 
 a Quaker's. Of every species of lusus natura, the 
 Agitator was the most anomalous to liim. How people 
 could delight in excitement, turmoil, and contention, 
 to the total sacrifice of a quiet life, was as mysterious as 
 to hear of fish enjoying the butter they ai'e fried in. 
 Nothing puzzled him more than such political convul- 
 sions as the Polish insurrection. Why could not Poles, 
 he wondered, " take things easy," and remain in peace 
 and tranquillity. He conjectm'cd that people lived very 
 quietly in Siberia. 
 
 To the Chinese war he was gently opposed, deeming 
 it lamentable that a breach of the peace should have 
 arisen out of the question of opium ; a thing which, if 
 taken in sufficient quantities, was calculated to make 
 people extremely quiet. He gave himself no concern 
 about the matter, but he used to wish, as he passed 
 through the streets, that the mandarins in the grocers' 
 shops would keep their heads still. 
 
 His favourite story-book was "Robinson Crusoe;" 
 although he thought it a pity that Friday should ever 
 have escaped, to interrupt the course of the solitary's 
 remarkably quiet life. His pet poem was the " Prisoner 
 of Chillon," who passed his time, particularly when he 
 had the dungeon all to himself, very quietly. 
 
 It was Bella's pleasure, one day, that he should 
 throw up his snug situation, and open a magnificent 
 hotel at the terminus of a railway. Anything for a 
 quiet life ; and he ruined himself accordingly, with 
 more expedition indeed than was strictly consonant 
 with comfort.
 
 232 ANYTHING FOR A QUIET LIFE. 
 
 After spending a few weeks in the hot season at 
 Margate, to get a little repose, he began to undergo the 
 exertion of thinking that something must be done to 
 recruit his finances; that some slow, steady, tranquil 
 avocation had become eminently desirable. But what 
 should it be ! When a boy, he used to think how he 
 should like to be a London watchman ; the watchmen 
 led such quiet lives. But these, to the very last of the 
 roses, were faded and gone ; and as cad to an omnibus, — 
 for one who along the " sequestered vale of life" Avould 
 keep the '^noiseless tenour of his way," — there was small 
 chance perhaps of uninterrupted felicity. 
 
 Happily, in this dilemma, a patron in the post-office 
 proffered a carriership, and Bella determined that it 
 was the very thing. Burthened with a full-sized packet 
 of penny missives, the devotee of quit and ease went 
 forth on his several daily rounds ; but he had a tranquil 
 little spirit, and a snaiFs pace; he had never hurried 
 himself in his life, and hated loud knocks at the door ; 
 so he rapped with extreme gentleness, waited five 
 minutes at every house, and then crept serenely on his 
 way to deliver the next letter. 
 
 A large quantity accumulating daily on his hands, 
 for want of time to complete his rounds, Bella insisted 
 that he should not think of delivering them at all ; 
 they should be burnt. He almost ventured to protest 
 audibly against this step, and he did look reluctant, 
 but, anything for a quiet life, they were burnt upon 
 the spot. 
 
 When he sneaked back into the noisy streets again, 
 after his twelvemonth's imprisonment, the last month 
 solitary, " Well," said he, in his small, calm way, " I 
 must say I Ve had a very quiet time of it there. I ^m 
 so glad poor Bella got off." 
 
 Shortly after, with unexampled serenity, he took leave
 
 AN ESSAY — ON LEGS. 233 
 
 of these turbulent shores^ to settle tranquilly, and 
 secure a quiet life, in a far- distant colony; forgetting, 
 however, to leave his direction with his amiable wife. 
 It would have been of no service to her ; for the ship 
 foundered, and Pax quietly went down with her, in the 
 Pacific Ocean. 
 
 AN ESSAY— ON LEGS. 
 
 If we admit self-preservation to be the first law of 
 nature, we must acknowledge that self-love stands as 
 A 1. among the Afiections. 
 
 Some degree of self-love, more or less, is at all events 
 common, by common consent, to the children of men. 
 But among man^s male children, another rule holds 
 good, and it is this : that the said self-love divides and 
 subdivides itself into a multitude of little predilections 
 and partialities, that settle upon some particular quality 
 of the brain, or faculty of the body ; so that in addition 
 to one's proper and natural amount of affection, due to 
 and diffused over one's entire self, we have branch-affec- 
 tions extending and belonging, and carrying especial 
 liking and favour, to various distinct portions of our own 
 organisation. 
 
 That one man, in addition to his stock of general and 
 equally distributed self-love, cherishes a particular regard 
 for some particular vice that forms part of himself, re- 
 quires no vehemence of assertion. He loves that one 
 disposition of his nature, because it is a manly vice, or a 
 small tender vice, or a frank bold vice, or a vice that 
 hurts nobody but himself (for it is astonishing how rea- 
 dily self-love reconciles itself to self-injury), or because 
 it is a pleasant vice, or a profitable one, or one that is 
 less shabby than his neighbour's. He has his favourite
 
 234 AN ESSAY ON LEGS. 
 
 aversions too, as well as his favourite attachments. This 
 is admitted. 
 
 Admitted, too, that another man, equally self-loving, 
 has as fond and exclusive a partiality for some especial 
 virtue that belongs to him. He is fond of it perhaps 
 for its own sake, perhaps because it happens to be his 
 (for he might not have admired it in another) ; or 
 because its maintenance through life has cost him some- 
 thing; or because it has brought him some credit and 
 renown ; a value-received virtue. He is proud of his 
 humility, he frankly brags of his candour, he is intoxi- 
 cated with a sense of his exemplary sobriety. All this 
 is undeniable. 
 
 At the same time, it is perfectly intelligible. We may 
 openly proclaim the hatred we cherish, and, according 
 to Johnson, get liked for it : we may secretly nurture 
 an overweening regard for any stray virtue we may 
 chance to possess ; we may encourage a partiality for 
 any small talent that may be ours over other talents as 
 surely our own, and of infinitely more importance ; that 
 is to say, a man who is great at chiseling a statue, may 
 take a more particular pride in being famous for cutting 
 out paper-likenesses with scissors ; and one who is con- 
 fessedly able in debate, may like much better to be told 
 that he dances well. There have been philosophers, 
 who would have been less pleased with the tribute, " You 
 reason wisely,^^ than with the compliment, " You sing 
 like a gentleman." 
 
 Extol some great lawyer for unerring judgment, and 
 profundity of knowledge, and he may listen unmoved ; 
 but praise his taste in wines, and you pour delight into 
 his very soul. There was a great comedian who felt no 
 pleasure in the laughter he everywhere raised ; but if 
 you told him that his whist playing was perfect, you 
 made him happy for a week.
 
 AN ESSAY ON LEGS. 235 
 
 Tliese examples of the little wajnvard partialities in 
 which self-love indulges are, as we have said, intelligible 
 enough. Not equally so are those that extend to, and 
 settle upon, some particular organ of the animal frame 
 which each man owns ; some feature of the face, some 
 limb of the body natural. 
 
 Yet what so common as instances of this species of 
 favouritism ; rather should we not say, what so univer- 
 sal as these predilections ? 
 
 Go where we will, among the sublime of the earth or 
 the ridiculous, among the beautiful or the ordinary, the 
 gray-headed or the flaxen-haired ; take all degrees from 
 Hj^erion to Caliban ; and what is to be seen but ever- 
 varying examples of this same favoxu'itism setthng upon 
 limbs and features in which nobody but their owners 
 ever perceived any distinguishing mark, not possessed 
 by other limbs and features of their class. 
 
 Self-love, however it may love the all of self, loves some 
 one bit of it better than the rest. It is the most vola- 
 tile of affections, until it has once fixed itself; and then 
 it never after stirs from the spot. It will chng to the 
 little finger of the right hand ; it will settle on the great 
 toe of the left foot ; it will hang upon an eyebrow; it 
 will take up its everlasting rest, astride, upon the bridge 
 of a nose. 
 
 Seeing the places where this most perverse and whim- 
 sical feeling of preference makes its selection and takes 
 up its abode, it is not too absurd to suppose that a man 
 may be suspected of cherishing a particular partiality 
 for the nape of his neck. He may not be vain of his 
 high forehead, nor of his broad chest, nor of his well- 
 turned feet ; but he may think there is something not 
 unhandsome, about tlic nape of his neck. 
 
 The hand, wheresoever regarded as an index to birth.
 
 236 AN ESSAY — ON LEGS. 
 
 the symbol of a fair descent, may have some show of 
 reason for any preference accorded to it ; but the prefer- 
 ence should attach to both hands equally, and should 
 not be cultivated beyond the aristocratic boundary. 
 The partiality should by no means be extended to the 
 Legs. 
 
 The Legs are not supposed by the most liberal in 
 such matters, to be safe guides to a knowledge of birth 
 and breeding. Yet in the race of partiality, the Legs 
 carry off the prize, beating every rival hollow. 
 
 Whiskers, it is true, amongst the great body of men- 
 children, are very formidable competitors. There are 
 men who care nothing about the finest crop of raven 
 cm'ls that ever figured in a novel or a hairdresser's 
 window; who don't care about broad shoulders, who 
 have no peculiar taste for small hands, who can do very 
 well without white dazzling teeth ; but who do confess, in 
 the face of the whole world, to a penchmit for whiskers. 
 
 The love of whiskers, in some natures, is intense. As 
 the cataract did by Lord Byron, they haunt people like 
 a passion. A passion for the mustache has been known 
 to sprout up rather stiffly, but will never bear compari- 
 son with the partiality excited by the whisker. Civil- 
 ised man, in some districts of society, would give his 
 eyes themselves to save his whiskers ; but legs outstrip 
 them, nevertheless. 
 
 How then does the case stand ? We see men, very 
 average sort of people, with no more self-love or vanity 
 than falls to the common lot, entertaining a violent 
 affection for some especial portion of their own animal 
 frames. Some look with partial eyes upon the left 
 hand, some upon the right foot ; some invest the whole 
 strength of their weakness in the hair, the preferences 
 of another cling to his nose ; while one, whom we lately
 
 AN ESSAY — ON LEGS. 
 
 237 
 
 encountered, possessing brilliant eyes, a fine mouth, 
 engaging manners, and goodly talents to sustain all, 
 was vain of nothing upon earth but his ears; the donkey ! 
 
 But far stronger, far more general and more lasting, 
 than any of these preferences, is the preference which 
 Man evinces for his Legs. There are persons who can- 
 not get on in life in consequence of the surpassing excel- 
 lence of then- legs. AMienever they attempt to move, 
 their legs are in the way. They may be said to be 
 always stumbling over their legs, or to be trying to walk 
 through the world with their legs uppermost.- 
 
 It must be granted that persons who possess legs of 
 the class to which the epithet " queer" is ordinarily 
 applied, may at first find a little difficulty in making 
 their way in the world. We see legs sometimes that 
 appear to have been designed (appropriately enough) 
 by Cruikshank. It might be imagined that the}^ had 
 been originally picked up, tied in a natural double 
 knot, about the time of the deluge ; having " neither 
 the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man." They are past 
 the aid of padding, and the miracle is how boots were 
 ever fitted to them by the genius of cobblery. 
 
 Yet even in one of these extreme cases, there is no 
 permanent difficulty, no real impediment to life's pro- 
 gress. The possessor of these queer appendages, com- 
 pared with which the rudest branch of a cork-tree were 
 symmetrical, soon becomes used to them. As he glances 
 down at his person he sees nothing in the remotest 
 degree resembling legs, and he forgets that he has such 
 things about him. He is only conscious of possessing 
 something not too shapeless to shuffle on with ; and so 
 on he shuffles. Awkward and ugly' as they are, those 
 legs bear him without tripping. Far happier he than 
 the Hero of the Handsome Legs, the owner of those 
 precious pets that are always playing at cross purposes.
 
 238 
 
 AN ESSAY— ON LEGS. 
 
 by getting in tlieir master's way, and carrying him into 
 a fool's paradise. 
 
 Who knows not one such hero of a fool's paradise ? 
 Philosophers have held much dispiitation about the 
 residence of the soul, while retained prisoner in the 
 body. It has been settled that the dancing-master's is 
 in his toe, and the lawyer's in his tongue ; that one 
 man's is in the palm of his hand, and another's but- 
 toned up in his breeches pocket. Our hero's, past all 
 doubt, lurks in his legs. 
 
 There is in them a superior consciousness, not com- 
 mon to the remainder of his corporeal substance. They 
 are more than his better half. You might throw his 
 head and heart into one scale, but his legs would never 
 kick the beam in the other. He is disgusted when 
 he hears the term "legs" appHed to scamps and vaga- 
 bonds. In his estimation they are the very " quint- 
 essence of dust," 
 
 The precious porcelain of human clay. 
 
 Were he a swan with two necks, instead of a goose with 
 one, he would consent to break both rather than frac- 
 ture either of his pets. How he looks upon them, 
 fondly and admiringly, at night and morning! — also 
 at noonday and in his dreams ! When are they out 
 of sight or out of mind? They are as "the ocean to 
 the river of his thoughts;" aU his sympathies run into 
 his legs, and looking at them. 
 
 He sees as from a tower the end of all. 
 
 His own lower extremities are, in his eyes, the termina- 
 tion of human nature; the boundary of the subhme 
 and beautiful, the pillars and supports of mortal fehcity. 
 L. E. L. has said, with equal simphcity and force, 
 Only by looking up can we see Heaven ; 
 
 our hero accomplishes this feat by opposite means.
 
 AN ESSAY ON LEGS. 239 
 
 and sees Heaven every moment by looking down, at 
 his legs. 
 
 The only consideration that detracts in some degree 
 from his supreme satisfaction, is, that but two legs are 
 allotted to man. He envies the centipede, in respect 
 to number, but in no respect would he condescend to 
 envy a two-legged Hercules or Apollo. He pities, 
 though they be but carvings on wood, or plaster images, 
 the heads that have nothing subjoined to them but a 
 pair of shoulders with wings branching from them, no 
 legs. He declares that, without his legs, he should feel 
 forlorn and destitute as a constituent body deprived for 
 corruption of two " honourable members.^^ He might 
 better compare himself, if in that condition, to the par- 
 liamentary body, dissolved. Take away his "honour- 
 able members" and he himself would be gone; with the 
 exception, perhaps, of a hat and coat. 
 
 Yet it must not be understood that our hero of the 
 legs does not wear a head or bear arms ; he does, but 
 his sense of the existence of these is merged in his 
 sense of the life which is in his legs. He lives for them, 
 not they for him. It is they alone that give him stand- 
 ing in society, and he lavishes kindness upon them 
 accordingly. 
 
 There is no indulgence of which legs are susceptible 
 that they enjoy not ; superior silk hose, faultless ima- 
 ginables, and boots fit for a seraph. He toasts them at 
 firesides, . and stretches them at full length on sofas. 
 Wherever he may happen to be, his legs are sm^e to 
 be thrust out conspicuously, like a pigeon's through 
 the pie-crust. You must see his legs before you can 
 see him. 
 
 Whatsoever he may appear to be looking at, his eye 
 is in reality on them. No matter wliat the subject 
 may be on which you are conversing with him, liis legs
 
 240 AN ESSAY— ON LEGS". 
 
 are manifestly in liis mind, crossing its narrow space, 
 backwards and forwards, at full stmt. You are fresh, 
 it may be, from Rome, and are eloquent in your expa- 
 tiation upon tlie magnificence of St. Peter's. There is 
 a rising pleasure in his face as you are speaking ; his 
 imagination seems to be sympathising with yours ; and 
 there is a delightful enthusiasm in his tone, as, while 
 his eye glances down his well-dressed leg, he exclaims, 
 " It is indeed a noble structure ! " 
 
 There may be samples of the short-sighted fraternity 
 who never saw beyond their noses ; our hero's vision is 
 not so bounded: he alwavs sees his legs before him, 
 picture what steeples, towers, and pjTamids you will. 
 
 " A splendid calf ! " he exclaimed, placing his leg in 
 a graceful rest, as we asked him whether he had heard 
 our favourite statesman make his celebrated speech; 
 and when we told him how his excellent lady-mother 
 had fainted in church that morning, " Capital," cried 
 he, surveying his legs in their new attire ; " capital ; I 
 never had such a prime fit." 
 
 But althoiigh we preserve the plural " legs," it must 
 not be imagined that our hero, vast as is his affection 
 for both, loves them in exactly equal proportions. No, 
 his right is his favourite leg. He slaps it, pats it rather, 
 with an extra touch of tenderness, three times to the 
 other's twice. He prefers his left to anything, except 
 his right, in the wide universe. 
 
 Were he by some unlucky mischance, wandering on 
 forbidden ground at midnight, to be caught by the leg, 
 by the right leg, in a mantrap ! But the imagination 
 recoils aghast from a picture so horrible. 
 
 It excites no terror to fancy eagles picking at him, 
 for he has no partiality for his eyes. A vulture gnawing 
 his liver may be contemplated with composed nerves, 
 for he takes no pride in it. A sharp spiked collar, or
 
 AN ESSAY ON LEGS. 241 
 
 an iron glove too tights would present a spectacle of 
 pain if fastened on some people ; but he is totally 
 unconcerned about bis tbroat^ and sets no value upon 
 his fingers. Leave his legs alone, and you cannot 
 injure him. A scrap of a dog nibbling at even his left 
 calf, would conjure in his brain an image of greater 
 terror than a tiger springing upon his shoulder. 
 
 "^^Tiat if the fell monster Gout should seize on one of 
 those twin-perfections, on his favourite limb, his pet 
 prodigy ! Could he put in leg-bail to answer for his 
 appearance afterwards ? 
 
 The future, with its train of terrible possibilities, must 
 not be thought of; enough that his legs are ever-pre- 
 sent, and that {ex pede Herculem) by his leg he is known. 
 Until Time shall tell him that he has not one to stand 
 upon, he smiles defiance at calamity. 
 
 A man vrith handsome legs is no doubt, in his march 
 through life, marvellously impeded by their beauty ; but 
 on the other hand, he has a double stock of pleasure : 
 first, in admiring his own, and next in quizzing the 
 queer ones. He has no definite recollection of any 
 man's physiognomy, but he can swear to the legs that 
 he has seen onlv once, and that in a crowd. 
 
 " Look at this fellow before us," he cries ; "just look ; 
 did you ever see such a monster V 
 
 " Why, his nose is rather red, to be sure ; but I see 
 nothing remarkable." 
 
 ^' In his face ? Oh ! I haven't looked at his face ; 
 look at his legs \" 
 
 You ask him on another occasion, how he Hked the 
 new Falstaff"? 
 
 " Not much," is the answer ; " the man acts the 
 character superbly, his humour is exquisite, and his eye 
 says all that the tongue cannot say, but his legs are 
 anything but first-rate ; and it strikes me, do you know, 
 
 VOL. HI. M
 
 242 AN ESSAY ON LEGS. 
 
 that be had been tampering with them ; to speak plain 
 English, stuffing." 
 
 "I confess," he says another time, "to a decided 
 aversion to the cabinet-minister you mention, an insu- 
 perable aversion ; I never liked the look of his legs." 
 
 " I met Z. last night," you remark, " and without 
 being uncharitable, T must say that man has no heart." 
 
 " No heart !" he exclaims ; " my dear sir, you are 
 too charitable by half. No heart ! Why, the man has 
 no legs ! Did you ever see such things as he scrambles 
 about upon?" 
 
 He admits Mr. to be a very fine speaker, but 
 
 still thinks it a sad pity that such a man should ever 
 " get upon his legs" in public. 
 
 There is one point upon which he is rather anxious in 
 his inquiries. He asks everybody he meets, if they 
 happen to have been in America, whether it is true 
 that people in the theatres there, sit in the dress-boxes 
 with their legs hanging over the front. He thinks it 
 must have an odd look to persons accustomed to sit 
 boxed-up as in England, and to hide their legs in society 
 by tucking them as far as they can under the chairs. 
 " To be sure," he adds, " some folks have a very 
 good reason for it, not being so well able to afford 
 the exhibition of their legs to the gaze of a pit-full of 
 critics." 
 
 He has often had thoughts of papng a \dsit to the 
 United States himself. He believes the whole story to 
 be false, spirit and letter; or else, he observes, the 
 Americans ought to be a fine-legged set of fellows. 
 
 He despises the Turldsh costume, as denoting a total 
 want of moral courage, as involving a cowardly conceal- 
 ment of limb : but he thinks Solon a great fool for not 
 wearing trousers in the elderly stage, and Englishmen 
 far wiser for getting rid of their " tights." He considers
 
 THE THIEF OF TIME. 243 
 
 tliat the Roman gave but a poor proof of courage and 
 fortitude in thrusting his hand into a pan of burning 
 coals ; true courage would have consisted in putting his 
 foot in it. He looks upon the man who has lost a well- 
 turned leg defending his country, as ha^dng made the 
 noblest sacrifice that patriotism is capable of; but he 
 wonders extremely how any one possessed of a favourite 
 leg, shattered as it might be, could ever consent to have 
 it taken off. "Around the dear ruin" his affections 
 would twine themselves like a bandage. He regards 
 the mutilated warrior, stumping along on two bits of 
 wood, as on a footing only with the great majority of 
 his fellow-men, whose legs, tramping about town, are, 
 as he can plainly discern, much of the same shape and 
 substance ; but of all the legs lost at Waterloo, not one, 
 he is persuaded, could have replaced in its pride and 
 symmetry the least perfect of his o^n^. 
 
 The individual glory of loss may be great, but not 
 equal to the national glory in the possession of one 
 matchless pair. He intends to bequeath them, at his 
 death, to an admiring country, pro^dded always that the 
 gift shall neither be derisively called a legacy, nor 
 lamented in a hackneyed elegy. 
 
 THE THIEF OF TIME. 
 
 -*- 
 
 And then he swore 
 To leap the Pyramids, but put it off. — The Wager. 
 
 Poetry might be stigmatised as the "Thief of Time," 
 with as much justice as Procrastination. How many 
 nights and days has it stolen of mine ? Dr. Young 
 alone has filched from me, at various seasons, a choice 
 
 M 2
 
 244 THE THIEF OF TIME/ 
 
 little collection of valuable hours, to say nothing of 
 sundry scraps of broken mornings, and little bits of 
 intervals, not bigger than a minute, every now and 
 then, lost in heedless quoting or inconsiderate reflec- 
 tion. Yet this same reverend poet (one of his two pro- 
 fessions might have taught him better) must needs hold 
 up to perpetual obloquy a quality quite as honest as his 
 own poetical craft, merely because it can't keep its hand 
 long out of Time's hour-glass, but picks it of a sand or 
 two pretty often, as the old stroller pushes through the 
 crowd. 
 
 Procrastination was always a pet quality of mine. I 
 have kept it in sharp practice ever since that now dis- 
 tant hour, when the first of my school-lessons was piti- 
 lessly set me : and as men may come at length to feed 
 pleasantly on poisons, and to enjoy, like the last of the 
 brothers in Chillon's dungeon, companionship with mice 
 and spiders, — so may a bad quahty, industriously exer- 
 cised during half a lifetime, become an object of the 
 most tender affection. 
 
 Moreover, there is one maxim upon which wise men 
 always act, and it is this ; when it is absolutely impos- 
 sible to get rid of a vice, they comfort their consciences 
 by arguing for it as a virtue. 
 
 Procrastination, be it vice or virtue, is not so common 
 to all the world as all the world supposes. Few persons 
 know how thoroughly to enjoy it. They only procras- 
 tinate with their business ; they never dream of pro- 
 crastinating with their pleasures ; thus leaving unexer- 
 cised the better half of the principle of procrastination. 
 Any idler or blockhead can with ease postpone a matter 
 of business : but rightly to understand how to defer his 
 pleasures, tasks the faculties of a philosopher. 
 
 Pleasures are always the sweeter for being put off, 
 just as venison is the better for being kept. I like my
 
 THE THIEF OF TIME. 245 
 
 pleasures high, as the gentleman did who got drunk on 
 the Monument, 
 
 You may observe an epicure, how he wantons with a 
 choice morsel before he devours it, shaping it tenderly 
 with his knife, coaxing it as it were with his fork, 
 humom'ing it with a multitude of little touches, all 
 indicative, and at the same time provocative, of extreme 
 relish ; how gradually it becomes impregnated with the 
 properties that " give delight and hurt not ; " how he 
 vivifies it with infinitesimal ministrations of salt, two 
 grains at a time ; how, in short, he lingers in pleasing 
 dalliance with a bit of green fat, 
 
 " With sweet, reluctant, amorous deby." 
 
 Behold, moreover, the true lover of wine : is he ruth- 
 lessly bent on 
 
 " Tearing his pleasures with rough strife ? " 
 
 Does he spring upon his prey, like a tigress upon a 
 planter ? See him, how he pauses ; how he tastes it 
 with his eyes ; how he inhales its fragrance, physicallj^ 
 as well as spiritually ; ynth. what felicity he procrasti- 
 nates, with what art he postpones his delight only to 
 heighten it ! No drop of that precious draught, subtle 
 inspirer, touches his lips, until he is in a suitable frame 
 of mind. The imagination, the gusto, the life of life 
 must be awake, or you might as well pour the sparkling 
 liquid over the palate of a sleeping man. 
 
 As in free countries a cat may look at a king, so may 
 any king take lessons from a cat. Watch her Avith a 
 mouse newly captured. How she prolongs her enjoy- 
 ment by postponing its climax. How she lets her cap- 
 tive go, and then makes him prisoner again. How she 
 resists the eager promptings of appetite, and devours 
 not, though she may, playing, humouring, in short, 
 procrastinating, and at last administering the fatal coup
 
 246 THE THIEF OF TIME. 
 
 de grace, with a reluctance that adds a zest to the treat. 
 The lesson this teaches is^ that even if we had nine 
 lives, instead of one, pleasures are never plentiful enough 
 to be wasted ; to be snapped up all at once, in an 
 instant; consumed extravagantly, in haste, and upon 
 the spot ; instead of allowing them to remain within 
 reach for a time, to ripen on the sunny side of the ima- 
 gination ; thus making the most of a rarity. 
 
 But there is an old saying, "You may play with your 
 mouse till you lose it.^' True, procrastination overmuch 
 is very apt to spoil pleasure. No man is advised to let 
 his haunch hang for a whole year, or to take a quart of 
 brandy for a Avhet. 
 
 Be it known, however, that in any case, save that in 
 which pleasure may happen to be concerned, procrasti- 
 nation in excess is as likely to prove beneficial, as in 
 that one instance it is calculated to be injurious. 
 
 There is a class of duties that stand between what 
 are properly called the pleasures of life and its regular 
 business. Such for example is the duty of inditing 
 suitable replies to friendly and family epistles ; sheets- 
 full of chit-chat from the seaside, or loving inquiries 
 from kind old souls in odd nooks of the country. Now 
 here let me own myself a good hater. If there be a 
 detestable duty on earth, it is this one ; and the penny 
 postage presses it upon us all with peculiar severity. 
 It is not only a duty hateful in itself, but it is more so 
 by reason of the seeming absence of excuse for neglect- 
 ing it. To think that the " letters Cadmus gave,^' should 
 be employed to answer letters ! 
 
 Luckily, of all tasks it is one of the easiest to post- 
 pone. You have only to sit down, with writing-desk 
 at hand, taking care to do nothing, and the evil is at 
 once avoided. Just sit down one of these fine days, 
 and say quietly to yourself, " I ought to write to Mr.
 
 THE THIEF OF TIME. 247 
 
 This, and also to Mrs. That," and you will find your 
 morning slip away in soothing languor and a comfortable 
 indolence. Next day another friendly letter comes; and 
 then two more epistolaiy blessings, long ones, crossed ; 
 when procrastination at once becomes not a choice, but 
 a necessity. It is clear that you cannot write off such 
 an arrear, if you were to try, and yet try you certainly 
 will, in the evening, or perhaps to-morrow. But by 
 this time, the cause for procrastination, which was 
 strong before, has become stronger; and thus the 
 longer you defer the discharge of your duty, the more 
 complete is your vindication. 
 
 Not that you are really neglecting your friends and 
 relatives after all ; for you are always thinking of them. 
 By not answering their letters, you draw them yet 
 closer to you ; they haunt you hourly ; they come rap- 
 ping at the door of your memory every few minutes, 
 presenting letters for answers, like bills for payment ; 
 they are with you as you walk, whispering their requests 
 for your note of hand at a short date ; they return home 
 with you to remind you that you owe them a " duly- 
 received " and a " truly-obliged ; " they dun your con- 
 science to death until they get it ; and supernatural 
 postmen are sent to give a hard double-knock at your 
 head, ever and anon, in the night-time. It is impos- 
 sible to neglect such excellent correspondents ; for (by 
 the way) by the strangest of contradictious, I have 
 observed that those who write very frequently, and 
 make their letters very long, are invariably regarded as 
 '^excellent correspondents." Now one would have 
 thought, on the contrary; but this is a digression. 
 
 The beauty of it all is, that unless you grow impa- 
 tient of postponement, and foolishly terminate your fit 
 of procrastination a Uttle too soon, you will find that 
 these letters have cither answered themselves in some
 
 248 
 
 THE THIEF OF TIME. 
 
 way, or survived the necessity for any answer at all. 
 Procrastination, therefore, on some occasions, not only 
 eflFectually puts off the evil day, but actually blots it 
 out of the calendar. He must be a fool, who, when 
 sentenced to be hanged, would not get a reprieve if he 
 could ; because he might break out of prison, or cheat 
 his prosecutor by dying a natural death — from indiges- 
 tion, or the fatigue of receiving ^dsitors. 
 
 There are cases, however, by hundreds, in which duty 
 and pleasure are very often combined ; such as in pay- 
 ing debts, and visits, and getting married. People 
 procrastinate on these points ; but it is the sense of 
 postponing a duty that moves them ; for, as it has been 
 hinted before, an unmixed pleasure they know not how 
 to defer. If the payment of a debt were a pure and 
 simple act of enjoyment, like eating ices in the dog- 
 days, there are persons alive who would probably be 
 more punctual; but it is held to be also a duty, as 
 Mr. Weller conceives it to be the duty of bank-clerks 
 to eat sandwiches; and accordingly they procrastinate. 
 
 They procrastinate likewise in the matter of paying 
 visits, when they esteem the payment to be a duty; but 
 then they postpone the conclusion of the visit, they 
 defer the hour of their departure, on exactly the same 
 grounds. They only procrastinate because they feel it 
 to be their duty; "their going might break up the 
 party ; '' " it would be an offence to other visiters ; " 
 " it would be an ungrateful return for hospitality ; " 
 and they considerately, in the most self-sacrificing man- 
 ner, lengthen their stay, and procrastinate, out of a 
 sense of duty, to the last. 
 
 As for marriage, the old bachelor may appear to some 
 the pink of procrastinators ; but it is not so : and for 
 the selfsame reason that procrastination rarely defers 
 its pleasures. The bachelor, in nine cases out of ten, is
 
 THE THIEF OF TIME. 249 
 
 one, and remains one, not because lie has been procras- 
 tinating with marriage, and postponing the happy day 
 until it can never arrive, but because he has been too 
 eager in his efforts to cast off his bachelorship. He is 
 a bachelor, not because he delayed his offers too long, 
 but because he has made twenty that never were 
 accepted. 
 
 TVTio does not perfectly well understand, that every 
 bachelor of fifty has been judiciously refused at least 
 five times ? Instead of supposing that he never made 
 an offer of his hand, suppose with great truth that he 
 has made a goose of himself altogether. 
 
 He has seen a fascinator of seventeen, an enchantress 
 of twenty, an angel of twenty-three, a goddess under 
 thirty, and a di\4nity, fat, fair, and something else; 
 and to each has he opened his mouth, almost as soon as 
 he opened his eyes. He modestly assumed, in every 
 case, that there was a heart to let for a single gentle- 
 man, furnished ; and of course he had a decided " No " 
 from the lady's lips, which was equivalent to the door 
 being slammed in his face ; and a glance of scorn from 
 a pair of eyes over which the fair lids immediately 
 dropped in disdain, which was equivalent to the blinds 
 being drawn doAvn. 
 
 No, no ; never conclude that the old bachelor has 
 been a procrastinator. It were a culpable excess of 
 charity to regard him as a waiter upon Providence, a 
 hanger-on upon the skirts of life, a loiterer by the way- 
 side, content to wait and be picked up by the compas- 
 sionate. 
 
 Call him an offshoot of antiquity, a mateless non- 
 entity, one of the odds-and-ends of humanity, the fossil 
 remains of an animal happily extinct, part of a lot 
 knocked down at the fall of Nineveh, a piece of mortal 
 stuff thrown aside as of no use when mortality was 
 
 M 3
 
 350 THE THIEF OP TIME. 
 
 fashioned, a scrap of waste clay set walking, a chip of 
 the fag-end of the Ark ; say all this, and in most 
 instances it will be gross flattery. 
 
 Depend upon it, the case generally is, as it has just 
 been stated. It is not that he has never had the 
 courage to " pop " the question ; it is, that he never 
 had the mingled wit and modesty to "pop'^ it properly. 
 
 The man who really procrastinates in the affair of 
 marriage, rarely dies a bachelor, although double-bless- 
 edness may visit him rather late in the day. 
 
 This is one of the few cases in which the procras- 
 tinator dallies with his pleasures, finding dehght in their 
 delay, enjoying their very postponement. But defer 
 the critical occasion as he may, it will come; the 
 offering must be made, the acceptance must be sealed. 
 The ground on which he has entered is so beset with 
 springes; so filled with surprises, persuasives, and 
 allurements ; with soothing coercion, and desire mixed 
 with dread of captivity, that off his guard he must be 
 caught at some time. He may fight shy, or feel 
 reluctant, and fancy himself free as air ; all this for 
 years; but in a moment, when least expected, in the 
 midst of his illusion, when his dream of liberty is most 
 flattering, sweet, and substantial too ; lo ! he finds 
 himself seated, apparently on a down-pillowed settee, 
 but really on the horns of a dilemma ; seemingly on a 
 daisied-bank, but virtually on thorns ; encircled in a 
 fairy-bower, yet driven into an awkward corner, with 
 Nature crying aloud throvigh all her works in an impe- 
 rious, yet insinuating voice, asking him, " What his 
 intentions are ? " No ; procrastination may defer the 
 capture, but it cannot provide the escape. 
 
 We must turn to the procrastinator in the aff'airs of 
 business ; and business includes lawsuits ; but these 
 would lead us into a lane that has no turning. Pro-
 
 THE THIEF OF TIME. '251 
 
 crastination dies^ of sheer inanition^ before it comes to 
 the end of it. 
 
 A grand mistake which men of business constantly 
 commit, consists in their setting about it as a thing that 
 cannot be postponed. 
 
 " Business that admits of no delay/' is a description 
 of every business they are engaged in. They Avould 
 deliver procrastination bound hand and foot into the 
 custody of the police, and transport the innocent for 
 life. But how often might that Thief of Time have 
 saved them from the consequences of dishonesty ! In 
 their horror of postponement, they pack up the goods 
 and send them off ; discovering, the next hour, that the 
 customer, now in possession of the prize, is an arrant 
 cheat. They hasten to bid in the public auction, and 
 buy the wrong lot. They fly, lest the golden opportunity 
 should be lost, and break their necks. 
 
 Such is their abhorrence of procrastination, that they 
 run headlong, and without once stopping, into the 
 Gazette. The moral, that speaks volumes in favour of 
 this much-abused principle, is heard continually in tlie 
 exclamation, " It 's done now, and can't be helped." 
 But it might have been, had not promptitude put aside 
 all precaution. 
 
 It is all very well to hit the iron while it 's hot ; but 
 suppose the iron afterwards enters into your soul, is it 
 any comfort to recollect that you hit it the instant it 
 was out of the fire ? 
 
 '' Act in haste and repent at leisure," " They stumble 
 who run fast," &c., are maxims well remembered in 
 business, but seldom reserved for practical use. Any 
 mischief, the result of undue speed, is forgiven, rather 
 than the seemingly unnecessary delay, which may 
 after all have shown the work itself to be needless, as 
 well as the speed. Any habit but procrastination may
 
 252 THE THIEF OF TIME. 
 
 obtain pardon; and yet this habit, if it have missed 
 many opportunities of making a fortune, has saved 
 many a fortune from being untimely swallowed up. 
 
 If these men of business could push their steam- 
 engines on at a rate so rapid, that the boilers would not 
 have time to explode, they might succeed better ; but 
 meanwhile, to avoid dilatoriness, they rush upon destruc- 
 tion. They know perfectly well that a great deal more 
 evil in business arises from over-confidence than from 
 over-caution ; and yet their advice is, shun procrastina- 
 tion at all risks. 
 
 The only pleasure business ever brought me, was the 
 exercise of a "free-born Englishman's^' privilege of 
 postponing it as long as I could; and never was it 
 worse executed at last, for being then imperative upon 
 me, and the instant result of the inward settled con- 
 viction, '' Now it must be done." 
 
 The spur supplied by that necessity, often insures a 
 steady, as well as a speedy, leap over every difficulty. 
 
 But procrastination must not be partially patronised ; 
 if adopted at all, it must be followed out as a principle 
 of your nature. It will not do to defer a point of 
 business simply because it is disagreeable, which would 
 be a dangerous sanctioning of Barnardine's whim, in 
 objecting to get up and be hanged; — business, to be 
 safely delayed, must be delayed because it is business. 
 Otherwise, one would procrastinate here, and another 
 there, and a stoppage would be the result, for the want 
 of a general understanding and the observance of a 
 rule. But make the rule universal, and where is the 
 inconvenience ? I promise a prompt attention, and you 
 know that I shall procrastinate. I postpone the per- 
 formance of my engagement, and you defer youi' 
 expectation to a distant day. All thus is as well as 
 ever. When you know (as I have remarked on another
 
 HAVING ONE^S OWN WAY. 253 
 
 occasion), that a man will not keep Ms word, when you 
 can rely on his disappointing you, the convenience is as 
 great as when you can place confidence in his punctuality. 
 
 The true procrastinator will never give you much trou- 
 ble. He stu's, when he can stand still no longer. You 
 are sure of his help, when he cannot help himself. There 
 is also an advantage in knowing what he -will not do. 
 If you have given him provocation, resenting his delays, 
 he will scarcely call you out within a twelvemonth, 
 when his anger will have cooled. If he write to com- 
 plain, he will never put the letter in the post. If he 
 meditate a pamphlet against you, he will never get 
 beyond the title-page. In the end, his memory, much 
 musing, but sleeping half its time, -will grow confused ; 
 and he will begin to doubt whether you cruelly injured 
 him, or he vou. t 
 
 His impression mil probably be, that he has acted 
 very shamefully; and ought to have apologised. He 
 will then talk of shooting himself; but wdll die quietly 
 of old age, before he can decide upon the respective 
 claims of hair-triggers and the New River. 
 
 HAVING ONE'S OWN WAY. 
 
 Who, that has looked upon the world " for four times 
 seven years" (which one's wife calls five at least), has 
 ever, throughout tliat period, discovered more than one 
 way that he ardently desired to have, or could con- 
 scientiously think worth having ? Of course, the one 
 way is one's own way. For my part, I never wanted 
 any other ; but I have invariably wanted that. Now 
 that happens to be exactly the way that people, of 
 whatsoever degree, will never let you have if they can
 
 264} HAVING one's own way. 
 
 help it. You may have theirs if you will^ and welcome ; 
 they endeavour with all their soul and with all their 
 strength to persuade you to have it ; nay, you may pick 
 from a profusion; but you must not have your own 
 way. The world is all before you where to choose, so 
 that your choice fall not on the sole object that you 
 thirst for, the one thing you want, — that one thing 
 happening of all others upon earth to belong to you by 
 right, to be emphatically your own. 
 
 The world is singularly consistent in its inconsistency. 
 Every individual atom in society is duly impressed with 
 a conviction of the privilege and the pleasure of having 
 its own little way, while it is immoveably fixed in a reso- 
 lution to let no fellow-atom secure that requisite and 
 natural indulgence. " I don't care, I will have my own 
 way," says eVtery man to himself. " Now, don't be so 
 obstinate, don't insist upon having your own way," is 
 the cry of every man to his neighbour. 
 
 I hate obstinacy as I hate egotism. I never could 
 bear unnecessarily to oppose myself to the wishes of 
 other people. I blush like a lobster when I get into 
 hot water. But at the same time, though the most 
 docile and tractable creature alive, I ahvays said from 
 my very cradle, and I always shall say it, " What is the 
 use of other people's ways to me ? Let me always have 
 my own ; I never ask for more, and won't be satisfied 
 'with less." If there's anything unreasonable in this, 
 let the reader tell me so at once, and I '11 discuss the 
 point with him Avhen we meet. I was always a friend 
 to free discussion. I 'm of opinion with Mr. Croaker, in 
 some play that I once saw, that there 's no objection to 
 argument when you have finally made up your mind, 
 because reason can then do no harm. 
 
 I had hardly crept out of the cradle just adverted to, 
 when I began to give proofs of that independent turn of
 
 HAVING one's own WAY. 255 
 
 mind, the self-acting principle of my disposition, which 
 I am now lapng claim to as being almost all that I can 
 positively call my own; the more reason you will say 
 why I shoidd value it as I do, and take pride in the 
 possession of it. It has cost me something, I 'm sure, 
 and ought to be worth bragging of, but I never boast. 
 Why should you ? you will ask in the sequel. 
 
 Poor old Wheezle ! If she were alive, wouldn't she 
 remember the day? It was my fourth birthday, and 
 there was a general conspiracy all tlirough the house to 
 make me comfortable and happy. They were aU, I 
 beheve, very fond of me. Indeed, I have generally 
 observed that spirited children who show signs of 
 having a will of their own; who won't submit to be 
 quietly trained up in the way they should go, like young 
 rabbits ; who are not afraid to squall, and can kick for 
 themselves as it were ; are much more apt to attract 
 notice, and to be petted and indulged by the people 
 about them, than children of a meeker and less im- 
 patient temper. It fared so with me, at all events ; 
 for I had always ten times as many toys, sweetmeats, 
 and holidays, as my brother, who was too meek and 
 mute to disturb a mouse, and who would, with sur- 
 prising readiness, and as I sometimes thought with real, 
 but certainly with apparent pleasure, do exactly at all 
 times what he was told to do, instead of the reverse, 
 which ever seemed so natural to me. It happened, at 
 any rate, on this birthday of mine, that all hands were 
 busied in supplying materials for a gi-and nursery festi- 
 val. It was all arranged ; I was to go out in the morn- 
 ing, receive company when I came home, and be allowed 
 to make myself almost as ill as I liked. But some- 
 how all this displeased me. I got up in an ill humour, 
 and as I liked it, I kept in it throughout the day. I 
 was very fractious, undoubtedly, as boys will be. They
 
 256 HAVING one's own way. 
 
 had all resolved tliat I should be happy, and I remember 
 that I could not bear the sense of control, I could not 
 bear that they should have their way, and I not have 
 mine. So they were all thwarted, for I would neither 
 go out nor see my ^dsiters, and lest I should break a 
 bloodvessel, or my father's afternoon nap, my mother 
 ordered that I should "have my own way." Poor 
 Wheezle, she did humour me, to be sure ! All day 
 long I led her such a life, and she never crossed me in 
 anything. At last having scattered or torn up aU my 
 books and prints, my eyes rested upon a splendid volume 
 (one of Hogarth's) of which I had once or twice caught 
 a glimpse, and which I now resolved to finger. I 
 screamed for it, but in vain. Wheezle was not an ill- 
 natured woman, but she was just one of those persons 
 who will cheerfully render you ninety-nine ser^dces, 
 and then refuse the hundredth if it does not suit them 
 to grant it. Now it was this hundredth that I wanted, 
 and certainly I did roar. Any book but that I might 
 have ; dozens were offered, but there could be no substi- 
 tute ; I screamed and stamped. Few boys are fully 
 aware of what screaming and stamping will eflPect, if 
 duly persevered in. My mother came as before, " Let 
 him have his way, his father says he may have the 
 book." And then observing, perhaps, that I was stand- 
 ing rather close to the fender, she quitted the room 
 with a maternal direction, " Take care he doesn't play 
 with the fire." 
 
 Now it so happens that I had never thought of such a 
 thing as playing with the fire. Of all the mischievous 
 expedients which I had that day hit upon, playing with 
 the fire had never crossed my mind. Here was a dis- 
 covery ! Playing with the fire must be pleasant under 
 any circumstances; but playing with fire when care 
 was to be taken that I did not ! who could resist, that
 
 HAVING one's own WAY. 257 
 
 loved to have his own way ? The book instantly lost 
 its charmSj but I was quiet as I tui'ned over its leaves ; 
 and fatigued to the utmost^ so as to be completely over- 
 come by the sudden change from tumult to tranquillity, 
 my old attendant began to doze. I seized the oj)portu- 
 nity, tore two or three of the prints out of the splendid 
 volume, set light to them, and flung them blazing upon^ 
 the fender; so that, watching the expiring sparks, I 
 could enjoy the sport which childi'en call " seeing the 
 people out of church." From that hour I date the 
 formation of my character. Until the day when I was 
 full four years of age, I had no guiding principle, no 
 fixed purpose. I then conceived the glory of having 
 one's own way, and I had it. To be sure, on repeating 
 the flare with another handful of illustrious leaves, I set 
 my frock on fire, and was found rolling on the rug in 
 an agony ; nor were the flames extinguished until I was 
 so burnt as to be in imminent danger for weeks. My 
 features to this day bear dreadful marks of the ravage, 
 and my wife is every now and then fidgety lest the next 
 boy should be like me. Still, it will be observed, I 
 achieved my object ; young as I was, I had my way. 
 
 The consequences, however, made me cautious, though 
 not less resolved. Then I grew bigger, and became 
 less circumspect. It was sufficient to warn me not to 
 go upon the ice, to insure my being brought home by 
 that punctual delivery company, the Humane Society. 
 If I took it into my head to go to the play without 
 parental permission, to the play I went, though it were 
 to see my own father's tragedy damned ; and if I had 
 made up my mind to go to church, by the same rule I 
 verily believe I should have gone. The temptation in 
 such cases would naturally be rendered slight by the 
 lack of opposition. If I could have my own way un-
 
 258 HAVING ONE S OWN WAY. 
 
 opposed, I never found it particularly worth having. 
 But resistance stimulated me to exertion, to stratagem, 
 and almost invariably to success. I may give an ex- 
 ample of the mode by which, very early in life, I con- 
 trived to accomplish my ends, trivial as they were. 
 Endeavouring to engage a companion in the game 
 known among boys as that of " playing at horses," I 
 proposed to him " to be my horse." My reins of string 
 were ready, but he doggedly refused. I pressed him to 
 submit ; he woTild not. I threatened, but I saw by his 
 flashing eye and clenched fist that, though far inferior 
 in strength to myself, force would be wholly unavaihng, 
 and that his obstinacy was invincible. Of course I 
 didn't care about playing with the young scamp, but I 
 had made the proposal, and " mij horse " he must be. 
 It became necessary to change the terms of the propo- 
 sition, the object being exactly the same. "Well, 
 then," I suggested, " I 'm not particular ; come, I '11 be 
 your cart /" To this he instantly consented, and I as 
 instantly felt a flush of triumph all over my frame ; for 
 I saw in the slight circumstance, an example of the 
 spirit in which opposition to my will must be met, and 
 of the success with which craft may work out its pur- 
 pose, and have its own way in the world. The httle 
 vagabond, though! He was very light of foot, and 
 went ofi" much too fast for me ; so as he was running 
 like a race-horse, and I, holding the reins, was chuck- 
 ling at the thought of having done him, he dragged me 
 over some loose stones, and before I could let go, down 
 I came with a crash. My broken leg was skilfully set, 
 but I feel pain in it even now, and limp confoundedly. 
 Still, as you will again observe, I had my own way ; 
 and therefore I don't care much. 
 
 "Ah!" said my mother, as I lay ill, and seemingly
 
 HAVING OXE^S OWN WAY. 259 
 
 asleep, " if that boy had his own way, depend on it , 
 he 'd come to be an emperor." And positively I think / ' 
 I should. 
 
 " How well things went on with Napoleon/^ thought 
 I, reflecting upon this afterwards, " while he had it all 
 his own way ! but other people would insist upon 
 having theu's, and then his troubles began." Every 
 history I read told me the same story, and confirmed 
 me in my resolution. All the great people — kings, 
 conquerors, mighty chm*chmen, and potent ministers — 
 they were prosperous and happy so long as they had 
 their way, and were only exiled, poisoned, burnt, deca- 
 pitated, or otherwise inconvenienced, when they had it 
 no longer. What lessons for me to learn ! what grand 
 truths for me to reflect upon ! 
 
 My boyhood did not disgrace my cliildhood, nor did 
 my young manhood discredit my boyhood. Unluckily, 
 however, out of the only tlu*ee professions that a gentle- 
 man can follow I was obliged to make choice of the one 
 which was hateful to me, my provident father and 
 mother having, between them, hit upon the other two ; 
 each of this chosen two being deemed, by one or other 
 parent, exactly suited to me, the very thing. I have 
 always thought this exceedingly hard ; and can never 
 reflect upon the \dolent afi'ection and anxious fore- 
 thought of my two relatives alluded to, without strong 
 resentment. If they had not persisted in recommend- 
 ing those piu'suits for which I was qualified, and to 
 which in truth my inclinations tended, one of those 
 pursuits I should have fixed upon ; as it was, I had no 
 choice left, and, in the emergency to which theii* fond- 
 ness had reduced me, I was of course compelled to 
 adopt the wrong profession. It is impossible, however, 
 to maintain one's independence without occasional .-r" 
 sacrifices. In fact^ rather than let other people have '
 
 260 HAVING one's own WAY. 
 
 their way^ I would not, at tlie period I am speaking of, 
 have scrupled to turn author, and disgrace my family. 
 
 But this wilfulness and perversity on the part of 
 relations who, as usual, meant well, was fated to be my 
 hindrance in a still more important proceeding of life. 
 I must say that I have experienced great provocation 
 and grievous injury, and nothing but a consciousness of 
 having at last, by some means or other, fead my own 
 way, could console me under a sense of it. 
 
 There was a young lady; I was about to mention 
 her name, but it is as well not ; for if ever my wife 
 should see this in print — 
 
 But to proceed. There was in our neighbourhood a 
 fair young creature, a gentle, sensitive, and lovely girl, 
 whom as a very child I had looked upon with eyes of 
 boyish preference, and whose progress in the beautiful 
 season of youth I had watched with a kind of half- 
 conscious passion. To tell the truth, I am now fully 
 convinced that I loved her ; but of this I was not so 
 sure then. How she felt towards me was perhaps 
 somewhat uncertain too. That I was not indifferent 
 to her I know ; for once, when excessively annoyed at 
 being very strictly enjoined, while in her presence, that 
 was what I could not bear, strictly enjoined not to go 
 near a surly mastiff whom I had plagued often enough, 
 and was now chained up as dangerous ; when, I say, I 
 went up to the brute immediately, and got my arm 
 terribly lacerated by him, I perceived that I had made 
 some impression on her mind. Nobody I am very sure 
 could scream more natvirally, or look whiter with or 
 without pearl-powder than she did; but afterwards, 
 when she had recovered from the fright, there was an 
 expression of dislike and reproach on her pretty, timid- 
 looking face, which I could never exactly account for. 
 It left me in doubt whether she entertained an aversion
 
 HAVING one's own WAY. 261 
 
 for what she might have heard called my self-willed, 
 headstrong character, or whether she rebuked me for 
 having put my precious hfe in peril, and agitated her 
 so cruellv. Probablv, too, she felt that the crv of dis- 
 tress and terror she raised when the brute sprang upon 
 me, proclaimed the existence (she was fourteen at that 
 time) of a sentiment towards me too tender to be so 
 incautiously and publicly revealed; for it is certain 
 that from that hoiu* she was rather more guarded than 
 she had been before, more sparing of her little innocent 
 smiles when we met, or perhaps I fancied it. 
 
 Another trifling incident, however, it may be as well 
 to relate. It occurred a long time afterwards, and she 
 witnessed it. Her brother and some other young horse- 
 men had dared me to ride a mare that I had along a 
 ver}^ awkward bit of road, four or five miles of it, with a 
 leap or two to take, in so many minutes. They said I 
 couldn 't do it ; I had said I could, and therefore I 
 would; and so I did. But unluckily the mare's strength 
 was unequal to the feat, and just as she came to the last 
 leap I found the spur falling of effect. She tried it, for 
 she was eleven points blood ; but she hurt herself hor- 
 ribly, and her shoulder was dislocated, and so it was 
 thought best to shoot her. Now among the eyes that 
 witnessed this provoking misadventure were, by mere 
 accident, two particularly blue and bright ones, that, as 
 the mare came flying down the pitch, and dropped with 
 me at the fence beloAV it, I could see straining with all 
 their power, and expressing quite as much pity and 
 alarm as would satisfy most men that they were passion- 
 ately beloved. Well, I was no sooner extricated (for I 
 was not hurt), than turning round, there were those 
 eyes, filled but now with beautiful fear and commise- 
 ration, closed as if in death, so that the poor d\ang 
 mare seemed more alive than she did. Those few
 
 262 HAVING one's own way. 
 
 moments of insensibility I did not soon forget; nor 
 could all lier black looks and cold words afterwards 
 blind me effectually to the state of those feelings which 
 must (I fancy) have caused the pitying gaze and the 
 painful shudder as the crippled beast dropped under 
 me. Poor girl, my danger was not so great as she 
 doubtless thought it ! 
 
 This occurred when we were about nineteen. A year 
 or two later, on my return home from a three months' 
 trip to the continent, which had afforded me abundant 
 opportunities of comparing foreign beauty and foreign 
 manners with hers, and of testing the reality of my pas- 
 sion, what was my disappointment, my concern, my 
 thorough mortification, at finding that, during my ab- 
 sence, her parents and mine had regularly settled all 
 the preliminaries of a match between us ! They had, to 
 my astonishment and dismay, finally arranged it as a 
 thing that was positively to be ; the fullest confidence 
 and reliance being placed on her gentleness, that ever 
 promised assent to the wishes of those who loved her, 
 and on my long undisguised partiality, which of course 
 seemed to threaten no opposition. In fact they had 
 never dreamed of a difficulty; and if I had been an 
 automaton-lover, a bridegroom to be pulled with wires 
 at their will, they could not have made more sure of 
 me. Never was I so enraged. The embarrassment, 
 the bitterness, the irretrievable ill-luck of my position, 
 must at once be seen. What added to the exasperating 
 effect of this tyrannical arrangement was, that the 
 instant it was mentioned, perceiving at once the ruin of 
 my hopes, I felt my passion, but moderately warm 
 before, blazing up with ungovernable fmy. It was only 
 in the moment of sacrifice that I finally found out ivhat 
 I sacrificed. Discovering that I loved in vain, I learnt 
 how truly I loved. This I have always regarded as the
 
 HAVING one's own WAY. 263 
 
 crowning hardship of my life. Here was J, adoring the 
 girl to desperation, and reasonably hoping to prosper in 
 my suit ; in fact if I had once made up my mind to have 
 her, mine of course she would and must have been ; here 
 was I, suddenly cut off from all possibility of a fulfil- 
 ment of my fond desires by the fatal interference of 
 four foolish old people, pre-arranging, pre-setthng, and 
 pre-ordaining matters, so that I must of necessity let 
 them have their own way unconditionally, or, the alter- 
 native is self-e\ddent, and I need not say that I unhesi- 
 tatingly adopted it. I crushed their project of a marriage 
 in six words. As far as memorv serves, " If I do I '11 
 be " were five out of the half-dozen. 
 
 Only suppose that my father had pro\identially been 
 opposed to this marriage, or that my mother even had 
 \iolently objected to it, I might have brought myself to 
 consent to such a compromise, for when a man's matri- 
 monial happiness is the stake, he should 'nt unreasonably 
 reject every mode of winning. But all such blessings 
 of opposition were rigorously denied me. To me, no 
 frantic threat of being severed from my patrimony 
 through the medium of a shilling furnished the desu'able 
 stimiilant ; no maternal fits defying sal volatile impelled 
 me to a union ; no brother's blustering remonstrances 
 against the match pleaded trumpet-tongued in behalf of 
 my bride-elect ; no sister's handkerchief of cambric tear- 
 steeped, waved me onward, resolute to create the dreaded 
 sister-in-law : but instead, there was a fixed confidence 
 in every eye, a full conviction in every heart, that I had 
 no choice, must consent, and indeed was eager beyond 
 expression to show my obedience and accomplish all 
 that they wished. Even with these obstacles, had there 
 been a stout opposition in the lady's family, had her 
 frantic brother hinted something about a latent incli- 
 nation to call me out, or her stupid father been heard
 
 264 HAVING one's own way. 
 
 to say after dinner that he should 'nt at all mind being 
 hanged on my account ; if I had been but once waylaid, 
 or if they had sent her into Yorkshire out of my way, 
 or starved her for six weeks in a garret ; this would have 
 been something, it might have altered the case. But 
 it was a conspiracy of compliance ; the families were 
 united in one sentiment, or rather resolution ; the very 
 servants had set their hearts on the match. Fate had 
 already drawn up the certificate. The chickens were 
 all counted, and simply required hatching ; the reckon- 
 ing was all settled, only the host had n't been called in. 
 
 In one month after this I was married ; not to the 
 lady of their choice, but to a lady of mine. I had seve- 
 ral times met, in the family of a fellow-student in town, 
 a sort of counterpart to Beatrice in the comedy, only she 
 was not at all handsome, nor could she be said to have 
 the smallest pretensions to wit. But it so happened 
 that on sundry occasions, morning calls and evening 
 parties, we too had fallen to games of cross-purposes. 
 She took especial delight in taunting and thwarting me ; 
 it could only be in trivial things of course, but they 
 were enough to rouse resentment and provoke retali- 
 ation ; so that whenever we met we were sure to quar- 
 rel bitterly with due politeness, and I believe hated 
 each other with exceeding cordiality. The sympathy of 
 aversion exhibited itself at our first meeting ; we had 
 hardly exchanged glances, when we detested one 
 another. 
 
 Now, next to love at first sight, the danger of union 
 exists in hate at first sight ; indeed, the repelling quality 
 often contains secretly the strongest power of attrac- 
 tion. A woman may love, and yet not necessarily marry 
 you ; but once get her to hate, and it is your own fault 
 if she don't have you. A consciousness that I had tri- 
 umphantly succeeded in this latter exploit, decided my
 
 HAVING one's own WAY. 265 
 
 choice. Enraged and tortured by the wishes^ the 
 entreaties^ and the prayers of all around me^ I put a 
 last and extinguishing " No ! " upon the united pro- 
 posals of the two families^ started for town, rushed to 
 my resource, proposed, remonstrated, upset aU obsta- 
 cles, scoffed at all resistance, had my own way, and was 
 accepted ! 
 
 After a short season of courtship, passed in pleasing 
 squabbles, and interesting bickerings, with a stormy 
 quarrel or two, that would have done no discredit even 
 to wedded life, I woke up one morning in a chaise that 
 was going to Twickenham, and found myself actually 
 married ! 
 
 The chaise I said was ffoinff to Twickenham ; but as I 
 like to be accurate, and hate insinuations, I shall frankly 
 admit that it never got there. To tell the truth, my 
 wife had a passion for Richmond, for the " Star and 
 Garter," and to Richmond she would go, although 
 every arrangement that heart could ^vish for had been 
 made at Twickenham : close by, just a stone's throw 
 off. She insisted that Twickenham was low and damp, 
 and she worked me into a fever by her violent appre- 
 hensions about my rheumatism. Anything more aggra- 
 vating is hardly conceivable ; but as it was my marriage 
 morning, as it had come to a skirmish, and as it was 
 deuccdly unpleasant to drive into an orderly \illage 
 with both glasses of the chaise broken ; I confess that 
 I did yield the point : comforting myself with the 
 reflection that she gained very little by the conquest ; 
 for the distance is nothing between Richmond and 
 Twickenliam, I almost had my own way, you see ! 
 
 The rest of the day was spent very agreeably ; prin- 
 cipally in silent but strenuous endeavours on my part, 
 to reconcile my eyes and ears to my wedded lot ; to 
 fortify my mind with reflections upon the vanity and 
 
 VOL. HI. N
 
 266 HAViNo one' 
 
 HAVING ONE S OWN WAY. 
 
 evanescence of beauty, and to convince myself of the 
 unendurable insipidity of a sweet temper. 
 
 " How mawkishly/' ruminated 1, " must my whole 
 life have been passed, had I submitted to dictation and 
 married Em — (if I wasn't just going to mention her 
 name again j it runs confoundedly in my head !) How 
 soon one grows tired of beauty (I proceeded), sighing 
 for ugliness as a change ! a feeling, surely, every bit as 
 worrying and restless as that of wishing to exchange 
 ugliness for beauty. Or granting that a man would 
 never grow weary of a beautiful face, how acute must 
 be his anguish at seeing the loveliness he worships fade 
 away ! If we desire no change, if we would avoid the 
 pangs of disappointment, we should marry ugly, not 
 handsome women ; for beauty vanishes, but ugliness 
 never does; there is the grand truth. Choose a wife for 
 her beauty, it becomes daily less and less ; choose her 
 for her plainness, it becomes hourly more and more. 
 Wise men, I am persuaded, always do what I have done ; 
 and at all events, I have had my own way. As for a 
 sweet temper and a gentle disposition, — submissiveness 
 is excellent when particularly wanted, but without a 
 little dogged and inconsiderate resistance now and then, 
 how is it to be borne with at all ! I hate submission. 
 How I shoidd detest that walking-over-the-course sort 
 of life, with nothing opposing me, nothing to achieve ! 
 There's that (well, never mind her name), if I had 
 married her, she would have said ' Yes !' to every pro- 
 position I could have made. It would have been in 
 vain to ask, for her assent would have been certain. I 
 never could have had my own way, for she would 
 instantly have made it hers. Wind and tide, quick 
 tide, fair wind, for ever. Wlio could bear this ? She 
 would have let me beat her at backgammon when the 
 game was hers, revoked at whist on purpose that I might
 
 HAVING one's own WAY. 267 
 
 win. "V^liat's the use of one's own way had on these 
 terms ? No, no ; save me, of all things, if I'm to live 
 at all, from the timid, tender, inoffensive wife, who 
 never was known to deKver a positive opinion in her 
 husband's presence but once; and that was when, 
 breaking a long silent pause in a scriptural discussion, 
 she ventured in low and trembling accents to remark — 
 ' Samson was the strongest man !' If she had but said 
 he wasn't, what a jewel of a wife would she have been, 
 and what a long winter's evening might have been got 
 rid of!" 
 
 This was a somewhat long soliloquy for a wedding- 
 day ! Yes, but then the day itself seemed long, and 
 my object in soliloquizing, was to shorten it by arguing 
 myself into happiness. I found that this required vast 
 quantities of reason before it could be effected, and I 
 continued my labour for several successive days, regard- 
 less of the consumption. But unluckily, just as I had 
 finally convinced myself that obstinacy and contradiction 
 are, when administered in certain proportions, to be 
 classed among the essential elements of matrimonial 
 felicity, I discovered that in my case the quantities 
 were too large; that the remedy was less agreeable 
 than the disease. Now of all good things, contradictioji 
 and obstinacy are those which it is extremely undesirable 
 to have too much of — a truth that impressed itself more 
 provokingly upon my mind every hour; as regularly, in 
 short, as the dreary consciousness increased that a 
 superfluity in that respect had really fallen to my lot. 
 
 " Too much of them," is not the fitting phrase ; I had * 
 nothing else ! Four-and-twenty hours had not elapsed 
 when the fact stared me in the face; the question as 
 to the second day's dinner ought to have made me see 
 it. Train up a wife in the way she should go; that is, 
 in your way, and when she is old she will submit to a 
 
 N 'I
 
 268 HAVING one's own way. 
 
 separate maintenance : that sliould have been my maxim. 
 But unfortunately I began wrong, and continued wrong. 
 My excuse is ; we were at the " Star and Garter ;" a 
 very excellent hotel, but not one's own house. The 
 ruinous, the fatal principle, '' anything for peace and 
 quietness," was too early forced upon me. Without 
 grumbling, I must say that my fate has been one suc- 
 cession of hardships. Had we gone to Twickenham, or 
 had the glass of that cursed yellow chaise been down 
 that it might have escaped the smash ; but it was to be, 
 and it happened according^. 
 
 Let it not be supposed, however, that I have at any 
 time, then or since, submitted to an arbitrary exercise 
 of will, in blank opposition to my own; that I have 
 been, to use a plain but unpleasant expression, hen- 
 pecked, as it were. No, I couldn't stand that ; nor, to 
 do my wife justice, is she the woman to attempt it. 
 What does the poet say ? 
 
 " She, if she miles him, never shows she rules !" 
 
 My wife has hit upon this secret and in\dsible mode of 
 government. Her iron rule is simply a persuader. 
 Coercion with her, assumes the an* of coaxing. You 
 would absolutely think at first sight, that I have every- 
 thing my own way; but the truth is, that — that I have 
 not. She "loves" and "honours" me, according to 
 lier vow at the altar ; but with so much intensity, that 
 to " obey " is impossible. Such is her excess of affec- 
 tion, that it quite swalloAvs up obedience. How natural 
 it is to be discontented ! When she hated me, I insisted 
 upon her loving me ; now, I should be supremely blessed 
 if she would but hate me again. If she would openly 
 tyrannise, and play the absolute monarch undisguised, 
 my remedy would be easy ; but this affectionate, plau- 
 sible, irresistible despotism, is a yoke that it is just as
 
 HAVING one's own WAY. 269 
 
 difficult to endure as to shake off ; by which is meant, 
 that it is perfectly impossible. 
 
 It isn't that she " o'erdoes termagant ;" no, she un- 
 derdoes it. With what uncontrollable and insinuating 
 fondness does she interfere with all business, all plea- 
 sure, of mine ; with whatsoever I say, and whatsoever I 
 do ! How winningly does she snatch away my hat 
 when I want to go out, and how facetiously does she 
 contrive that I shall not be solitary when I wish to be 
 alone. Never, surely, was such devotion exhibited. She 
 had rather that I stayed within doors for days together, 
 than that I should quit the house imaccompanied by 
 her. When I once told her that I should go out of my 
 mind, her answer was, 
 
 " My dear, I shall insist upon going with you, for I'm 
 sure you wouldn't be able to take care of yourself." 
 
 When had man such a physician before ? My health 
 is her hourly thought, and though there is nothing on 
 earth the matter with it, it is throughout the year in a 
 most precarious state. If I really had the half-dozen 
 diseases that her acute apprehensions detect — to be more 
 closely watched, or rigidly tended, would be impossible. 
 She knows exactly when smoking is most injurious to 
 me, and that is always at the very moment when I take 
 my meerschaum. Her knowledge of the deleterious 
 qualities of wines is just as remarkable. If my inclina- 
 tions tend to port, madeira is peremptorily prescribed ; 
 and should I fancy madeira, toast-and- water, made very 
 weak, is affectionately substituted. Strong eye-sight is 
 an invaluable blessing ; but what a bore to be prevented 
 from making use of it in the library, lest it should ever 
 be weakened by reading ! There is not an author in 
 the catalogue who is not remorselessly locked up just as 
 I have a mind for his company ; and my wife's facility 
 at losing a key is hardly to be paralleled. My friends
 
 270 HAVING one's own WAY. 
 
 are quite as effectually excluded as my books. Slie is 
 pretty sure that one would lead me to the hazard-table 
 and another to Tattersall's ; this, she has reason to know, 
 only seeks my friendship that he may borrow my 
 acceptance either at two or three months; and the 
 other is not a person fit for any married man to associate 
 with, for he openly snubs his wife, and is rarely home 
 before one in the morning. 
 
 But here some reader, blessed, unspeakably blessed, 
 with a wife who doesn't care the shadow of a straw for 
 him, interrupts me with, "Why don't you resist?" 
 Resist ! I could almost run through all the tenses of the 
 verb ; I resist, am resisting, and do resist ; I did resist ; 
 I have resisted ; I shall arec? will resist ; but to what end, 
 with what effect, how idly ! Violence is easily combated, 
 but devotion such as hers is invincible. One grievance 
 I must especially complain of. While having everything 
 exactly her own way, she is incessantly tracing to that 
 very practice on my part all the evils that have ever 
 befallen me. My shortened leg, my scarred visage, my 
 stinted means and failing profession, are all produced as 
 witnesses against my capacity for self-government, and 
 in favour of my abiding by unexceptionable advice. The 
 quarrels I have had, and especially certain expensive 
 lawsuits into which I have been led (and into which 
 people must often be led when they know they are in 
 the right, and feel that they ought to have their own 
 way), are cited as proofs of my rashness and inexpe- 
 rience ; in other words, of my want of a wife to govern 
 me. Inexperience ! Yes, it is her apprehension on this 
 score, that makes her, in whatever company we may be, 
 add exactly five years to my age. 
 
 " People," she intimates, " do think you so young 
 and inexperienced j so gay; I can't bear it." 
 
 These fictitious five raise me to about her own level.
 
 HAVING one's own WAY. 271 
 
 And tlien, in the same spirit, though apparently contra- 
 dictory, she wishes, looking in my face most likely the 
 whole time, that the children may not resemble me as 
 they grow up, for she must say she should like her boys 
 to be reckoned handsome ! The one that happens to 
 have her nose, not much exaggerated, would bring me a 
 fortune in shillings, if exhibited at the Egyptian Hall. 
 
 What a nose might he have had, if Em — Emily (there's 
 the name at last) ; if she had been his mother ! Three 
 months after my sudden flight, she married my brother ; 
 he was just the person to conform to anybody's wishes. 
 They all talked of the match as of a settled thing 
 between the parties from childhood ; a love-marriage, 
 though the families never di'eamed of such an attach- 
 ment. It might be convenient to say this, the better to 
 cover the awkwardness of my retreat, and account for 
 the sudden transfer of the lady. There was, to be sure, 
 a striking similarity in their manners and dispositions. 
 A gentle pair, truly. Love ! Well, all I can say is, 
 that I never noticed a symptom of it; and I beheve 
 now, that if we were both free, and she were allowed to 
 have her way, she'd have me ! 
 
 Freedom is, however, out of the case. Nothing is so 
 long-lived as slavery. Ah ! that fatal stopping short at 
 Richmond ! Never once, since that hour, have I en- 
 tirely had my own way. No husband, who aspires to 
 rule, should ever confound '^ almost" with "quite." 
 There may be six Richmonds in the field, but they are 
 still Richraonds. Let him dash through them all, in 
 spite of broken chaise-glasses and pre-meditated fainting- 
 fits. Let him, wise by my disaster, drive on. Let him 
 keep his eye steadily on the finger-post — 1^" To Twick- 
 enham !
 
 272 
 
 THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING TOO LATE. 
 
 I AT once warn the sensitive and sceptical reader 
 against the supposition that anything herein contained 
 is intended as an assertion of the advantages of being 
 too late for dinner. No; nature having made the 
 turbot with fins^ it is reverentially to be assumed that 
 nature is wise, and that the turbot is better with fins 
 than without them. It is also in accordance with 
 nature that they should be gone if you are behind time. 
 This, as a general principle of punctuahty in regard to 
 the grand event of the day, may be admitted; but 
 there are exceptions even to this rule : you may, with 
 great advantage, be too late even for dinner; if a good 
 one, because Messrs. Gout and Indigestion, under the 
 name of a popular professor, have served it ; and if a bad 
 one, because — but here a very sufficient reason reveals 
 itself. 
 
 Punctuality is a poor, cheap, easy virtue. The man 
 who has no other good quality in life can always have 
 that. It is a key to a moral refuge for the destitute. 
 When we cannot otherwise become exemplary charac- 
 ters, and obtain exaltation in the eyes of the good, we 
 can be punctual. A child, as soon as he knows how to 
 tell the time of day by the house-clock, can be punctual. 
 Anybody can be punctual. It is easy to shape one's 
 course by a rule distinctly laid down, but it requires 
 some sagacity to find out when and how far the rule 
 may be departed from. So with the rule of punctuality. 
 Stupid people may steer by it; but the sensible wiU 
 know exactly what license to allow themselves with 
 regard to their engagements. In right hberal-minded- 
 ness, they read " one for half-past two." " Precisely/*
 
 THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING TOO LATE. 273 
 
 they understand to mean " presently/^ in the course of 
 the morning, or any convenient period of time before 
 midnight. They keep their appointments in a gentle- 
 manly spirit, make large allowances for themselves and 
 others, and scorn the despotic principle of exact time 
 by the Horse-Guards. That literal abomination, exact 
 time, was never made for freemen. The slave of the 
 lamp was a child of liberty compared with the slave of 
 the clock. But some people like slavery, and carry 
 little tyrannical and remorseless watches about with 
 them, for the purpose of being reminded of their own 
 humiliating want of independence and self-will ; for the 
 purpose of being warned, while doing one thing, that 
 it will soon be necessary to be doing something else ; 
 while making desperate love, that they must go ; while 
 listening to a strain of HandeVs, that it ^s eleven o'clock. 
 " To beguile the time,'' says Lady M., " look like the 
 time." To beguile the time, say we, never know what 
 time it is. 
 
 It has been remarked, that the man who keeps others 
 waiting, especially for dinner, is sure to pay a heavy 
 penalty, for the company Avill not fail to employ every 
 moment of the time in picking his character to pieces. 
 Be it so ; the pleasure of despising punctuality more 
 than counterbalances the penalty. Besides, if this 
 consideration is to operate as an inducement to keep 
 military time, does it not argue a rather suspicious 
 dread of the threatened dissection at the hands of 
 scandal ! To gallop and risk your neck rather than be 
 forty seconds after the stipulated minute, to work 
 yourself into a fever as a mere matter of politeness, is 
 one thing; but to do this (saying nothing of horses 
 knocked up and a perambulating preparatory seminary 
 knocked down), solely from a fear lest criticism should 
 be busy with your moral character, is surely quite 
 
 N 3
 
 274 THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING TOO LATE. 
 
 another thing, Tor myself, I confess to a very strong 
 suspicion of your particularly punctual man. The bare 
 fact that he is there to his time, exact to a moment, has 
 a twofold signification to his prejudice : implying, first, 
 that. his own character will by no means stand the 
 scrutiny to which a want of punctuality would be 
 certain to expose it; and, secondly, that he has an 
 especial relish for the work of scandal to which the 
 first-comers devote themselves, the enjoyment of pick- 
 ing holes in the coats of the late arrivals. What see 
 we on the other hand ? The dilatory guest ghding, with 
 measured step, into the apartment one hour and a 
 quarter after time ; the man of conscious honour, and 
 indestructible reputation ; the martyr of dauntless 
 breast, who knows perfectly well that his character can 
 afford the attack, and whose generous heart prompts 
 him to be particularly late, that he may thus afford his 
 fellow-creatures assembled there before him a long in- 
 terval of harmless pleasure ; the true gentleman, who 
 is quite aware that his coat is unexceptionable, in spite 
 of the holes that have been picked in it by the swarm 
 of moths whom his entrance flutters from their task. 
 
 It is unnecessary to descant upon punctuaUty. The 
 man who exhibits such a quality, deserves to be kept 
 waiting tliree-quarters of an hour at least in a damp 
 room, without a fire, the one window looking out upon 
 nothing but fog and red tiles ; an asthmatic puppy 
 wheezing and yelping from under the door, and some- 
 body practising a lesson on the German flute in the 
 next apartment. Never show him any mercy. He only 
 comes to parade his poor pretensions to a virtue, and 
 to contrast himself and his gold repeater most ostenta- 
 tiously with all who come in after him. 
 
 There is always something either pompous and dic- 
 tatorial, or necessitous and broken-spirited, in this
 
 THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING TOO LATE. 275 
 
 literal time-keeping. Who, of two parties to an engage- 
 ment, is sure to be at the appointed post as the clock 
 strikes ? Not the rich maa who comes to pay, but the 
 poor man who comes to receive; not the conscious 
 beauty who, long after the hour agreed upon for meet- 
 ing, wonders what o'clock it can possibly be, but the 
 patient and long-suffering dangler who is dazzled by 
 her charms. He may be espied at the trysting-place 
 ten minutes before time, poor de\dl ! All poor devils 
 are obliged to be punctual. They crawl on till they 
 are seventy without the liberty of schoolboys. You see 
 them hurrying and driving to their duty as though the 
 wheels of the whole world would stop if they were a 
 minute behind time. They walk as though they were 
 bent on overtaking the mail, or rather all the mails, as 
 they dash through the country in a thousand different 
 directions. What animates those pedestrian prodigies 
 with panting time at their heels ? Are they all trudging 
 straightfoi'wards to stop the march of war and preserve 
 the balance of empii'es, or are they afraid of a fine of 
 fifteenpence for being late ? Here 's Punch and Judy 
 at the comer of the tui*ning; do they pause even 
 momentarily ? do they glance as they go by ? no ; not 
 even out of the corner of the eye. They encounter a 
 beloved friend fresh from the Indies, and unencountered 
 before for years and years ; a dear old boy-friend and 
 school companion. Do they fling themselves into his 
 arms -, do they stop and shake his hand off before thev 
 pass on ? No ; there is a glance like dull lightning, a 
 half-articulated "God bless my soul, is that you?" an 
 irresistible snatching away of the five fingers that had 
 been caught and grasped for the sixtieth part of a 
 second ; and then, upsetting an apple-stall in less than 
 no time, on they dart, as though they had merely met 
 a wife's relation, or one of the street acquaintances that
 
 276 THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING TOO LATE. 
 
 are stumbled upon at every corner. The " Horse- 
 Guards" is on the stroke of something; '' St. PauFs" 
 only wants two-thirds of a minute to the half-hour ! 
 That ^s their apology. Wait ? Wait for one instant ? 
 Why, the world would be at an end. " But it ^s only 
 an instant," you cry. They haven't time to set tongue 
 and teeth and lips all in motion, so as to utter a single 
 monosyllable ; but you read their response in a passing 
 look of astonishment and pity, which says, " Only an 
 instant V 
 
 All who are thus compelled to be punctual, conspire 
 of course to praise the virtue they are obliged to prac- 
 tise. Thus you may hear the whole race of poor devils 
 in every department of business, the slaves of the clock 
 in every condition of life, hypocritically admiring the 
 exact-time system, and throwing the cloak of punctu- 
 ality over scores of daily transgressions. The old usurer 
 may extort his twelve per cent. ; but his victims must 
 say this for him, that if he raised his terms, he kept his 
 word as to time. The seller of damaged goods may get 
 double price for them; but his cheated customers are 
 bound in honour to acknowledge that though he tricks 
 them out of their money, he economises their time to a 
 moment. He drove a hard bargain; he advanced his 
 demand as the necessities of the applicant peeped out ; 
 he palmed off his gross of copper-spectacles with exqui- 
 site effrontery; he is a pernicious old scoundrel, and 
 would take in his own mother, that's certain; but 
 then this remains to be said of him after all, he may 
 be depended upon to the very moment. He swindles 
 you with both your eyes wide open, granted ; but his 
 worst enemies must admit that, he is punctual ! 
 
 The positive disadvantages of being in time, are 
 abundantly exemplified (if in nothing more) in the pains 
 that people take to be punctual; but to demonstrate
 
 THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING TOO LATE. 277 
 
 the positive advantages of being " too late," calls for a 
 less discui'sive mode of arguing a grave question. Take 
 the short history of the late Mr. Slowman Lagfoot. 
 Always behind time, people began to fancy (when, in 
 the prime of life, he had distanced Parr and was tread- 
 ing on the heels of Jenkins), that he would certainly 
 be behind eternity ; that he would be too late for the 
 hearse, just as other people may be too late for the 
 omnibus. It was his maxim from the cradle to the 
 coffin, that "it is never too late to be in time ;^' and 
 never once could he be said to be in time, until he and 
 the Scytheman parted company for ever. 
 
 Old Slow (as my grandfather used to call him) was 
 born to good luck, in virtue of being born too late. 
 He was, hke Happiness, " a twin," but chanced to come 
 into the world a quarter of an hour after his brother. 
 The brother therefore had the estate ; and as Slow was 
 heir to nothing, his uncle left him one twice as large, 
 and with the additional advantage of being unencum- 
 bered. Thus the very circumstance that seemed to 
 establish his ill-luck, was the foundation of his good 
 fortune. Had he been born in time, he would have 
 been in the world a little too soon. The same fate 
 followed Master Lagfoot to school. When the boat in 
 which he was to have accompanied some companions 
 on a ro"sving exciirsion, was upset, and every little " soul 
 on board" perished ; and when paternal, maternal, and 
 fraternal affection combined, was bewailing his untimely 
 loss, and issuing orders for the " drags," regardless of 
 expense ; lo ! he, the hirer of the boat and the planner 
 of the enterprise, was discovered in the churchyard, a 
 mile off; safe, above-ground, and unsoaked, playing at 
 leapfrog by himself over the least expansive of the 
 tombstones. 
 
 When questioned how it happened that he had not
 
 278 THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING TOO LATE. 
 
 joined the water-party of his own proposing, lie replied, 
 — that is, as soon as the stifling caresses of several afiec- 
 tionate inquirers in succession would allow him to take 
 breath : 
 
 " Oh, water-party ! Ah ! Yes ! Why, I believe ; yes ; 
 in fact, if you must know, it so happened, / was too 
 late ! Yes ; and so they went without me ! " 
 
 He also contrived to be too late for the coach, at that 
 particular commencement of a quarter, when, a return 
 to school being resolved upon, those who went were all 
 sent home, ill, from the overturning of the vehicle, and 
 much worse with the measles, or some other amenity 
 incidental to juvenihty, then raging at the school. In 
 long after-years, however, when almost a century old, he 
 managed for once to fall into the fangs of fever, and 
 rolled about as in a fiery furnace in some obscure village, 
 where no medical advice was to be had. Professional 
 aid from London was sent for post haste, night and day 
 were merged in one, the age of steam was anticipated, 
 and the best metropolitan physician arrived in a surpris- 
 ingly short space of time ; but he arrived too late ; too 
 late ; for old Master Lagfoot had meanwhile completely 
 recovered, and lived to boast that he had once more 
 escaped a premature demise on the old principle, operat- 
 ing differently. 
 
 Lagfoot was never married, though he once got as far 
 as the church-door. He had a " glorious nibble,'^ but 
 no bite. The lady had consented, the happy day was 
 fixed, the lawyers had written the last word, the dresses 
 had received their final embellishment ; nay, the mar- 
 riage morning dawned, and the bride and her party 
 were within view of the altar ; but Lagfoot was not in 
 time. As usual something had occurred to stop him 
 when a check seemed impossible. The party waited 
 and waited ; the lady was of an impatient and imperious
 
 THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING TOO LATE. 279 
 
 temper; and at least half an hour before he reached the 
 portico of the church, her rage had carried her back 
 again in a whirlwind, her wedding-garments were cast 
 off, and she herself was deep in a rumination upon the 
 most efficient mode of re-insnaring a discarded suitor. 
 But Lagfoot never considered himself unlucky in having 
 thus been too late at the most important crisis of his 
 life ; for seven years afterwards, — the day before the lady 
 he might have married underwent the extreme penalty 
 of the law, for pouring a little molten lead in*^o the ear 
 of her second husband, — it was discovered that she had 
 previously driven a nail, with singular secrecy and effect, 
 into the cranium of her first. 
 
 The same advantages resulted from his invariable late- 
 ness in all the transactions of life. Lagfoot was to have 
 been on board the Royal George, off Spithead, but the 
 gallant ship went down with its twice four hundred before 
 he had leaped from the land into the boat that was to 
 carr}^ him on board. He had made up his mind to invest 
 an odd ten thousand in the most flagrant of the bubble- 
 schemes of the last century; but when he got into the city 
 he found the office of the company just shutting up, the 
 clerks gone, business over for the day ; no, there was 
 nobody, not even a junior or a boy, to effect the invest- 
 ment for the enthusiastic speculator. The next morning, 
 the explosion of the company demonstrated the policy of 
 being too late. If a whole dinner-party happened to be 
 poisoned with stewed mushrooms, Lagfoot had either 
 sent an apology in the morning, or contrived to arrive 
 only in time for the dessert. As with the beginning of 
 a feast so with the end of a fray, he was sure never to 
 arrive until the quarrel was over. A house was broken 
 into and stripped of much valuable property ; Lagfoot 
 ought to have been its inhabitant, but he had contrived 
 to postpone his occupancy of it until the next quarter.
 
 280 THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING TOO LATE. 
 
 Anotlier, which he was just buying, was burnt down 
 uninsured; he had made three appointments to settle the 
 terms of purchase and sign, but, so it chanced on each 
 occasion, — things will happen oddly, — he was too late. 
 
 His favourite illustration of the luck of being too late 
 was drawn from the circumstance of the Prussian forces 
 arriving at a protracted period of the contest on the 
 field of Waterloo. 
 
 " How lucky that they arrived just in time ! " cried 
 somebodv. 
 
 " What you call in time I call too late,^^ would be 
 Lagfoot's commentary ; " too late for the fight is just in 
 time for the victory ; too late for risk, is to witness the 
 rout, and to share the renown and the reward. Lucky 
 Prussians ! For how many years did millions of very 
 generous-minded English persist in assigning to them 
 the sole glory of deciding the battle ! " 
 
 Lagfoot, it has been observed, was pretty sure never 
 to arrive at a scene of quarrel until the fray was over ; 
 but once in his Hfe, nevertheless, he exposed himself to, 
 the unpleasant necessity of fighting a duel. The ground 
 of dispute was every bit as trifling and absurd as grounds 
 of dispute between duellists generally are, nor could he 
 when he awoke at daybreak to attend to his challenger, 
 remember what it really was. Whether, in the endea- 
 vour to recollect, he fell asleep again, or whether he 
 missed his way in the morning twilight, I never heard ; 
 but it is certain that his second, an inveterate shot, after 
 waiting long, proceeded to the ground without him, 
 expecting, doubtless, to find him there. There, how- 
 ever, was to be found only the impatient and irritated 
 adversary, between whom and the said second a pretty 
 dispute instantly arose, and as the pistols were ready 
 loaded, the ground was measured ; when the said second, 
 yes, he who should have been second to the absent
 
 THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING TOO LATE. 281 
 
 Lagfoot, was shot through the vacimm which he called 
 his brain. Lagfoot would certainly have avenged his 
 friend's fall, by calling out the adversary whom, but for 
 the accidental delay of an hour or so, he had himself 
 encountered ; and this time he set about the affair with 
 ominous alacrity ; but the result turned out to be the 
 same; he was too late; the gentleman had taken his 
 departure for the continent ; people are so very rapid in 
 their movements on these occasions. 
 
 His life was exposed to other perils than those of 
 physic, duelling, and drowning ; but though the danger 
 was different, the mode of escape never varied. It was 
 in his hot youth that he was persuaded to favour the 
 cause of the Pretender, and pledged himself to join an 
 expedition to the north, for the purpose of effecting a 
 rising. Every man of the little party of adventurers to 
 which he belonged was hanged for treason, and nothing 
 could have saved him from sharing their fate, but the 
 fortunate circumstance of his being too late for the 
 Edinburgh mail on the night appointed for quitting 
 the metropolis in furtherance of the enterprise. 
 
 Situated as Lagfoot was, anybody but himself would 
 most assuredly have been consigned to the family vaidt 
 before his natural time arrived ; for it was his fate upon 
 one occasion to be deposited in a handsome coffin, and 
 to lie in state for four-and-twenty hours, as dead to all 
 appearance as a legacy-hunter could wish him. But on 
 the day appointed for the interment the church-gates 
 were closed against the deceased; and the clergyman 
 refused to bury him, as the undertaker was after time. 
 He was therefore taken back again unburicd; and that 
 very night a scratching at the inside of the coffin being 
 faintly heard, and then a motion of two or three wine- 
 glasses and a plate of cake placed thereon, being dis- 
 tinctly discerned by the watchers; the lamented gentle-
 
 282 THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING TOO LATE. 
 
 man was released from the durance and danger to wliicli 
 his excellent imitation of a fit of apoplexy had consigned 
 him. If he had not most luckily been too late to be 
 buried, his death must have been the consequence. A 
 codicil to his last will, bearing date the next day, set 
 forth that a snug annuity was in store for the manager 
 of his funeral whenever that mournful ceremony might 
 again take place, on condition that when the day ap- 
 pointed for the solemn rites arrived, the procession 
 should be so delayed by insurmountable obstacles, as to 
 insure the bringing back of the body, and the postpone- 
 ment of the obsequies for at least four-and-twenty hours. 
 In short, without planning his procrastinations and 
 arrivals after date, he had the luck of seeing himself 
 continually relieved by them from scrapes, accidents, 
 dilemmas, and annoyances, that must otherwise have 
 befallen him. Before his appointed visit to a friend 
 was permitted to commence (a week after the day fixed), 
 the troublesome troop of children by whom the house 
 was rendered something not unlike a private receptacle 
 for lunatics, were sure to have been sent to school. Late 
 elsewhere, he found himself just in time to discover that 
 Professor Stratum, the great bore, or Mr. Poodle, the 
 great lion, had mercifully departed the day before. Nay, 
 he never joined a stupid evening-party without finding 
 that the worst part of the stupidity had been perpetrated 
 early ; that he had arrived too late for the crack musi- 
 cal performance of the night ; that little Jemima, the 
 precocious genius of the family, had gone to bed ; and 
 that Signor Somethingini, who had so kindly brought 
 his guitar, had as cruelly retired, half an hour previous. 
 Too late (owing to his preference for a pint or so of 
 claret) to accompany a party to the theatre, he was cer- 
 tain, on entering the box at nine, to have the best seat 
 resigned to him, in the humane consideration of his
 
 NOTHING CERTAIN IN LIFE. 283 
 
 having missed two out of the five superfluous acts of the 
 dreary play. Continual repetition converts a trifling 
 advantage into a vast blessing ; and such was his, in 
 contriving to secure a quiet, comfortable, protracted 
 breakfast by himself, every morning, simply by coming 
 down too late for the family scramble, designated a meal. 
 In these small aff'airs, as in greater ones, his good for- 
 tune furnished him with a perpetual motive for never 
 being in time. He escaped everything, but good luck, 
 by being too late for it. 
 
 NOTHING CERTAIN IN LIFE. 
 
 — • — 
 
 " Are you sure of that ?" — Othello. 
 
 There are periods in the age of the world, or in the 
 Kves of individuals, when it is absolutely impossible to 
 make sure of anything. Either the present time con- 
 stitutes one of these epochs, or our o-\vn way of life in 
 particular has taken that perplexed and devdous turn 
 which forbids reliance upon facts the most obvious, sub- 
 stitutes mystification and doubt for clear conviction, 
 and renders it exceedingly inexpedient to trust imph- 
 citly to the evidence of such falUble witnesses as our own 
 eyes or our own ears. As there are seasons when 
 " nothing is stirring but stagnation," so in this, there is | 
 nothing quite certain but uncertainty. The only things J 
 that we can make sure of are doubts. 
 
 Mr. Pufi'^s warning-voice should go forth, not pufl*- 
 Uke, but trumpet-toned. His caution is a memorable 
 one, and full of meaning. " Don^t be too sure that he 
 is a beefeater." It turned out, as the reader will re- 
 member, that he was not.
 
 284 NOTHlx^G CERTAIN IN LIFE. 
 
 " There was a time when all my youthful thought 
 Was of the Muse, and of the poet's fame." 
 
 Tliat was a time of solids, substances, stubborn truths, 
 and approved realities. The later season spent in com- 
 munion with the hard world, is the season of doubts, 
 visions, perplexities, and shadows. We belong to the 
 i nothing-is-but-what-is-not school, as far as present im- 
 pressions go ; of course we are not sure. 
 
 Nothing appeared more certain, the other day, than 
 that a spade was a spade ; nothing is so probable now as 
 that it is something else. It may be a diamond, or a 
 pitchfork. What makes the matter more bewildering 
 is that it may be a spade after all ; for it does not follow 
 that an object, because it seems one thing, will neces- 
 sarily be another. There is always the doubt in any 
 case. It is all a puzzle. 
 
 When we lately went to the theatre, it was to see a 
 comedy, embracing a numerous set of characters. It 
 turned out to be a farce with only one actor in it. As- 
 sured, by the opinions of several profound and impartial 
 critics, that there was no such thing as high tragic 
 genius in dramatic representation existing, and that 
 Lear and Macbeth had no place upon the stage, — we re- 
 paired to another house, and found the loftiest concep- 
 tions of the greatest poet embodied with such masterly 
 art, such fineness, originality, and truth, as might satisfy 
 the taste and the desires of the most fastidious age. So 
 improbable is it that you will see what you expect to see. 
 
 Our friend Mr. Diddler, a grandson of the great 
 Jeremy, repaid and returned to us, within these ten 
 days, two half-crowns, and an umbrella that he had 
 been prevailed upon to borrow of us one wet night. We 
 shall yet live to see him send back the cloak that we 
 lent him, when it was snowing so heavily last July. 
 Such are the eccentricities of human character. There
 
 VOTHIXG CERTAIN IN LIFE." 285 
 
 is no end to these contradictions, deceptions, and dis- 
 appointments. 
 
 It was not so formerly. We recollect the time when 
 even a wTit, served upon a gentleman of this stamp, 
 would not have been returnable. But such is the state 
 of incertitude and want of fixed principle in which we [ 
 live, that there is no saying what obligation may not 
 meet its return. It is contrary to aU established rule, 
 it is being taken by surprise, to have one^s very mack- 
 intosh, lent perhaps at some inconvenience, returned 
 upon one's hands, as the bootmakers say. To so strange 
 and startHng an extremity has this want of confidence 
 in the consistency of our fellow-creatures advanced, that 
 even when an intimate friend borrows our pet volume : 
 the old quarto that can ^t be bought, or the book whose 
 absence spoils a handsome set ; even when he carries off 
 such a treasure as this, we never feel sure now; we 
 used, but times are altered so ; never feel sure that he 
 Mill keep it. It is probable, highly probable, that he 
 will bring it back again ; scored a good deal, perhaps, 
 down the margin with a hard lead pencil ; and Avith a 
 fair}^ ring, about the size of the bottom of a tumbler, 
 (the work of spirits), distinctly Adsible here and there, 
 Avhere the favourite passages occur ; but still the volume 
 is returned to us, baffling our speculations touching 
 friendship, confovmding our calculations relative to cha- 
 racter, and teaching us, with a volume's force, that we 
 should never make too sure of anything ; in short, that 
 we can trust nobody. 
 
 Turn which way we wiU, examples of the folly of im- 
 plicit confidence occur to memory. Were it consistent 
 with delicacy, we could mention the name of a specu- 
 lator who embarked a considerable capital in a gold- 
 mine affair, and has. actually made money. Another 
 adventurous-minded acquaintance of ours married, not
 
 286 NOTHING CERTAIN IN LIFE, 
 
 six months ago, a very pretty graceful dancer, a figu- 
 rante, two seasons old, at the opera ; and positively a 
 more nice or prudent wife few married gentlemen's 
 friends could desire to take particular notice of. The 
 manner in which she scolds the maid-servants for being 
 late at church, and for not wearing —habit-shirts, we 
 believe they call them — at all hours, is quite edifying. 
 
 Only last night, there was old Tarry-behind (as rare 
 old Bunyan would have called him), the very first to 
 arrive, though he was not expected to join the party 
 until half-past eight ; and there was Mr. Punctuahty, 
 who loves his neighbour as himself when his neighbour 
 gives a dinner — no, there he was not, for he never 
 arrived at all. More astonishing still, the one guest 
 of all the others who had made a positive promise, who 
 had pledged himself to attend, who was hoped for, and 
 looked for by everybody, who had sent a reiterated 
 assurance of his coming by somebody whom he had 
 met at three in the afternoon : well, he actually came 
 at the hour appointed ! How can one make sure after 
 this ! How can we witness these things, and still 
 maintain the doctrine of KkeHhood, preserving our 
 faith in the consistency of human character. 
 
 Under these circumstances, who, if lotteries were 
 re-established, could be certain beforehand of drawing 
 a blank ! One might even dream of a number, and 
 still it might come up a prize. 
 
 We may be allowed to cite another example of un- 
 looked-for results. Certaia tender juveniles (their 
 " united ages'-* hardly exceed twenty-five) whose chance 
 it is to have been brought up among reviewers, editors, 
 and that class of the community, lately stai'ted a manu- 
 script journal on their own account, a httle weekly 
 gazette of literature and science, .aU elegantly written 
 (we speak of the penmanship), in double columns, on a
 
 NOTHING CERTAIN IN LIFE. 287 
 
 sheet of letter-paper ! But so many patrons came 
 about them, so many friends of the family insisted upon 
 subscribing, that to write out weekly all the copies 
 required, was found to be impossible. Proprietors and 
 editors had not an hour left for tops. What is the 
 consequence ? The next number is to contain an 
 announcement to the following effect : — " In conse- 
 quence of the unexpected success which this journal 
 has met with, the proprietors are under the necessity of 
 discontinuing it." To achieve, therefore, is to fail in 
 some cases. 
 
 It is impossible in these days to calculate with cer- 
 tainty even upon the wearisome stupidity of a comic 
 pantomime. These things will sometimes turn out to 
 be diverting in spite of their inventors ; as instruction 
 is occasionally to be drawn from grave, pompous, moral 
 volumes, the authors of which appear to have taken 
 prodigious pains, and to have exercised considerable 
 ingenuity, in an enlightened endeavour to exclude 
 every chance of edification. 
 
 " The thing is as clear as the sun at noonday," is a 
 phrase employed to convey an assurance that the object 
 specified is undeniably apparent. It should more often 
 be used to express the undiscoverableness of the object. 
 Who for weeks past can pretend to have had a gUmpse 
 of the sun at noonday ! the hour at which he usually 
 attains his highest pitch of obscurity. Yet whatever 
 the chances, nobody can be certain, that even then he 
 will not take it into his eccentric head to sliine forth 
 " unawares ;" like the lady who, simply for the sake of 
 seeing a tradesman stare, paid him on the spot. There 
 can be no stronger proof of the especial uncertainty 
 which regulates, or rather which does not regulate, the 
 era in which we live, than that no living creature can 
 settle himself in any part of England to pass his
 
 288 NOTHING CERTAIN IN LIFE. 
 
 summer-season^ without running the chance of two or 
 three, perhaps half-a-dozen, decidedly fine days. It is 
 only a chance, but still there it is. Accidents will 
 happen in the best regulated climates. 
 
 There is another comparison sometimes cited in sup- 
 port of the doctrine of certainty, and equally fatal to it. 
 Every reader recollects it, " as sure as eggs is eggs." 
 But " is " they sure ? that is the question. When we 
 last stopped to breakfast at the crack inn of a certain 
 market-town in one of the midland counties (we scorn 
 the ill-nature of exact specification), " the eggs was 
 young chickens !" So much for making sure. 
 
 Railway travellers have now given up their faith in 
 the regularity of overturns, collisions, and explosions. 
 No longer reposing confidence in the punctuality of a 
 shock, they proceed on their journey with no guarantee 
 that they will arrive at the place of their destination 
 with fewer hmbs or a smaller quantity of brain than they 
 possessed at the moment of departure. Notwithstand- 
 ing the steam-boat collisions during the season, in 
 consequence of the number of careful and experienced 
 men, to whom '' no blame " can be attributed, that are 
 employed in that branch of navigation, who can make 
 sure of reaching the bottom of the Thames at any hour 
 of the day, from any one point between Richmond and 
 Gravesend ! With such regulations as are now in force, 
 and with such tides of improvement pouring themselves 
 incessantly into one broad and flowing channel, what 
 pedestrian can feel thoroughly secure of being run over 
 by an omnibus, or of being robbed if he gets into it ! 
 Would the confident gentleman who calls a cab from 
 the stand — any one ; he may take his choice throughout 
 the range of the metropolis — be quite safe in taking a 
 precautionary and prejudging oath that the driver will 
 attempt to cheat him of at least a sixpence ! Why, •
 
 NOTHING CERTAIN IN LIFE. 289 
 
 even the hackney-coachman, who, from the crabbedness 
 of age, or fancied ill-usage caused by cab and omnibus 
 innovation, or perhaps from superior practice and more 
 matured experience in the arts of cheating and abuse, 
 is decidedly the most knavish and insolent of all the 
 vehicular prodigies of the time, — even he will sometimes 
 startle people with a volley of excessive civility, and the 
 demand of his exact fare and not a farthing more. No ; 
 perfect reliance is not to be placed in any man. We ' 
 cannot confidently reckon, whatever the vehicle or the 
 driver, on ha\dng our ^dsual organs condemned in even 
 the blandest and most approved style j we cannot 
 assure ourselves that we shall be defrauded even upon 
 the most moderate terms. 
 
 There is then no certainty in life. The course of ^ 
 events ever baffies human calculation. Render some 
 profligate a service in sheer unthinking pity, if you 
 will ; but do not immediately make up your mind that 
 he will persecute you for similar services twice a week 
 for ten years, and then vihfy you without bounds and 
 without compunction for the rest of your life. Make 
 not so sure. Perhaps he will merely persecute you for 
 favours during nine years, and viHfy you during the 
 term of his natural life only ! 
 
 Set a thief to catch a thief was a safe maxim once ; 
 now the thief who used to be caught so, is apt to be 
 safe instead of the maxim. Can you now ensure a 
 man's life in a duel; guarantee him shot -free ? is it 
 quite certain that the pistol of his antagonist will be 
 unloaded, or that his second will get winged instead of 
 himself? Is it an established fact that the aeronaut 
 must inevitably break his neck in the long-run, or that 
 it is physically impossible for an alderman to make any 
 but an apoplectic exit ? 
 
 There is an old saying, " as regular as death and 
 
 VOL. III. o
 
 290 NOTHING CERTAIN IN LIFE. 
 
 quarter-day." Even upon these established certainties, 
 there can now be no reliance. When so many tenants, 
 judging from the ail-but universal complaint, labour 
 under that horrible householder's malady, the impos- 
 sibility of paying up, how can there be said to be any 
 quarter-day for the landlord? and when the landlord, 
 on the other hand, shows the occupiers of his farms and 
 tenements no quarter, it is surely no quarter-day to 
 the tenant. 
 
 But death ! Ay, " death is certain," as Master Shallow 
 boldly alleges, when he hears that his old acquaintance 
 is dead. But it is Shallow that says it. That should 
 be especially noted. In fact, death is no less an uncer- 
 ^1 tainty; for Shallow's old acquaintance. Double, may 
 perchance be as lively all the time as Prince Hal's 
 " old acquaintance," Falstaff. Lives there a man with 
 soul so dead, as not to feel the presence of Death in the 
 high places of the land? Among the peers of the 
 realm, in the high courts of justice, and even upon the 
 stage where Life in all its forms is deUneated ! Let 
 those who have mourned for Sir James Scarlett, let all 
 who have bewailed Lord Brougham, let each sorrower 
 over the mortal remains of Mr. Braham (a cloud of 
 witnesses), bear testimony now to the uncertainty of 
 Death. After what has happened, we shall take no 
 ghost's word for a thousand pounds. In these times 
 we shouldn't feel safe in believing a man to be dead, 
 although, as they say in Ireland, he were to teU us so 
 himself. 
 
 What is the risk that we incur by our creduhty? 
 We burst forth into loud lamentation ; we shed more 
 tears than a crocodile, or a widow when unrelieved by 
 solitude from the necessity of aqueous affliction; we 
 quarrel with our best friend for insisting that we shall 
 be comforted, and for hinting that the deceased was.
 
 NOTHING CERTAIN IN LIFE. 291 
 
 while yet lie lived, a little lower than the angels ; we 
 put ourselves to real trouble (that ^s the worst of it) in 
 inventing impossible virtues for the departed ; we rack 
 our minds to absolute torture in discovering and de- 
 Adsing all the luminous qualities of intellect and genius 
 that it may be possible to endow him with ; we order a 
 suit of deep mourning, taking care to have it made of 
 the patent waterproof cloth for the convenience of 
 crying in torrents ; — and then, aU of a sudden, in steps 
 somebody with his " haven't you heard ?" as the pre- 
 lude to a blunt, laughing, unceremonious, and we will 
 add unfeeling declaration, that it 's all a mistake 
 (erratum in our last, for " dead" read " quite the 
 reverse"), and that the illustrious defunct, so far from 
 being food for worms, is just then hospitably entertain- 
 ing a particularly hilarious party at dinner. Rather 
 than run the risk of ha\ang the most sacred feehngs of 
 our nature trifled with at this rate, we would hve on for 
 ever in disbelief of death; repudiating the theory of 
 mortahty; in doubt, perpetual and anxious, as to the 
 final departure of Queen Anne. 
 
 Or suppose the erroneous register of a name in the 
 obituary produces, as wiU happen in some cases, feel- 
 ings of an opposite natui'e ! Suppose the seal of death 
 unseals li^^ng Ups ; that the speechlessness of one brings 
 the signal for speaking to many ; that we reverse the 
 popular maxim, and adopt the nil nisi malum principle, 
 resolving at last to say openly all we think of the 
 deceased. Do we incur less risk of eventful discomfi- 
 ture, however pleasant the sport may be while it lasts ? 
 Grant that we give free loose to our love of truth 
 directly the breath is presumed to be out of the body, 
 and immediately set about proving the dead lion to 
 have been an ass while alive; that we hear the sad 
 news with a shrug, and confess that everything is 
 
 o 2
 
 393 NOTHING CERTAIN IN LIFE. 
 
 ordered for the best, adding that if the calamity had 
 happened long before, it might have been better still 
 for all parties ; that the present is not an occasion when 
 the most sensitive of human plants can be expected to 
 be much moved, and that no created thing will be 
 broken-hearted about the business; that for our own parts 
 we have not the smallest wish to seize, at such a 
 moment, an opportunity of being ill-natured, but at the 
 same time everybody must admit that he was a horrid 
 brute; that we have been acquainted with him from 
 childhood, continuing in close intimacy to the day of 
 his death, but that if we were called upon to say what 
 we think of him (as we are not), truth and candour 
 would require us to own that a thicker head, or a 
 hoUower heart, we never had the misfortune to be 
 bored with or to be injured by; that there may be 
 persons who thought him amiable, but we will venture 
 to say they are all in Bedlam ; that some people very 
 possibly thought him not such a fool as he looked, but 
 that it would have served such boobies right if they had 
 been condemned to pass an evening in his company, 
 that ^s all. Grant that we have said all this and much 
 more, substituting for a tearful elegy a stinging epigram, 
 of which we have just been prevailed upon to give one 
 copy to an especial friend of the deceased ; when lo ! 
 the door is flung open, his name is pronounced, the 
 deceased himself stalks in, in his habit as he lived, the 
 late Mr. Cumagain alive and merry; cognisant, too 
 manifestly cognisant, of all that has been said, and too 
 full of mahcious satisfaction himself to render practi- 
 cable on our part even the decent assumption of joy. 
 It is quite in vain, in all such cases, to attempt to turn 
 the tables by protesting that we knew him to be in the 
 flesh all along, had enjoyed the joke amazingly, all the 
 more for having had the best of it; had vilified him
 
 NOTHING CERTAIN IN LIFE. 293 
 
 with tlie sincerest friendsliip, and scouted him with the 
 profoundest admiration. It won^t do ; he knows us ; 
 and nothing is left but to fall back upon a conviction 
 of the wisdom of disputing every man^s death until he 
 has been buried, and of inwardly questioning it even 
 then. The only possible consolation that the case 
 admits of is, that you have had the brief but intense 
 enjoyment of abusing him without resen^e — 
 
 " Come what may, you have been blest." 
 
 And here we should break off; for we have inadvertently 
 refuted our own doctrine ; we have stumbled on a 
 certainty. 
 
 But since, as we have all witnessed very recently, 
 dead men live to tell tales, returning to life after having 
 been put to death upon unexceptionable authority, it 
 behoves all men to settle the principle upon which the 
 characters of gentlemen who have undergone their first 
 death are to be discussed. The nil nisi bonum principle 
 is palpably a faiku'c ; it can only act as a provocative of 
 the evil. A maiden dissolution will be cheerfully 
 encountered by numbers, if they can be quite sure of a 
 dazzling epitaph, all notes of admiration. We shall 
 find people addicted to dying annually, and the custom 
 of celebrating the anniversary of our own death will be 
 as common as that of signalising the day of our birth. 
 This would become intolerable. It is hard enough to 
 be obliged to find rirtues for a friend once ; to discover 
 by the time his tombstone is ready for chiselling, that 
 he was loving to his wife, affectionate to his children, 
 and faithful to all the world ; but to lead a life of lying, 
 in this way, would be impossible. A flood of tears, 
 again, is a heavy tax upon some constitutions, and 
 sufficiently trying to all ; but who on earth could be 
 supposed capable of continually secreting onions in
 
 294 NOTHING CERTAIN IN LIFE. 
 
 wliite cambric, or of breaking his heart at a minute's 
 notice once a twelvemonth. Frequent demises, therefore, 
 are seriously to be deprecated ; even a bare plurality of 
 deaths must, in many cases, be inconvenient to survivors 
 But the plurality being, as it seems, inevitable in these 
 days, does it not, as we have intimated, become neces- 
 sary to determine upon the principle which is to regu- 
 late the tone and matter of every man's epitaph, elegy, 
 funeral oration, or biographical sketch, the first time he 
 dies. For ourselves, we have a strong bias towards the 
 silent system; we were always conscious of a secret 
 veneration for those Spartan ladies, 
 
 " Who saw their husbands die and nobly chose 
 Never to say a word about them more." 
 
 Nothing, we apprehend, would be more likely to cure 
 men of sham-suicide, or their friends of mock-assassina- 
 tions, than a rule religiously laid down, that the deceased 
 was never to be mentioned so long as he happened to 
 be dead ! " Of the dead nothing, whether good or 
 bad." That would be a safe translation of the old 
 maxim into modern English. To die is to sleep ; let 
 us say nothing of the dead, then, lest we wake them 
 prematurely. As we now act upon the extreme princi- 
 ple of depreciating the merits of the living, and exag- 
 gerating the good qualities of the departed, suppose we 
 were to try the opposite extreme— the principle of saying 
 nothing of the dead, who are presimied to be deaf, and 
 of talking more about the virtues of the living, who 
 would be apt to speak better of their neighbours if they 
 could hear more agreeable accounts of themselves. 
 
 In fact, if we cannot be positive even upon the simple 
 point, whether a deceased gentleman be dead or not, 
 how should we able to tell upon a sudden precisely 
 what to think of his character. His family, friends
 
 NOTHING CERTAIN IN LIFE. 295 
 
 and sen^ants, also the directors of hospitals, and other 
 benevolent institutions, may easily form their opinions 
 the instant his will has been read ; but the public have 
 no such aids, and when we don't know what to think, 
 depend upon it, it's best not to think at all. It is im- 
 possible to ascertain whether any man is worth remem- 
 bering until it is high time he was forgotten, for the 
 benefit of aspiring genius, and a survi\dng generation. 
 Some desperate remedy for the evil of double-deaths, 
 must at all events be devised ; or the newspapers will 
 be under the necessity of making their "Fashionable 
 Arrivals" a kind of repetition of the " Obituary." 
 
 " From the New Cemetery, Harrow-road, the late Mr. 
 Etcetera, &c. &c. The distinguished deceased, on 
 alighting from his hearse, was received by his afflicted 
 family with every token of joy and congratulation. The 
 members of numerous families of rank left their cards 
 the next day, anxious to testify, by welcoming his 
 return, their extreme repugnance to the principle of 
 the legacy-duty, which most of them would have had to 
 pay to a very serious amount had his lamented decease 
 been prolonged. As the feelings of the revived gentle- 
 man, on the occasion of his restoration, may be more 
 easily described than conceived, we should certainly 
 enter into a particular account of them, if the details of 
 his funeral did not already occupy so large a portion of 
 our space. It is gratifying to learn that his domestic 
 habits, on his return from the Cemetery, have under- 
 gone not the slightest change ; his usual conduct as a 
 husband, father, and friend, being totally uninfluenced 
 by those virtues of tenderness, affection, and fidelity 
 which, of course, were ascribed to him, but which are 
 naturally understood to be of a posthumous character." 
 
 To what endless anomalies and inconveniences may 
 not the practice of double-deaths lead. If it be not
 
 296 SUITING THE ACTION TO THE WORD. 
 
 stopped^ we may expect to find artists who had undoubt- 
 edly died months before, making caricature sketches 
 of their own chief mourners ; and late lamented authors 
 lampooning or challenging their biographers, in revenge 
 for some opinions in the " Memoirs," or some omis- 
 sion in the " Literary Remains." By the way, married 
 speculators on the chances of the obituary, should be 
 cautious in determining, during their last moments, the 
 length of time they intend to remain dead ; for widows 
 have a knack of going off rather rapidly, and the pos- 
 sibility of a return might by no means have the effect 
 of rendering them slower in their new matrimonial 
 movements. 
 
 As nothing, however, is quite certain, there is of 
 course no saying positively that things will ever come to 
 such a pass as this. 
 
 SUITING THE ACTION TO THE WORD. 
 
 " But oh ! what rapture do we find, 
 When demonstration leads the mind," &c. — Dilworth. 
 
 Of all conceivable classes of practical people, there is 
 one certain set whose system deserves to be held in 
 especial abhorrence. 
 
 The principle of suiting the action to the word, may 
 be perfectly sound in some cases ; but the exceptions 
 are too numerous to justify a general adoption of the 
 rule. In the case of a promise to pay, the suit-the- 
 action-to-the-word system is eminently desirable ; but 
 nobody above the level of a pettifogger, sniffing damages, 
 would desire it to apply in a case of threatening to kick. 
 It is excellent, no doubt, in the instance of a charity-
 
 SUITING THE ACTION TO THE WORD. 297 
 
 sermon ; but highly disagreeable in association with a 
 sentence to be hanged. 
 
 The practical people, to whom a strongly disrespect- 
 ful allusion has just been made, constitute that class of 
 expositors, who, let them be upon what subject, or in 
 what society they may, are never satisfied without an 
 ocular demonstration of any fact they may happen to 
 report. 
 
 They are to be met with in every street, in every 
 drawing-room, at the club and at the theatre. Go not 
 very near them, if you can possibly help it. Even at 
 church it may be prudent to shift your seat into the 
 next pew ; you are never safe but when you are out of 
 reach. 
 
 These demonstrators are dangerous then ? What is 
 it they do? He who is simple enough to ask the 
 question has never, it is clear, received a friendly poke 
 in the ribs, in exposition of some circumstance or event 
 obhgingly related to him by one of these practical 
 people. 
 
 An individual of this species is matter-of-fact to the 
 very tips of his eyelashes. If he were to dream, it 
 would be upon the principle of a clock, or a spinning- 
 jenny, or a steam-engine. His visions would be accu- 
 rately measui'cd ofi" into yards and furlongs, their 
 rainbow-hues would be arranged in exact order and 
 to a set pattern, and he would tell you in the 
 morning, to an ounce, the precise weight of a night- 
 mare. 
 
 If such be the principle that must regulate his dreams, 
 it is easy to guess how he would describe occurrences 
 that happen when he is awake. He cannot be content 
 to talk, he must act. He has always a misgiving about 
 mere words, and resorts to his arms or legs, or to his 
 umbrella, or an article of furniture, to eke out the 
 
 o 3
 
 29S SUITING THE ACTION TO THE WORD. 
 
 meaning, and give force to his description. Thus, if his 
 talk be of dancing, he cuts an illustrative caper ; or 
 should he attempt to describe Catalani's singing, he will 
 squeeze out an asthmatic note of explanation, a thick 
 guttural sound, to make the account clear, and assist 
 your comprehension. " Ah ! if you had heard her 
 when her voice went up so," is a favourite expression of 
 his, a screech following, of course. The expositor never 
 thinks he has done anything, until he has tried to show 
 you practically what was done. He is the man who, 
 with his remorseless walking-stick, crops your tulips to 
 exemplify the system of decapitation in the East ; and 
 he would joyfully set your chimney on fire, if he could 
 convey to your mind an idea of the eruption he wit- 
 nessed when he was last at Naples. He esteems his 
 description nothing, if not illustrated ; he is an illustra- 
 tor, or he is nobody. 
 
 There are people, we all meet them daily, who seem 
 to think that their bare words are not to be taken. 
 They have always a superabundance of emphasis, and 
 when relating the most trivial and probable circum- 
 stances, they support the credible narrative with solemn 
 asseverations of its truth, as though any one could 
 doubt it. You may catch them swearing to such a fact 
 as this : " I was going up Waterloo-place this morning, 
 when what should I see tearing down from Regent- 
 street, but an omnibus, — upon my life it 's true J" They 
 are only to be matched by those practical persons of 
 whom we are speaking, who assume that what they say 
 goes for nothing, and that nobody can understand them, 
 unless they demonstrate and attitudinise as they pro- 
 ceed. They reverse the position, which the moral poet 
 shows to be the false one, — 
 
 " Their pride in acting, not in reasoning lies ;" 
 
 but they are, nevertheless, not a whit nearer to its
 
 SUITING THE ACTION TO THE WORD. 299 
 
 opposite. Nay, the harder they toil, the farther they 
 often are from the point they propose to attain ; inas- 
 much as their simple, unillustrated statement may con- 
 jure up an image in the mind of the listener, which the 
 spectator's eye is slow to recognise in the acted repre- 
 sentation of it. They weaken their oral account of the 
 most ordinary miracle by endeavouring to realise it 
 visibly, "injuring their credit by offering too much 
 security." The picture that hves bloomingly in de- 
 scription, is as dead as Queen Anne when deemed sus- 
 ceptible of bodily dehneation. We can allow the old 
 soldier to gabble on, while we imagine more wonders 
 than his weak words hint at ; but when he 
 
 " Shoulders his crutch, and shows how fields were won," 
 
 the sublime hobbles out, and burlesque rushes in in 
 triumph. 
 
 Take a literal example suggested by the word acting. 
 An illustrious old stager was on one occasion eloquent, 
 to a degree that made the jaded hour of four in the 
 morning look fresh as half-past eleven at night, while 
 descanting on the wonderful qualities of a tragedian of 
 the past age, George Frederic Cooke. In the general 
 picture drawn, in the masterly analysis of power, the 
 imagination saw a prodigy, and Cooke grew into a won- 
 der before eyes that had never beheld him ; but when 
 the glowing eulogy terminated in an accurate and vivid 
 imitation of the voice and manner of the actor, the spell 
 was broken, and the audience broke up too, thoroughly 
 convinced that the magnificent tragedian was a mon- 
 strous savage. 
 
 But the practical man pluming himself upon suiting 
 the action to the word, docs not always miss the gi-eat 
 point he aims at, which is conviction. He seeks to 
 convince you at all hazards ; and thanks to his physical
 
 300 SUITING THE ACTION TO THE WORD. 
 
 energy, exemplified in the poke in the ribs feelingly 
 alluded to above, he sometimes succeeds. We do not 
 here advert to the poke so frequent as to be quite 
 familiar, wherewith a smart jest, a delicate and fragile 
 pun, is, some minutes after its birth, in certain compa- 
 nies rewarded, attended often by the approving excla- 
 mation, " Sly dog," or " Devihsh clever ! " 
 
 No ; this sort of hit has its defence ; it serves to sym- 
 bolise the rubs and knocks, accompanied with praise, 
 which genius is sure, at some period of its career, to 
 encounter from its fickle and hard-fisted admirers ; and 
 happy is that gifted benefactor of his kind, who, having 
 convulsed the world with fattening laughter, or sprinkled 
 it with purifying tears, sustains no heavier ill at his 
 hands than a half-spiteful, half-affectionate dig, adminis- 
 tered once in a way just a little below the heart. But 
 the physical energy indicated above, plants hits less 
 defensible. Its pokes and digs admit of no excuse, 
 because they are wholly superfluous. As the "hardy 
 tar" said, after taking his three dozen at the gangway, 
 " I should ha' been just as well without 'em." 
 
 Let us explain. How often in the week do we 
 encounter a practical man who deems it expedient, the 
 better to illustrate his meaning or enforce the moral of 
 his tale, to give one a precious rap or an explanatory 
 punch somewhere. 
 
 "See," he says illustrating his position, "secj in 
 this way ; stand so ; I won't hurt you." 
 
 You feel the force of his argument for the rest of the 
 day. He has laid down certain rules of logic, and you 
 are to be laid down with them. To make an impression 
 upon you, is to accomplish his point ; and he takes the 
 shortest cut. 
 
 Another comes up all rage and desperation, but the 
 feeling is genteelly smothered ; you see the smoke, and
 
 SUITING THE ACTION TO THE WORD. 301 
 
 innocently ask the cause of the fire. He has been 
 assaulted by a ruffian; he was walking quietly along, 
 through a retired part of Westminster, thinking of 
 nothing but the philanthropist Howard and Father 
 Mathew, when a drunken savage ran wilfully against 
 him, and striking him violently upon the shoulder, 
 almost dislocated it. 
 
 " Look here," he continues, " in this manner ! " at 
 the same instant making a sudden and unexpected move- 
 ment with his uninjured arm, and bringing his whole 
 weight to bear upon you with a shock that calls to mind 
 a charge of cavalry ; all in admirable illustration of the 
 injury sustained by the gentle demonstrator. 
 
 No words of his would, in his judgment, convey an 
 idea of the outrage he had suffered ; nothing short of a 
 practical demonstration will satisfy liis mind that you 
 comprehend the nature of his wTong, Ten chances to 
 one that he is not satisfied even then; he sees you 
 wince under the assault ; he hears your indignant pro- 
 test against this personal exemplification of a grievance ; 
 and his apologetic reply is, '* Ah, that 's nothing ; youN^e 
 no idea of it yet; now just let me show you." Here- 
 upon he draws himself up for a second and more effective 
 illustration; preparing himself for a rush upon your 
 abeady partially-shattered frame, that would have well- 
 nigh broken the stubborn square at Waterloo. 
 
 " I hate that Ironsides," said Tom Flint, the other 
 day. (It was Tom's visit that suggested the idea of this 
 article, illustrating the illustrative tendencies of prac- 
 tical people). 
 
 " What has he been doing now, Tom ? " 
 
 " Oh ! he's so ferocious in liis friendships," rejoins 
 Fhnt, sulkily. " He 's always so deucedly glad to see 
 you, and so infernally sorry when you are going away, 
 that he grasps your hand, and holds it in a vice for a
 
 302 SUITING THE ACTION TO THE WORD. 
 
 couple of minutes, till the water runs out of your eyes. 
 Why can't people be friendly without doing one an 
 injury ? " 
 
 " Perhaps you admire that system of shaking hands, 
 which consists in just touching your palm with one or 
 two lax lifeless fingers, and withdrawing them again 
 without so much as an apology for a squeeze ? " 
 
 " No, no, I don't," returned Flint ; " but there 's a 
 difference between a hand of warm wax, like one of 
 Madame Tussaud's, and an iron fist that crushes every 
 bone in your fingers instead of shaking them. That 
 fellow now, under pretence of an affectionate regard for 
 me, has given me such a grip, that the edge of my 
 mourning-ring has cut the next finger to the bone. See 
 here," proceeded Tom, seizing my hand, "he takes 
 your fingers so ; you 'd think they were in a vice, 
 wouldn't you ? " 
 
 And here the tender, weak-nerved, and protesting 
 Flint, all gentleness himself, compressed my digits till, 
 as in his own case, the water poured from my eyes, and 
 testified to the force and fidelity of his illustration. 
 
 You can never check these inveterate practitioners by 
 crying out " TeU me, don't show me." It is in vain to 
 assure them that you can clearly comprehend the incon- 
 venience of a crushed bone without experiencing it. 
 They will not give you credit for a capacity to conceive 
 their feelings until, by an experiment upon your frame, 
 they have produced a corresponding set of sensations. 
 They will not allow you to take anything for granted ; 
 they afford no scope for the fancy. So utterly matter- 
 of-fact are they in all their notions, that they cannot 
 imagine even the existence of imagination in another. 
 
 As this habit of demonstrating grows up in total dis- 
 regard of a friend's bodily comfort, so in its exercise it 
 is not very scrupulous about a friend's personal property.
 
 SUITING THE ACTION TO THE WORD. 303 
 
 One of the demonstrators dined with us upon a cer- 
 tain occasion, when a glass was observed to be slightly 
 chipped at the rim, and a remark was made on the 
 delicacy of the blow that had fractured so nicely without 
 destroying the glass. 
 
 " Oh," said my friend, eager for an exposition, " it is 
 very easily done ; observe ! " 
 
 And with the intention of chipping a glass he gave 
 one a smart rap with the back of a knife, and broke it. 
 
 " Rather too full a hit," he observed, '^ I should have 
 struck a little more obhquely. See here, now ! " 
 
 And another glass was demohshed. 
 
 " Ah, that goes for nothing," proceeded my experi- 
 mentalist ; " I know it is to be done." 
 
 And after shivering three glasses to atoms and crack- 
 ing a fourth, he proved that he was right, by trium- 
 phantly chipping the edge of a fifth. 
 
 These enthusiasts in the cause of practical knowledge 
 can scarcely relate a new anecdote, how the Great 
 Captain, once upon a time, caEed out, " Up, guards, and 
 at 'em ! " without overturning the table. 
 
 The passion for excmplifjdng pursues them every- 
 where. Hand them some prints with the gentlest pos- 
 sible suggestion to be cautious, and they will expatiate 
 handsomely upon the barbarous way in which some 
 persons turn over the contents of a portfolio. 
 
 " You win see a rough-handed blockhead," say they, 
 " knock about beautiful prints, here now, in this way" 
 tossing them about, at the same time, Hke a pack of 
 cards, to show you ocularly, how very shamefully you 
 are liable to be treated. 
 
 " Haven't you seen people," they proceed, " take 
 hold of a valuable engraving with their unwashed finger- 
 and-thumb, and crush the comer of it, thus /" Suiting, 
 as usual, the action to the word !
 
 304 SUITING THE ACTION TO THE WORD. 
 
 For the sake of showing you how some shabby book 
 was injured, they would disfigure the finest. 
 
 " Never lend your books," said a demonstrator, warn- 
 ingly, one day, " to that Hipsonberry ; at every place 
 where he leaves off he turns down the page, in this 
 fashion ! " 
 
 And here, of course, a volume was snatched up for 
 illustration, to show practically how a leaf is turned 
 down by an unconscionable reader. 
 
 These suit-the-action-to-the-word people have ano- 
 ther favourite trick. They denounce some esculent as 
 not simply disagreeable to the palate, but so surpass- 
 ingly nauseous as to be sickening ; this duly expatiated 
 on, they wind up with, " Only taste it ! " They dis- 
 cover some other substance, obnoxious in as curious 
 a degree to the olfactory nerves, and they are sure to 
 crown their peroration upon its offensiveness, with 
 " Just smell it now ! " 
 
 They are the only eccentrics upon earth who are 
 desperately offended when you are willing to take their 
 words for a fact. Their simple affirmation in either of 
 these cases is all-sufficient ; but they as good as tell you 
 that there is no trust to be put in them, and that their 
 opinions are worth nothing. These practical, proof- 
 lo\dng men are truly modest creatures. 
 
 Some of them, rather than allow a mere description 
 to take the place of a demonstration, will go so far as 
 to practise upon themselves, to their own detriment, 
 when the more convenient machinery of a bystander is 
 not to be had. If they state some fact from which 
 they are suffering, they give you an example of the 
 fact and of the suffering too. They act a painful scene 
 all over again, just as Launce does by the aid of his 
 dog and his shoe. 
 
 When a fly has found its way into their eyelid, and
 
 SUITING THE ACTION TO THE WORD. 305 
 
 they tell you how acute the agony is upon opening the 
 eye, they open the eye immediately to convince you of 
 their accuracy. 
 
 We can all recollect what Abernethy is reported to 
 have said to the simple lady, who consulted him about 
 her inward bruise, and explained that when she raised 
 her left arm (" suiting the action to the word") it put 
 her to extreme torture. 
 
 " Then what a confounded fool vou must be to do it/' 
 was the muttered reflection of the sensible man. 
 
 Shakspeare, who missed nothing, must have seen 
 some of these practical people, and has turned his 
 observation to the usual excellent account. Othello, 
 instructing liis hearers as to what they are bound to 
 report of him in Venice, proceeds, 
 
 " Say, too, that in Aleppo once, 
 When a malignant and a turban'd Turk 
 Beat a Venetian, and traduced the state, 
 I took by the throat the circumcised dog, 
 And smote him — thus I" 
 
 The stage direction adds, " Othello stabs himself." 
 This is undoubtedly carrying the principle of practical 
 exposition to its farthest possible limit. 
 
 When Shakspeare does a thing he does it thoroughly; 
 and we have almost wished, when obligingly invited to 
 swallow something nauseous by way of testing its dis- 
 agreeableness, that the matter as well as the manner of 
 the Moor were adopted by the demonstrators. When 
 they relate a story of shooting or poisoning, they should 
 illustrate with pistol or prussic acid, and die dramatically, 
 martyrs to the truth of illustrated narrative. 
 
 Short of that extent, which may be thought to go a 
 little too far, there is, it must be confessed, high autho- 
 rity for the practice without resorting to fable. 
 
 When the illustrious Burke declared in the House of
 
 306 SUITING THE ACTION TO THE WORD. 
 
 Commons, that rather than witness the direful calamity 
 (in deprecation of which he had delivered an impas- 
 sioned and masterly address) , he would plunge a dagger 
 in his heart ; at the same time drawing one from under 
 his waistcoat, and exhibiting it to the fear-surprised 
 eyes of honourable gentlemen; he hit upon a magni- 
 ficent specimen of the practical and the demonstrative. 
 
 His fi-iend, the all-admu'cd Fox, figures more plea- 
 santly and wittily in an equally well-known story, the 
 tendency of which is similar. When interrupted, in an 
 allusion to a gentleman whose name will immediately 
 transpire, by loud cries of " Name, name ! " 
 
 " No,^' he said, " I must decline mentioning him, 
 though to do it is as easy as to say Jack Robinson.^' 
 
 But both these examples we must consider to be 
 eclipsed by the admirable faculty for practical illustra- 
 tion once strikingly displayed, very strikingly as will be 
 seen, by an eminent pamphleteer now dead, who in his 
 younger days was usher in an humble school. Expound- 
 ing to a publisher (who had called during school-hours 
 to settle terms for a new treatise on finance) the merits 
 of a grand plan for paying ofi" the national debt without 
 sponge or money : " Sir," said he, " I here prove by 
 simple arithmetic, that there is no more difficulty in 
 paying it ofi" at once, than there is in caning this boy !" 
 at the same instant, dragging one from the nearest 
 form and caning him vigorously ; but observe, without 
 the least difiiculty. 
 
 The illustration was triumphant. The mode of argu- 
 ment was more than forcible, it was convincing. By 
 merely comparing the two tasks of liquidating the 
 debt and flagellating the boy, he just raised an idea of 
 their identity in point of ease ; the consequence was, 
 that he seemed to establish the practicability of the one 
 by immediately performing the other. When the
 
 SUITING THE ACTION TO THE WORD. 307 
 
 admiring publisher saw the boy flogged, he fancied the 
 debt was paid. It was the cane that did it all ; the com- 
 parison would have been nothing without the successful 
 practical experiment. 
 
 Desirous of dealing fairly by the demonstrators, as by 
 us they have not done, this anecdote is cited because it 
 seems to supply some \4ndication of their practice. We 
 are not, and possibly nobody is in these times, so absurd 
 as to object to the flogging of a boy merely because he 
 is not our own, and has committed no ofience. The 
 question is, not whether the little ceremony with the 
 cane is just, but whether it is expedient ; whether the 
 injury done to the weaker party is a convenience to the 
 stronger. In the case referred to, it was ; and the de- 
 monstrative principle succeeded. We complain of it 
 only where it fails ; where an unwan'antable attack is 
 made without beneficial results ; where the outrage is 
 wholly superfluous. It is thrown away, when an ac- 
 quaintance jams one's hat down over one's eyes, for the 
 mere sake of showing how his own had just before been 
 served in the mob ; but it would be by no means thrown 
 away, perhaps, if, while seated beside an author seeing 
 his new play, you were to hiss loudly, with the view of 
 exemplifying to the dramatist the energy with which 
 some brute in the pit had been hissing in his absence. 
 
 ^^.y, you may even go all lengths with the demon- 
 strators, provided you keep a desired object distinctly in 
 view ; you may not only injure another, but yourself 
 also, when a great moral end is to be answered. 
 
 A story occiu-s, as a case in point, of a needy gambler, 
 who wished to palm himself ofi" as a pigeon upon a 
 famous rook whom he had never before met, or at least 
 to beget a conviction that he could pay what he lost ; 
 which otherwise might seem doubtful. 
 
 " AVIiy, sir," said he, " I value it (whatever they were
 
 308 FEMALE ARITHMETICIANS. 
 
 conversing about) I value it no more than I do this 
 bank-note j^' taking out one of the last two tens he had 
 left in the world, and quietly lighting his cigar with it. 
 
 How empty would have been this vaunt without the 
 flame ! The sacrifice was essential to success. Success! 
 by which, in every age and in every class of life, so much 
 that is doubtful in policy and worse than doubtful in 
 morals, is triumphantly vindicated. 
 
 The chapter of complaints directed against those who 
 do suit the action to the word is after all a short one ; 
 but what a volume would it have been, had it included 
 commentaries upon those who do not suit the action to 
 the word. 
 
 Hazlitt wrote a brilliant essay some years ago, upon 
 " Persons one would wish to have seen." 
 
 " Very well," said Charles Lamb, upon reading it, 
 " then I ^11 write a paper twice as long, on ' Persons one 
 would vidsh not to have seen\" 
 
 FEMALE ARITHMETICIANS. 
 
 Figures on China jars and ivory fans, figures in 
 intricate quadi-illes, and figures of poUte rhetoric, are 
 among the things which education and custom have 
 rendered perfectly comprehensible to every woman of 
 taste; but figures of arithmetic are unquestionably 
 matters on which even the most enhghtened and accom- 
 plished of the sex are apt to entertain rather confused 
 ideas. 
 
 We intend not hereby the remotest of remote allusions 
 to the subject of age. On that point, it is well known 
 their notions are for the most part perfectly clear — per-
 
 FEMALE ARITHMETICIANS. 309 
 
 fectly clear; as they always are with regard to the 
 particular hour of the night at which " truant husband " 
 returned home from the club or the play. They never 
 confound the sober hour of eleven with dissipated 
 half-past one, when discussing the question over the 
 breakfast-table next morning. Never. 
 
 You never hear them upon such occasions cry — 
 
 "My dear, it^s of no use talking; I'm sure it was 
 half-past one before you came to bed, and I believe it 
 was two, comparatively speaking.'^ 
 
 (This phrase, by the way, this " comparatively speak- 
 ing,^' is invaluable as a qualifier of exaggeration, while 
 it justifies and makes clear the most preposterous 
 comparisons. The scold informs her wedded victim 
 that he is enough to provoke a saint, " comparatively 
 speaking ; " and the traveller fresh from New York 
 declares that he had seen cheeses there in which 
 the mites were as large as muSins, " comparatively 
 speaking.'') 
 
 But with reference to those figures which are 
 sometimes essential in the calculations of "domestic 
 economy," with reference to the phraseology current 
 in what is called the monetary world, most women are, 
 for half their hves at least, in a delicious mystification, 
 an exquisite obliviousness. " Five per cent.," constitutes 
 a case of perplexity, and " per ann.," converts it into 
 an enigma not to be solved. 
 
 We never quote without book ; here is an argument 
 drawn from real life, that is exactly in point. 
 
 " Make haste, Edward, make haste down, you'll be 
 too late," cried the anxious mistress of a pretty lodge 
 at Kensington, to its hiu-ried, flurried, worried master, 
 as the omnibus that took him to town drove up to his 
 gate the other morning. 
 
 " How I do hate this omnibus life !" she continued.
 
 310 FEMALE ARITHMETICIANS, 
 
 as after two or three " Now, sirs/^ from the road, he 
 darted past her, just in time. 
 
 " Only to think of my being obliged to see that dear 
 fellow rush out of doors every morning, as if the house 
 were on fire ! That horrid omnibus ! It doesn^t care 
 how husband and wife part \" 
 
 And the affectionate creature, left to herself, sat down 
 to meditate on grave matters. Various abstruse and 
 difficult calculations kept her brain in full employment 
 until his return, when the result began to unfold itself 
 in this interesting observation : 
 
 " In my opinion, Edward, we could very well afford a 
 carriage V 
 
 A slight shrug, a movement of the eyebrows, a rather 
 melancholy smile, and a decided shake of the head, 
 conveyed the discouraging answer. 
 
 "Well, but think now," pvirsued the lady, "just 
 estimate the expenses. What would a carriage and 
 horses, once purchased, cost in the year ?" 
 
 " Pair of horses ? Oh, why, a hundred a year; set 
 it down at a hundred, certain," was the reply. 
 
 "And what, now, does the omnibus cost you, may 
 I ask ?" 
 
 " Omnibus ? Oh, why, eight pounds, about eight.'^ 
 
 " But this you would save," argued the lady ; " for if 
 we had the carriage, you would not want the omnibus, 
 you know." 
 
 " That^s true ; yes, of course, I should save the eight 
 pounds." 
 
 " Well, well !" cried the lady, with a look of exquisite 
 simplicity, yet in a tone that implied something of 
 exultation as a discoverer. 
 
 " Well ! and wouldn^t that be getting eiffht per cent.?" 
 
 Wise and excellent is the law that gives, in due suc- 
 cession, the sway of this empire to the hand of a woman.
 
 FEMALE ARITHMETICIANS. 311 
 
 Ever may we have reason to rejoice while a lady sits on 
 the throne; but, perhaps, it is quite as well that women 
 should still be, as heretofore, excluded from the post of 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer. 
 
 Kind, pretty, perplexing Mrs. Dipple, was the exact 
 representative of that class of feminine economists to 
 which we are referring. She knew when she wanted 
 fifty pounds without looking into her account-book ; but 
 as for showing, when it was all gone, how it had been 
 expended in the "house affairs," you might as Avell 
 expect Master Bidder to furnish an account of all the 
 items, because he was such an excellent reckoner. Yet 
 account for the sum she would, in her way, she was such 
 a severe economist. She was the most accurate of all 
 lady-arithmeticians that the world has yet looked upon, 
 the most expert at rendering a family Dr. and Cr. 
 account. Still she never got beyond this point. 
 
 Haring put down the 50/. received, she set against it, 
 in the opposite column, the sums she could most readily 
 recollect paying; and when she could remember no 
 more, she added them up, amounting to 17/. 5^. The 
 difference she discovered, by the rule of subtraction, to 
 be exactly 32/. 15*., which sum she immediately charged 
 as " sundries," added it to the other sum expended, 
 drew a triumphant line, and thus balanced the account. 
 She was such an economist, that she even economised 
 her very figures. 
 
 This done, off she went to the admiring Mr. Dipple. 
 
 " There, my dear, it 's fit that somebody should keep 
 an account of the money that flies so fast, though y(m 
 have no taste or talent that way. I know you don't 
 wish me to do it, but I always shall insist upon keeping 
 a petty cash-book. For my part, I like to know how 
 the money's spent. There 's an exact account of the 
 fifty pounds I had of you the other day; you can see
 
 312 FEMALE ARITHMETICIANS. 
 
 how it ^s all gone, for gone it is ; — oh ! and by the way, 
 since we ^re on the subject, I want another fifty/' 
 
 It must be observed, that however Mrs. Dipple's dis- 
 course upon domestic economy might begin, it was sure 
 to end, invariably, with this identical intimation. 
 
 We always admired that Romish priest of Fielding's, 
 who descanted for an hour in contempt of riches, and 
 ended with begging the loan of eighteenpence to pay 
 his reckoning. Nor should we less admire the thrifti- 
 ness of Mrs. Dipple, because it ended with a motion 
 for a fresh supply ; or depreciate the arithmetic which, 
 in showing her by a sum total the amount she had 
 expended, suggested to her the exact amount she then 
 wanted. 
 
 The profound writer whom we have just quoted has a 
 remark, which some will hold to be less worthy of his 
 almost unerring sagacity in the detection of human 
 weaknesses and vices. 
 
 " Many a woman," he says, " who shrinks at a mouse 
 or a rat, may be capable of poisoning a husband, or, 
 what is worse, of driving him to poison himself." 
 
 We by no means incline to subscribe (publicly) to 
 this detestable doctrine ; but we may perhaps just 
 venture, doubtftdly, so far as to request to be permitted 
 to observe, in place thereof, that many a woman who 
 shrieks about a shilling or a sixpence, is capable of 
 throwing away a hundred pounds in cash, or, what is 
 worse, of needlessly running up a bill to that amount. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Dipple — for her very failings endeared 
 her to us all, they so became her somehow, Hke the new 
 fashion in a sleeve or a head-dress, that turned other 
 people into frights, but always suited her exactly — 
 dear Mrs. Dipple, it must be confessed, had a slight 
 touch of this diverting quality. 
 
 It was amusing, and it was instructive too, to see
 
 FEMALE ARITHMETICIANS. 313 
 
 how eager and earnest she would be in her personal 
 inspection of the change out of a fourpenny-piece at the 
 turnpike, and how gracefully indifferent she became, a 
 quarter of an hour after, about a few pounds more or 
 less in the price of the shawl or the tea-ser\dce. 
 
 Thus she would carefully note down the cost of the 
 concert-ticket, but not a word about the new dress 
 that she had to go in. If she went upon an excursion 
 to some small Strawbeny-hill in those days, some mere 
 pottle of a place, you would see, in her next weekly 
 account of expenditure, the charge for a hired carriage, 
 with every minute particular of the extortion accurately 
 set forth; but not a figure would be introduced indicative 
 of the sum at which some astonishing bargain of a curi- 
 osity had been knocked down to her. In short, in her 
 account, a little halfcrown box bought to keep some odd 
 trinket in, would be duly charged at two-and- sixpence; 
 but the cost of the trinket itself would be merged in 
 the sum-total put down for " sundries." 
 
 Her arithmetical scheme might have been originally 
 derived from the astronomical system of the ingenious 
 lecturer, who informed his hearers that the great com- 
 ponent parts of creation consisted of the sun, moon, 
 earth, Halley's comet, and sundries. Only club the 
 stars together under the name of sundries, and a world 
 of difficult explanation is spared. 
 
 One principle which good Mrs. Dipple invariably 
 adopted in keeping this account which she would keep, 
 was to specify a certain number of trifles in general, 
 and then those few trifles in particular wherein Mr. 
 Dipple himself was personally concerned. The first 
 carried with them an air of comprehensive research 
 into all the minutiaj of housekeeping, while the second 
 took the semblance of veritable proofs of accuracy. 
 
 Thus, though certain weightier items were pruden- 
 
 VOL. III. p
 
 314 FEMALE ARITHMETICIANS. 
 
 tially merged in the convenient class of " sundries," 
 Mr. D. was pretty certain to find the eighteenpence 
 which had been paid for his cab-hire, or the half- 
 sovereign that he had caught up when going out in a 
 hurry, or the few shilKngs disbursed for his gloves, put 
 down with scrupulous and undeviating exactness in the 
 admirable family account. It was only to cite these 
 small sums of which he knew, to show him clearly how 
 the fifty pounds had been spent. 
 
 " True," he used to observe, " I did snatch up a 
 half-sovereign from the table one morning ; I recollect 
 it ; it was on Tuesday week. What a thoughtful little 
 soul it is ! Bless her, how carefully she does keep her 
 accounts V 
 
 Mrs. Dipple always took excellent care of the pence, 
 and Mr. Dipple was always perfectly satisfied that the 
 pounds took excellent care of themselves. 
 
 Mrs. Dipple managed aU her household matters not 
 merely without stinginess, but with liberality; yet 
 when that rage, which no great while ago ran from one 
 end of middle life to the other, — that feeling which may 
 be supposed to have possessed the bosoms of all Alad- 
 din^s neighbours, at the cry of " Who will change their 
 old lamps for new ones?" — that running after new 
 lights that led the great bulk of the lamp-burning 
 community into the seventh heaven of economy, in the 
 use of " common oil," — when that consuming rage first 
 seized upon families, rousing them to repurchases, to 
 exchanges, or to alterations of their old lamps, Mrs. 
 Dipple could not be insensible to the obligation of 
 proving herself at least as disinclined to extravagant 
 expenditure as the chariest of her acquaintances. 
 
 This was not enough; she must outstrip them all. 
 They had their lamps altered instanter, at the cost of a 
 guinea. Mrs. Dipple resolved to wait; the new in-
 
 FEMALE ARITHMETICIANS. 315 
 
 vention would infallibly cheapen itself. It did, and at 
 the expiration of a year and a half, she succeeded in 
 ha\ing the necessary improvements effectually rendered 
 for eleven shillings per lamp ! The figure looked 
 remarkably low, considering the saving, when intro- 
 duced into the domestic account ; though to be sure a 
 loss of several pounds had been incurred, by burning 
 the more expensive oil for a year and a half after their 
 neighbours had dispensed with it. 
 
 Among the human eccentrics that compose the com- 
 mon stock of our acquaintances in this droll place, the 
 world, is one who, when a heavy shower came on, went 
 into a shop and asked permission to leave a large cot- 
 ton umbrella there for a few hours. He didn't like to 
 put it up, because it was quite a new one, and had 
 never been used ; so he walked home through the rain. 
 We half suspect that Mrs. Dipple was a distant rela- 
 tive of his. 
 
 WTiat we are far more sure of is, her descent from a 
 famous economist, whose name we shall not mention. 
 When his magnificent mansion was found to be on fire, 
 and all eyes and hands were turned, naturally enough, 
 to the pleasing range of fire-buckets that ornamented 
 the outer court, this prince of economists positively 
 interdicted the use of them; peremptorily prohibited 
 everj^body from even so much as touching them ; the 
 buckets had been newly painted, and the crest and 
 initials were in gold. 
 
 Whether, by any peculiar kind of calculating machine 
 to be hereafter born of Babbage's, domestic economy 
 may become simplified; whether by a new system of 
 summing up or of subtracting, the annual expenditure 
 of a hundred pounds, and the annual saving of eight, 
 may be shown to be identical with a gain of eight per 
 cent, per annum ; whether the assemblage of aU the 
 
 p Z
 
 316 WANTED A NEIGHBOUR. 
 
 important items of an account under ike head of sun- 
 dries, may be found to be tbe most lucid and explana- 
 tory method of book-keeping, we cannot yet say; but 
 we hear that when the K-ev. Barnabas Shaw, missionary 
 to southern Africa, first commenced ploughing, in the 
 presence of a number of chiefs, one of them pithily 
 remarked that " one plough was equal to seven wives ! " 
 
 Now only think of one silent, senseless, figure-manu- 
 facturing, unintellectual, unhandsome calculating ma- 
 chine, merely because it might be exact in its accounts, 
 being for a single instant considered equal to seven 
 charming, delightful, inexact, half-reckoning, arithme- 
 tical non-economists, like Mrs. Dipple ! 
 
 WANTED A NEIGHBOUR. 
 
 I NEVER catch a glimpse of the Monument from that 
 distant part of the metropolis where I reside, without 
 sympathising most deeply with the man who, from 
 early dawn to set of sun, is stationed at the top to pre- 
 vent people of a lively turn of mind from jumping off". 
 He must be so sadly in want of neighbours. 
 
 There are glorious views among the Alps, and mag- 
 nificent sites for villas on the Himalayan Mountains ; 
 but I should not like to take a house there for any 
 lengthened term of years; the neighbourhood, or rather 
 the want of a neighbourhood, would be highly objec- 
 tionable. There may be snug living enough upon 
 Salisbury Plain ; but I always prefer having somebody 
 residing within gun-shot. And there is very snug 
 living no doubt (if without presumption the allusion 
 may be hazarded) in Buckingham Palace ; yet is there 
 in the position of its Illustrious Inhabitant, one pecu-
 
 WANTED A NEIGHBOUR. 317 
 
 liaxity from whicli most of her subjects are happiest 
 when they are exempt. It may be thus described : 
 Thousands of people live around and about the Palace, 
 but the Queen has no neighbours. 
 
 Man's duty towards his neighbour has many branches, 
 but mine has one branch extra. In fact, the leading 
 point of my duty towards my neighbour, is to find him. 
 When a boy, the adventiires of Robinson Crusoe exer- 
 cised over my mind an irresistible fascination ; and for 
 three years I dreamed of nothing, day or night, but the 
 charms of shipwreck and the seductiveness of a desert 
 island; but I could not help thinking that a pleasant 
 neighbom' or two would have materially improved the 
 sohtary condition. To be sure, there were the canni- 
 bals ; but they could hardly be said, in the strict sense 
 of the word, to be animated by a neighbourly feeling. 
 If Alexander Selkirk could have heard his sound of the 
 "church-going bell," for which his ear thirsted, he 
 would still have wanted a neighbour on the next rock, 
 or the valley ten miles off, to call for on his way, and 
 to return home with. But after all, their situation was 
 only just as neighbourless as mine. True, this little 
 suburban district is not a desert island ; on the con- 
 trary, there is scarcely an acre of ground within a mile 
 of my fireside, that is not thickly planted with brick 
 and mortar, and houses come up faster than small 
 salad ; there is scarcely an edifice among the congre- 
 gated specimens of eligible mansions and commodious 
 residences that is not tenanted ; and not a few of the 
 vast number can boast of more than one set of inmates. 
 But it is true, nevertheless, that I haven't a neighbour. 
 
 There are seasons, says Wordsworth, when the heart 
 luxuriates wdth indiff"ercnt things, " wasting its kindli- 
 ness on stocks and stones." I have often wasted mine 
 on the statue of the Duke of York on Carlton-terrace,
 
 318 WANTED A NEIGHBOUR. 
 
 and now watch the progress of the new column in 
 Trafalgar-square with proportionate interest. Nelson 
 will certainly prove a most desirable neighbour. 
 
 I have remarked that we are surrounded with houses^ 
 and that every one is tenanted ; this is scarcely saying 
 enough. A friend of mine (alas ! he is no neighbour), 
 whose family increases rapidly, is said to have such a 
 " house full of children," that he cannot shut the street- 
 door fot^ them. If he did, they would be oozing out at 
 the key-hol'? ; and legs and arms, in inevitable submis- 
 sion to the law of physics, would be insinuating them- 
 selves out of the window, or escaping as by a safety- 
 valve through the chimney. This appears to be equally 
 the case with numerous residents in my vicinity. Lodger 
 upon lodger, visitor upon visitor, each staying a twelve- 
 month, fill most of the buildings even to an overflow ; 
 but in all this multitude, is there no neighbour for me, 
 not one. 
 
 The people next door are a charming family. They 
 have resided there fifteen years, while my term of tenancy 
 has been seventeen ; but to speak of them as my neigh- 
 bours, would be like speaking of the elasticity of cast- 
 iron, or the saccharine attraction of a cranberrv-tart. 
 The family over the way, the Higgses (we know the 
 name to be Higgs by the brass-plate on the door), well, 
 they have hved almost opposite to us upwards of twelve 
 years ; and yet to expect a call from any one of the two 
 dozen in family, to expect a " good morning," or any 
 slight sign of neighbourly recognition, why, it would be 
 as startling as the knock of a penny-postman at the 
 door of Robinson Crusoe's cave. 
 
 The French have many generous and brilUant quah- 
 ties ; but I believe the chief reason why I am so partial 
 to them is, not that they have sent us Rachel, but that 
 they are always called " our hvely neighbours."
 
 WANTED A NEIGHBOUR. 319 
 
 Let it not be raslily imagined that I am utterly 
 deserted and desolate. We have relations innumerable ; 
 some of them yet lining can prove that they were in the 
 Ark, and they have gone on increasing and multiplying 
 ever since. But relations in Yorkshire, the Isle of 
 France, Australia, Upper Canada, and New Zealand, 
 are not exactly neighbours. As for the friends that we 
 have the happiness to possess, they are like the tricks of 
 conjurors, " too tedious to mention. ^^ We have them, 
 as the hungry gentleman wanted to have the sandwiches 
 at an evening party, " in swarms.^^ But then, is it not 
 as clear as a ball-room two minutes after supper is 
 announced, that the best of friends are an}i;hing but 
 neighbours, especially when they reside within a conve- 
 nient distance ! 
 
 We have numerous \isitations from afar. If I hap- 
 pened to have a cousin in Kentucky, I ^d bet the specu- 
 lating reader a copy of the New Monthly, that he (the 
 Kentuckian) would be smoking me out of house and 
 home within a twelvemonth. Every man or boy, every 
 maid, wife, or widow, connected with us by the remotest 
 and most imaginary degree of consanguinity, can find 
 the way in turn to our gate, and knows experimentally 
 the precise degree of vigour which the bell-pidl exacts 
 to insure a prompt attendance upon the summons. 
 They know whether our knocker's note is C in base, or 
 C in treble. We have plenty of other people^s neigh- 
 bours ; throughout the year we may rejoice, at intervals, 
 in the flattering inquiries and voluntary domiciliations 
 of friends and kindred from a distance, the neighbours 
 probably of my own antipodes. But this occurs to 
 everybody in turn. It is regulated by the principle on 
 which every Londoner's country visitors clamber up 
 St. Paul's, and thread the mazes of the Tower, while 
 the Londoner himself docs not. I have neither scaled
 
 320 WANTED A NEIGHBOUR. 
 
 the Monument, nor dived into the Tunnel ; never in my 
 life, because I could perform the feat every day of my 
 existence; and what I princiiially know concerning 
 them is derived from the voluminous communications 
 of statistical guests from distant countries or foreign 
 lands. 
 
 They can give you the exact measurement of the 
 architectural or antiquarian wonder; the width, the 
 height, the proportion of the parts, in feet and inches ; 
 and add besides the date of the year when it was all 
 done ; all which told, without the abatement of a single 
 figure of the account, they leave you to enjoy your 
 head-ache, and travel back to the country, sensible per- 
 haps of your hospitality, but shocked at your disgraceful 
 want of ordinary information. 
 
 Ah ! how vast is the difference between all such 
 guests, and the social conveniences alluded to before, 
 the neighbours ! Relations are well enough, so long as 
 they are not poor ones ; and friends are of inestimable 
 value, except perhaps when you want them to be of use 
 to you ; but if they are beyond immediate reach, it is 
 too plain that they are not neighbours, and one good 
 thing is not always a substitute for another. As an 
 epic poem would prove but of slight utility in the place 
 of a haunch of venison, so the exalted and exquisite 
 sentiment of friendship is, in practical operation, but an 
 ill substitute for the hourly- wanted accommodation of a 
 neighbourly feeling. 
 
 What adds most acutely to the poignant sense which 
 I entertain of this social grievance, my want of neigh- 
 bours, is, that the people all round about appear to be 
 such peculiarly nice people. The charming family oppo- 
 site, and that next door, are but specimens of the general 
 superiority. On our terrace there are almost twenty 
 houses, and in the row over the way there are twenty-
 
 WANTED A NEIGHBOUR. 321 
 
 five, and I don^t tliink there is an exceptionable person 
 amongst all the inhabitants, from the Bradleys to the 
 Watkinsons. They seem to be the steadiest of hus- 
 bands, the kindest of fathers, the fondest of grandpapas, 
 the best of wives, mothers, sisters, or maiden aunts in 
 the world ; but they are such horribly bad neighbours. 
 I do not mean of com'se that they are caught peeping 
 over the blinds into one^s bedroom, before one has quite 
 time to get out of it in the morning ; or that they flock 
 to the windows whenever a longer and louder knock 
 than usual is administered at our door by some more 
 finished practitioner ; they all seem perfectly indifferent 
 whether, when the butcher comes, the servant takes in 
 lamb or mutton ; they hardly appear to know people's 
 turbots from their brills : thev never seem to count how 
 many letters the postman brings daily, nor observe 
 what visitors we have, nor notice at what late hours 
 they may happen to go away ; and I verily believe that 
 if our ale- brewer were to send us an eighteen-gallon 
 cask every week, the circumstance would fail to attract 
 the smallest attention in this unobservant \dcinity. A 
 German friend sallied forth the first thing after break- 
 fast the other morning, with a huge moustache and a 
 long pipe in his mouth ; and the maid-servant who was 
 sweeping the steps of No. 16, never rested her chin upon 
 the loug-broom-handle for a single instant, nor even 
 turned her head to stare at the phenomenon. 
 
 When I say, therefore, that they are bad neighbours, 
 I mean that they are not neighbours at all. I only 
 wish they Avould busy themselves about our affairs. 
 Everj^thing that could be done to entrap them into 
 slight intimacies, or neighbourly interchanges of nods, 
 has been tried long ago, until effort and hope are 
 exhausted. There are the three ladylike Miss Moores, 
 next door but one ; I would give anything to break 
 
 p 3
 
 322 WANTED A NEIGHBOUR. 
 
 througli tlieir reserve. I know they like a rubber on a 
 winter evening; the youngest is past forty; but one 
 might as well attempt to coax them into Crockford's as 
 to draw them into a little neighbourly party with whist 
 in our corner. To each other they are all smiles and 
 sunshine, but they are icicles as neighbours. Over- 
 taking them in a lane close by, the other evening, I 
 purposely trod on the tail of their favourite spaniel, to 
 give myself an opportimity, by a thousand apologies for 
 my carelessness, of making their acquaintance; but 
 they only bowed graciously, called " Pet ! Pet !" ob- 
 served that the little thing was always in the way, and 
 made room for me to pass. I could not have remarked 
 that it was a fine night, but I thought it would rain 
 before morning, if my life had depended on it ! 
 
 There ^s that fine good-humoured fellow at No. 6 
 over the way, with his twinkling eyes and rosy com- 
 plexion; he^s at home every evening, but how can I 
 get him out ? I wish he would trouble his head with 
 what doesn't concern him. He sings capitally, and has 
 been singing for years, as we have often heard when 
 passing under the window ; and of all things we want 
 him to take a second in " Drink to me only," but I 
 might as reasonably hope to get Lablache by the 
 button. As his name resembles my own (so the old- 
 fashioned brass plate shows ; the only medium through 
 which the mere names of our neighbours can be known 
 to us), two or three misdirected letters, intended for 
 me, have fallen into his hands; he sends them over 
 with much promptitude and great poHteness ; yet it is 
 as difficult to get a " fine daj^ !'' out of him when we 
 meet, as it is out of November itself. 
 
 It is really comical to see how we miscellaneous 
 residents hereabout meet each other on one of our 
 favouiite little promenades of an evening ; on the stony
 
 WANTED A NEIGHBOUR. 323 
 
 and not very spacious bank of a respectable pond, which 
 has recently, thanks to its loyal and patriotic proprietor, 
 been put in handsome order, and designated Lake 
 Albert. Here we all parade up and down, first on this 
 side of a row of trees and then on that; the " place' ^ 
 or the " terrace" on which we live being, at this time, 
 more than half emptied of its tenants ; and yet, amidst 
 all the promenaders so assembled, there is not one 
 single neighbourly soul that speaks to another. None 
 of them let their left hands know what their right hands 
 are doing. No. 2 does not so much as bow to No. 3 ; 
 No. 4 seems utterly unconscious that No. 5 lives next 
 door to him. 
 
 We are not birds of passage, observe, in our district ; 
 there are but few examples of tenants coming for a 
 season and starting off again ; on the contrary, most of 
 us have been fixtures for the last twenty years, so that 
 meeting each other continually for half a life-time, our 
 faces are all as familiar as our manners are reserved. 
 We could all swear to each other's buttons and bonnet- 
 ribbons ; yet we walk and make no sign. Hundi'cds of 
 times have I patted the heads of little masters, or 
 touched with surpassing delicacy the chins of little 
 maidens, in the hope of thawing their parents, and 
 establishing, if not a neighbourly intercourse, yet an 
 interchange of courtesies. All in vain. I have some- 
 times, by way of breaking the ice, meditated pushing 
 one of the little boys into the pond ; not far, but just 
 so that I might instantly pull him out again ; for the 
 sake of seeing whether the deliverer of their darling 
 would be recognised as a near neighbour. But curiosity 
 never carried me so far, because I felt certain of 
 the result. As a total stranger I should be over- 
 whelmed with acknowledgments, and then become a 
 total stranger again. The answer to inquiries next
 
 324 WANTED A NEIGHBOUR. 
 
 morning would be^ " Compliments ; much obliged ; 
 going on very well, many thanks ;" but no hint of any 
 latent consciousness that the face of their darling's 
 preserver was one which they had ever seen before, or 
 were likely to meet again. 
 
 " Had I met it/^ says the Sentimentalist on his 
 Journey, speaking of the head of the monk, " had I 
 met it on the plains of Industan I had worshipped it.'' 
 If one of my neighbours were to meet me there, we 
 should not even nod to one another. I cannot say, 
 with Orlando, " I desire that we may be better 
 strangers," for that we cannot be. 
 
 At the play the other night, a family on our terrace 
 came into the same box and shared the same seat with 
 me. I raised it for them on their entrance, and picked 
 up their playbill ; other civilities passed : but through- 
 out the long evening my companions betrayed, neither 
 by look nor by word, a knowledge of the fact that 
 we had all come from, and were all returning to, 
 the same spot, and that ever since Midsummer, 1824, 
 we had rarely been a stone's throw apart ! 
 
 The scene which I most enjoy on the stage occurs 
 in operas and melo-dramas, where troops of peasants 
 come crowding on, the men in short red waistcoats and 
 blue smalls, the women in abridged petticoats of every 
 colour, all bustling together and shaking hands, or 
 pairing off, arm in arm ; with a Farmer Friendly joining 
 them from his cottage, saying, " Come neighbours, 
 neighboui's ! " receiving a welcome everywhere, and 
 speaking to every creature, great or little, in the village. 
 Those are exhibitions of genuine nature. They teach 
 us to feel the full force of every neighbourly sentiment. 
 They paint a true picture of what exists everywhere, 
 except in my parish. I never witness that portion of 
 the play without wishing that I had yielded, in early
 
 WANTED A NEIGHBOUR. 325 
 
 life, to intense passion for the stage. I think I could 
 have played one of those Farmer Friendlys to the life, 
 — they are all so natural. 
 
 As we have frequent visitors in friends and family 
 connexions, so even when quite alone we are not abso- 
 lutely without resources. I should be sorry to be 
 thought wholly dependent for the means of passing an 
 agreeable evening on unknown and indeed non-existent 
 neighbours. My wife and I have, to be sure, outgrown 
 both cribbage and picquet ; but we contrive to relish our 
 whist pretty well by means of two open dummies. Still 
 we are apt to feel, after an hour or two, rather provoked 
 at the impossibility of ensnaring a pair of partners, out 
 of all the elderhes that are plajang rubbers round about. 
 The evening passes off verj^ delightfully ; but then utter 
 solitude is always the sweeter for having somebody by, 
 to whom we may say " How delightful it is ! " 
 
 We have once or twice meditated the expedient of 
 making the children sit up late; inuring them to it 
 from the cradle, so that they may do it without winking ; 
 it would be injurious to them no doubt, but it woidd be 
 much more lively. Sometimes we vary the order of 
 amusement by singing trios and duets, or arranging 
 solos for two voices ; for I don't dislike music so much 
 when I take part in it ; it is only listening that I object 
 to. Occasionally too we act little domestic dramas; 
 getting up, that is to say, just a slight friendly quarrel ; 
 a mere bickering in an affectionate way, to help the 
 hours along ; and now and then we have another vari- 
 ation of proceedings, by agreeing to fancy ourselves as 
 slight acquaintances only, each regarding the other as 
 merely a friendly visitor, preserving therefore the most 
 respectful and attentive demeanour, drawiug out our 
 tastes and sentiments, our predilections and dislikings 
 by degrees, and playing off all the little prettinesses of
 
 326 SYMPTOMS OF THE MIND DISEASED. 
 
 speech and manner that would be properly called forth 
 by a charming neighbour, paying the first visit and 
 reluctant to depart. We find this semi-serious farce, 
 sustained as it is by the most innocent flirtation, by way 
 of by-play, to answer its purpose very well. So gravely 
 is it carried on, that I sometimes end by off'ering to see 
 my wife home to the next terrace. I only wish a neigh- 
 bour or two would drop in to witness the performance. 
 A neighbour or two ! Absurd ! In my paradise, as 
 in Adam^s, there are none. I have relatives, friends, 
 acquaintances, brother-electors and fellow-parishioners, 
 but I have no neighbours. 
 
 SYMPTOMS OF THE MIND DISEASED: 
 
 CONSIDERED IN RELATION TO THE CHARACTERISTICS OF HAIVILET. 
 
 Is it, as a warning voice has this minute suggested, a 
 little too late in the day to discuss the question whether 
 Hamlet^s wits were or were not disordered? We are 
 persuaded that it is not. Nay, we know most surely 
 that Hamlet can never be an exhausted subject of spe- 
 culation while human nature remains inexhaustible. 
 The profound truths of the character are entwined with 
 the roots of some of humanity's very deepest secrets. 
 The springs of our interest and wonder can never be dry. 
 
 We shall revive not a syllable of the much that has 
 been said of old about this most exquisite and perfect of 
 characters ; we shall glance not at any one of those later 
 opinions which the various beautiful editions of the 
 poet's works, now in a course of publication, may contain; 
 for these we have not read. Nor do we, according to 
 the practice of the general Shakspearian admirer, who 
 fondly believes that he has something new and striking 
 to offer in exposition of the poet's genius, profess to hold
 
 SYMPTOMS OF THE MIND DISEASED. 327 
 
 all the poet's commentators in contempt. Far other- 
 wise. Our reverence for their acuteness stops on this 
 side idolatry, yet taken as a body they must be regarded 
 as an ill-used race of men. Thev have said more than 
 enough to be sure, and yet less. Still they have said 
 much to the purpose. 
 
 At a time when such a popular and fearful interest 
 attaches to the question ; not so much of absolute insa- 
 nity, as of that partial estrangement of reason which 
 exhibits many of its leading peculiarities (the condition 
 of mind which it is the object of this paper to suggest as 
 assignable to Hamlet), the reader may be at once 
 invited to compare the principal traits in the character 
 drawn by Shakspeare with the leading sjonptoms of a 
 distemper described with singular exactness and parti- 
 cularity by Robert Burton in his " Anatomy of Melan- 
 choly.'' * Burton's Anatomy, it may be remarked, was 
 not published until 1621, five years after Shakspeare's 
 death ; the poet's genius has therefore anticipated in the 
 working of a certain malady of the mind a theory which 
 Burton has propounded with great exphcitness and 
 subtlety, with various and singular knowledge both of 
 books and of mankind. 
 
 We may premise that the mental distemper which 
 Burton pictures to us, he calls "Melancholy." The 
 word in the sense so attached to it is perhaps obsolete ; 
 monomania, estrangement of reason, sometimes eccen- 
 tricity, are the terms generally substituted for it in 
 these times ; but that it was the designation of a malady, 
 in Burton's view of the matter, not very distantly related 
 
 • This comparison has been made, and the view here taken elaborately 
 and ingeniously worked out, in "The Nature and Extent of Poetic 
 Licence, by N. A. Vigors, jun., Esq.," a volume published a quarter of a 
 century ago. Those who may be acquainted with it will see how freely 
 its suggestions and speculations are applied by the transcriber.
 
 328 SYMPTOMS OF THE MIND DISEASED. 
 
 to lunacy, and constituting in truth a certain fitful and 
 unsettled quality of mind, seems as clear, as that the 
 symptoms of the disorder are identical with the chief 
 peculiarities of Hamlet. 
 
 We shall enumerate the leading features of the dis- 
 temper ; they are sorrow, distaste of life, love of solitude, 
 a mixture of mirth and grief, suspicion, bursts of passion, 
 inconstancy and irresolution. 
 
 In the foreground of these symptoms is Sorrow, the 
 principal characteristic of the malady, and the source in 
 which all its other peculiarities originate. 
 
 " Sorrow," says Burton, " is that character and 
 inseparable companion, a common symtome, a continual 
 sorrow sticks by them still, continually gnawing, as the 
 vulture did Tityus^ bowels, and they cannot avoid it. 
 Lugubris Ate frowns upon them, insomuch that Aretseus 
 well calls it, ' a vexation of the mind, a perpetual 
 agony'." Hamlet, who seems ever with his vailed eyes 
 to seek his noble father in the dust, is exhibited from 
 his first introduction as one bowed down by this Sorrow; 
 as one whom Melancholy has marked for her own. We 
 discern at once that there 's something in his soul o'er 
 which his melancholy sits on brood. He has that within 
 that passeth show. His disposition natiu-ally pensive 
 and retired, is operated upon, not merely by his father's 
 death, but by the insult offered to his memory, and 
 appears to yield to a deep and settled sadness. He is 
 absorbed in his affections. Between him and enjoyment 
 there is an insuperable and eternal bar. The world pre- 
 sents but a vacuity to his Aveary gaze. Along its barren 
 paths he sees no object of relief or consolation. In him 
 even love itself is blind indeed, and the very image of 
 Ophelia fails to lighten up the deep shadow which is 
 around him. In his first sohloquy, he declares with 
 affecting solemnity that aU the uses of the world seem
 
 SYMPTOMS OF THE MIND DISEASED. 329 
 
 to him weary, stale, and unprofitable ; and he afterwards 
 tells his friends that he has lost all his mirth, neglected 
 all exercises, that the earth is but as a barren promon- 
 tory, and the firmament with its golden fires but a foul 
 and pestilent congregation of vapour. 
 
 It is natural that another symptom should arise out of 
 this — Weariness and Distaste of Life. The judgment is 
 sickened and ^dtiated under this weight that oppresses 
 the heart, and tuims with disrelish and loathing from 
 every object of existence. 
 
 " Hence," says Burton, " it proceeds many times that 
 they are weary of their lives ; and ferall thoughts, to 
 offer violence to their persons, come into their mindes. 
 Tcedium vitce is a common symtome, they are soon tyred 
 of all things," Thus Hamlet the instant he is alone 
 gives vent to his weariness and distate of life — 
 
 Oh, that this too, too soUd flesh would melt, 
 Thaw and resolve itself into a dew ; 
 Or that the Everlasting had not fixed 
 His canon 'gainst self slaughter. 
 
 His total disregard of life he expresses to Horatio and 
 Marcellus — 
 
 I do not set my hfe at a pin's fee. 
 
 And the point to which tends the only hope he has, 
 to end all his griefs in the grave, is seen in his answers 
 to Polonius, though intended to be light and unmeaning. 
 
 PoLONius. — Will you walk out of the air, my lord ? 
 
 Hamlet Into my (jrave. 
 
 Polonius. — My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave 
 of you. 
 
 Hamlet. — Sir, you cannot take from me any thing I will more willingly 
 part withal ; except my life, except my life, except my life. 
 
 Nay, he afterwards debates the question, to be or not 
 to be; and here it may be remarked, as something tend- 
 ing to show the state of mind under which Hamlet
 
 330 SYMPTOMS OF THE MIND DISEASED. 
 
 labours while lie thus meditates, that the whole debate 
 is a superfluity, an anti-climax, and involves either a 
 strange oversight on the part of the author (which is 
 scarcely conceivable), or else a symptom of mental 
 estrangement on the part of Hamlet. He goes on to 
 reason himself into a belief that to die is to sleep, no 
 more ; that this sleep ends the thousand natural shocks 
 that flesh is heir to ; that it is a consummation devoutly 
 to be wished ; when he had held a conference the night 
 before with an expositor of the very mysteries of death, 
 the shadowy discoverer of the marvels of the Aftertime. 
 
 " To sleep,^' he reiterates, "perchance to dream ; for 
 in that sleep of death what dreams may come, must give 
 us pause.'' 
 
 But the time for speculating and supposing thus had 
 gone by. Purgatory was no longer problematical. He 
 speaks as he would have spoken the year before, of "the 
 dread something after death, the undiscovered coun- 
 try." But the something had been explained to him ; 
 the horrible secrets of the prison-house had been more 
 than hinted at, though all was forbidden to be revealed ; 
 he had heard all that ears of flesh and blood might 
 listen to ; he had been apprised of the awful penalty ; he 
 had been warned of the " sulphurous and tormenting 
 flames" that must burn and purge away the foul deeds 
 done in the days of life. When he decides upon rather 
 bearing the ills he has, than fly to others that he knows 
 not of, he seems to forget the foreknowledge of them 
 contained in the appalling revelation of the ghost. 
 True, he has his doubts sometimes of the integrity of 
 the spunt that he has seen, and admits that it " may be 
 a devil," that " abuses him to damn him ;" but this sup- 
 position is equally fatal to the propriety and fitness of 
 his speculations upon death as a quiet sleep that is to end 
 the heart-ache, and he never for an instant doubts that
 
 SYMPTOMS OF THE MIND DISEASED. 331 
 
 he has seen and heard a supernatural agent^ whatso- 
 ever its object and whencesoever it might come. The 
 heart of the mystery has been plucked out ; yet though 
 his malady makes him for the moment unconscious of 
 it, he can reason upon the great subject Tvith a happi- 
 ness which sanity very often (as Polonius says) " could 
 not so prosperously be delivered of." 
 
 We come to another distinguishing trait of Hamlet^s 
 mental infirmity — Love of Solitude. Burton observes : 
 
 " Most part they are diffident, of small or no comple- 
 ment, unsociable, hard to be acquainted with, especially 
 of strangers ; they had rather wiite their minds than 
 speak, and above all things love sohtariness. Gene- 
 rally, thus much we may conclude of melancholy, that 
 it is most pleasant, mentis gratissimus error, a most 
 delightsome humour to be alone, dwell alone, walk alone, 
 meditate, and form a thousand fantastical imaginations 
 unto themselves." 
 
 The number of soliloquies in which Hamlet indulges 
 is noticeable even by the unthinking play-goer. They 
 are more frequent than in any other of Shakspeare's 
 dramas. The love of soHtude is especially congenial to 
 his disposition. He seizes every opportunity of being- 
 alone, that he may give vent to feelings which he can 
 only indulge in secret. 
 
 " Break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue," he 
 exclaims, stifling his emotions, when his friends break 
 in upon him. Indeed he is at some pains to seek occa- 
 sions for privacy. A few of the instances may be 
 noticed. His impatience at the presence of Polonius : 
 
 Polonius. — Fare you well, my lord. 
 Hamlet. — These tedious old fools. 
 
 When struck with the feigned passion of the players, 
 contrasting it with his own irresolution, he seeks once 
 more to brood in secret, and bids them all retire. " ^Tis
 
 332 SYMPTOMS OF THE MIND DISEASED. 
 
 well, I ^11 have tliee speak out tlie rest of tliis soon," &c. 
 " Noiv I am alone.'' Afterwards lie responds to his 
 mother's desire to see him : " I will come by and by." 
 
 PoLONius. — I will say so. 
 
 Hamlet. — By and by is easily said. Leave me, friends. 
 
 And again when the report of the Norwegian captain 
 seems to inform against him and spur his dull revenge : 
 " I humbly thank you, sir." 
 
 Captain. — God be wi' you, sir. (Eodt.) 
 
 Ros. — Wilt please you go, my lord ? 
 
 Hamlet. — I will be with you straight, go a little before. 
 
 As for " rather writing their minds than speak," as 
 Burton says, no less than three of Hamlet^s letters are 
 read during the play, and Ophelia returns him a packet 
 addressed to her. 
 
 A mixture of Mirth and Sorrow, of humorous conceit 
 and settled sadness, is defined by Burton to be another 
 peculiar symptom of this disease. He thus expresses 
 himself : 
 
 " Humourous they are beyond all measure, sometimes 
 profusely laughing, extraordinary merry, and then again 
 weeping without a cause ; and though they laugh many 
 times, and seem to be extraordinary merry (as they will 
 by fits) yet extreme lumpish again in an instant ; semel 
 et simul, merry and sad, but most part sad." 
 
 Hamlet deigns to sport with the afflictions which 
 weigh heaviest upon his heart, with events of the most 
 bewildering and agonising character. Answering Hora- 
 tio^s observation that he came to see his father's funeral, 
 he says in reference to the wedding that followed : 
 " Thrift, thrift, Horatio ; the funeral baked meats did 
 coldly furnish forth the marriage tables." But almost 
 in the same breath he relapses into his original gloom- 
 iness :
 
 SYMPTOMS OF THE MIND DISEASED. 333 
 
 Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven, 
 Or ever I had seen that day. 
 
 The same feelings are evinced, and the same tran- 
 sition from the humorous to the solemn is observed in 
 his answers to Horatio^s questions relative to the ghost ; 
 and his reference to the change of place of " truepenny," 
 ''old mole/' the "fellow in the cellarage," when he 
 proposes the oath of secrecy to his friends, which he 
 nevertheless receives with a pathetic sacredness, " Rest, 
 rest, perturbed spirit." 
 
 This singular mixture is noticeable in almost every 
 scene ; for examples it is only necessary to point to the 
 ludicrous style in which he indulges on the breaking up 
 of the dramatic experiment on the conscience of the 
 king, and to the extraordinary blending of humour, 
 solemnity, and pathos, over the grave of Ophelia; all 
 indicative of the same disposition. 
 
 Burton regards Suspicion as another distinguishing 
 sign of this peculiar malady. 
 
 "Suspicion and jcalousie," says he, "are general 
 symtomes; they are commonly distrustful; if two talk 
 together, whisper, jest, he thinks presently they mean 
 him, applyes all to himself. He cannot endvire any 
 man to look steadily on him, laugh, jest, or be familiar. 
 He thinks they laugh at liim, circumvent him, contemn 
 him. Suspition follows fear and sorrow at heels, arising 
 out of the same fountain, and still they suspect some 
 treachery." 
 
 In tliis we trace a characteristic of Hamlet minutely 
 described. His prophetic soul was bursting with a 
 suspicion of his uncle's guilt long before the ghost gave 
 evidence ; he suspects all tlirough the play; and Rosen- 
 crantz and Guildenstem call the feeling into action, just 
 as Burton describes it. Hamlet not only suspects the
 
 334 SYMPTOMS OF THE MIND DISEASED. - 
 
 motive of their coming, but is roused to indignation by 
 their smiles. 
 
 Hamlet. Man delights not me, nor woman neither ; though by your 
 smiling you seem to say so. 
 
 Ros. There is no such stuff in my thoughts. 
 
 Hamlet. Why did you laugh then>hen I said man delights not me ? 
 
 He discovers his antipathy to the smile of which 
 Burton discourses on other occasions, and seems to 
 think it but a mask for treachery and baseness. How 
 paints he, in his bitterest hatred, the king's aspect ? 
 
 Oh, villain, villain, smiling, damned villain ! 
 
 My tablet, meet it is I set it down ; 
 
 That one may smile, and smile, and he a villain. 
 
 And with regard to circumvention, the suspicion of 
 it recurs often. He takes constant pleasure in plotting 
 and counterplotting : as in the grand assumption, the 
 feigning of madness ; in the scheme of the play ; in the 
 enjoyment he feels when his two schoolfellows " marshal 
 him to knavery ;" when he exults in breaking open the 
 letters ; and finds it sweet, that " in one line two crafts 
 together meet.'' To trace this quality of suspicion, and 
 the use of these desperate means of circumvention, to 
 a mind not free from the ravages of a distemper, is to 
 escape the shock with which we must otherwise be 
 visited in contemplating this portion of the strategy of 
 Hamlet. 
 
 We next have Inconstancy and Irresolution as indica- 
 tions of the mind thus pitiably diseased. 
 
 " Inconstant they are in all their actions, vertiginous, 
 restless, unapt to resolve of any business ; in most things 
 wavering, irresolute. He will freely promise, undertake 
 any business beforehand, but when it comes to be per- 
 formed he dare not adventure." 
 
 This quahty, like the others, is too conspicuous in
 
 SYMPTOMS OF THE MIND DISEASED. 335 
 
 Hamlet to require many proofs. He will and he will 
 not. Ever conscious of his procrastination, he is ever 
 about to work out his ends. Resolute, he is still incon- 
 stant to his purpose. Although his father^s spirit has 
 given him "dread command" to take revenge for 
 fratricide, he waits for another ghostly visitation — 
 
 Dost thou not come thy ta/rdy son to chide \ 
 
 The players awaken in him self-reproaches, when he 
 sees how passion works in them, while it moves him 
 in vain ; he "can do nothing." Even when the moment 
 for long-restrained vengeance upon his uncle seems to 
 have arrived. 
 
 Now could I do it pat, now he is praying, 
 And now I '11 do 't ; 
 
 he but speaks daggers and uses none; it is never the 
 right time. His purpose becomes " almost blunted," 
 and he quits Denmark only to feel, on view of the 
 Norwegian armament, "this thing ^s to do," and that 
 all occasions inform against him, and spur his dull 
 revenge. All his thoughts are thenceforth to be "bloody 
 or nothing worth ;" yet they still evaporate in words, 
 and the death of the king occurs after all incidentally, 
 the agent having a motive furnished him utterly unas- 
 sociated with his father's murder. 
 
 Burton also classes among the symptoms of the 
 malady he analyses, sudden and violent Bursts of Pas- 
 sion. " Extreme passionate they are,'"* says he ; and 
 Hamlet's mind, strongly agitated, often overflows 
 without restraint. His sohloquics contain one or two 
 examples. Into what a fury he burst after the departure 
 of the players, when he denounces himself as " pigeon- 
 livered," or ere this, 
 
 I should have fatted all the region kites 
 With this slave's offal, 
 
 raving till he is exhausted. His passion overpowers
 
 336 SYMPTOMS OF THE MIND DISEASED. 
 
 hinij, and his language becomes wild and frantic, when 
 describing to his mother the atrocities of her "king of 
 shreds and patches^" " a murderer and a villain/' " a 
 slave," "a vice of kings/' "a cutpurse of the empire 
 and the rule." A distracted impulse occasions the 
 death of Polonius, and a similar frenzy begets the 
 outrage at Ophelia's grave, where he puts himself into 
 the "towering passion" of which he afterwards repents. 
 
 That Wit and Judgment are not inconsistent with the 
 melancholy which is Hamlet's malady is seen in 
 another observation of Burton. 
 
 " Men infected with this disease are of a deep reach, 
 excellent apprehension, judicious, wise, and witty. 
 They are of profound judgment in some things, although 
 in others non recte judicant inguieti." 
 
 How Hamlet answers to this description all can 
 judge j and as the writer whose views we have adopted 
 notices, how admirably has Cervantes supported this 
 mixture of judgment and eccentricity in his " Don 
 Quixote." 
 
 Numberless indications, judging by the principle laid 
 down by Burton, of Hamlet's disordered state of mind 
 might be adduced, but enough perhaps has been said 
 to exhibit a conformity between the anatomist and the 
 dramatist. Grant that the one has truly described a 
 disease of the mind, and it may be granted perhaps 
 that the other has accui'ately delineated a martyr to it. 
 Little more was wanting to the wonderful truth of the 
 poet's conception than to make the victim confess his 
 own weakness. 
 
 The spirit that I have seen 
 May be a devil, and the devil hath power 
 To assume a pleasing shape ; yea, and perhaps 
 
 Out of my weakness arid my melancholy, 
 As he is very potent with such spirits, 
 Abuses me to damn me. 
 
 For Burton says.
 
 SYMPTOMS OF THE MIND DISEASED. 337 
 
 " Agrippa and Lavater are persuaded that this humour 
 in^dtes the diAil to it wheresoever it is in extremity ; 
 and of all others these persons are most subject to dia- 
 bolical temptations and illusions^ and the divil best able 
 to work upon them." 
 
 A symptom, moreover, of this species of insanity may 
 be detected even in the feigning of madness ; as a con- 
 sciousness of a little weakness may suggest the assump- 
 tion of a greater, to hide its inconsistencies in a show 
 of eccentricity. The suddenness of Hamlet's resolve 
 favours this argument ; as upon the vanishing of the 
 ghost he takes out his tables and writes, and rails at the 
 " smiHng \dllain," with '' so, uncle^ there you are ; " 
 then calling to his friends, " Hillo, ho, ho, boy ! Come 
 bird, come ! " he intimates that he may hereafter see 
 fit " to put an antic disposition on." The uselessness 
 of the artifice, for the feigned madness furthers no pur- 
 pose of Hamlet's, pushes the argument further. 
 
 Above all, perhaps, when we consider the delicate 
 texture of Hamlet's mind, his extreme refinement and 
 overwrought sensibility, is it wonderful that its fabric 
 should be warped and disordered under the pressure of 
 the painful news of his father's sudden death, the shame 
 of his mother's infamous marriage, fojlowed by an awful 
 revelation from the grave, of its ghostly secrets and the 
 mysteries of the Hereafter ? Rather, would it not be 
 wonderful, unnatural even, if the sweet bells were not 
 jangled and out of tune, if the noble mind of Hamlet 
 were not rendered a prey to that pitiable distemper, of 
 which Burton has so distinctly recorded the curious 
 anatomy ! 
 
 VOL. III. Q
 
 338 
 
 MY DREAM AT HOP-LODGE. 
 
 When I was in Kent, last spring, on a visit to the 
 friendly owner of Hop-lodge, in that county, I remarked 
 that all the ladies of the family devoted their leisure 
 hours to the same occupation. In a spirit of unanimity 
 never before seen, except on the stage, all entered with 
 enthusiasm into the same amusement ; it was not 
 scandal. 
 
 My friend's lively, warm-hearted wife ; her sister and 
 his sister ; together with the little bright-eyed daughter 
 not sixteen ; and an ancient dame, distantly related to 
 all the rest; nay, even the governess, at intervals; seemed 
 to take a placid delight, hour by hour, in tearing up 
 old letters, notes, envelopes, and other remnants of 
 manuscript into small pieces, not much larger than a 
 silver penny, and dropping them, by little handfuls, 
 into little baskets beside them. 
 
 Every dull morning after breakfast, and every dance- 
 less evening after tea, the conversation was carried on 
 to the monotonous accompaniment of a sharp, quick, 
 rustling sound, produced by the continual tearing up 
 of writing paper, of many quahties and sizes ; some so 
 crisp and so substantial that simply unfolding it would 
 elicit a crackhng noise, while reducing it to fragments 
 caused a sound equal to that of a fine saw. So loud 
 was it, at times, that the very postman's knock, an- 
 nouncing the arrival of a fresh supply of epistles, to be 
 condemned, in due season, could hardly have been 
 heard. 
 
 Enter the ordinary sitting-room when one would, 
 there sate the lady of the house^ emulating upon sheets
 
 MY DREAM AT HOP-LODGE. 339 
 
 of paper the experiments of M'Adam upon blocks of 
 granite ; the M'Ea' e, we may designate her, of foolscap 
 and demy. With hands almost as white as the mate- 
 rial they demolished, she pleasantly pursued her task of 
 destruction, letting fall into the basket a tiny handful 
 of little pieces every minute. She looked, in her gaiety 
 and beauty, hke a laughing Juno, who had resolved to 
 possess herself of a silver shower to match Jove's 
 golden one. 
 
 Chariest of the chary in all matters which relate to 
 ladies, married or single, I should as soon have thought 
 of asking them to let me read one of the letters they 
 were tearing up, as of questioning them as to the 
 intended appropriation of those epistolary particles. So 
 I watched the white hands plying their trade, I Hstened 
 to the crumpUug and crushing of paper day by day, but 
 uttered not a word of inquiry. " It was," as Mr. Pepys 
 remarks, " pretty to see." 
 
 One cannot interrogate a lady as to the destination 
 of that thirty-second bead bag, which she is slowly 
 manufacturing; nor ask the name of the gentleman for 
 whom she is, with heroic fortitude, knitting that ex- 
 tremely protracted purse ; nor wonder to her face why 
 on earth she gives herself the trouble of spoiling that 
 velvet by covering it with such crowds of coloured dis- 
 figurements. As little could one ask her, when intently 
 and constantly occupied, what she meant to do with 
 those multitudinous scraps of paper. I could, with 
 equal delicacy, have inquired whom the letters came 
 from ! 
 
 It was enough that the occupation or the amusement 
 seemed intellectually analogous to the more cun*eut 
 performances with garnets and gold thread, in satin- 
 stitch and water-colours, or upon lace-collars and fancy- 
 bags ; idle labours often, and most forlorn recreations, 
 
 q2
 
 340 MY DREAM AT HOP-LODGE. 
 
 wliich make so many ladies' lives like unto a gay, liglit, 
 loosely-knitted silken purse, without any money in it ! 
 
 Of course I had my private speculations concerning 
 the ends for which those myriads of minute fragments 
 were provided. I conjectured that some wise man, 
 justly abhorring long epistles, might have de\dsed a 
 plan of administering homoeopathic letters, inditing 
 notes infinitesimally. Again, I had a notion that the 
 drama of the "Exiles of Siberia" was about to be 
 revived, and that the young ladies, great admirers of 
 Mr. Macready, were anxious to make that gentleman a 
 present of a severe snow-storm on the occasion. 
 
 On taking my departure, the most elderly of the 
 ladies pleaded for the rest : " Had I any waste sheets 
 of writing-paper, outside scraps, useless business-letters, 
 lithographed circulars, fly-leaves of notes, or old en- 
 velopes ? their stock was running low, and before the 
 fine weather had quite set in, they should be left with 
 nothing in the world to do." Nothing in the world to 
 do but to tear up writing-paper into fragments no 
 larger than silver pennies ! Still it remained a question 
 whether the fancy for destroying letters in that way 
 might not be both wiser and pleasanter than a passion 
 for writing them ; and as I had recently contributed a 
 large packet of old postage-stamps in aid of the funds 
 for building a new church,* so I resolved to let a huge 
 pile of the letters themselves follow; for which I re- 
 ceived a profusion of thanks, and another invitation to 
 Hop-lodge. 
 
 It was in the autumn that I paid my second visit ; 
 and arriving at night, after riding some miles, jaded 
 and sleepy, I was truly glad to retire at the earliest 
 moment to rest. Had my pillow been a pillow of flints. 
 
 Vide newspapers.
 
 MY DREAM AT HOP-LODGE. 341 
 
 the hardness would have been totally unfelt, for both 
 eyes were close-sealed before I could fairly lie down. 
 
 It would be more correct to say that my lids^ rather 
 than their tenants, were close-sealed; for the eyes 
 themselves began now to see extremely well, rolling 
 inwardly about in quest of things visiCnary. Perhaps 
 I was a little too tired for sound and dreamless slumber; 
 my legs, cramped and weary as they were, would be 
 still in motion ; and so, like a man upon his oath, I 
 could not lie ^dth any comfort. 
 
 Still I was asleep ; but how long sleep's reign, dis- 
 turbed or not, had lasted, is very doubtful, when I 
 heard, " in my dreaming ear," the one next the pillow, 
 a little crackling, rustling round, as of the rending or 
 rumpling of paper, considerably firmer in its texture 
 and substance than bank-notes. Yes, those peculiar 
 noises, whether born in the brain, or having their 
 existence actually Mathin the pillow, as they appeared 
 to have, resembled nothing else out of fairy- land. 
 Millions of full-sized letters, oblong, and swarms of 
 civil little notes, three-cornered, seemed heaped, by 
 supernatural hands, under my head, in pieces equally 
 countless and minute. 
 
 Perfectly still, I lay and listened. My downward 
 ear seemed to draw in the sounds from the very interior 
 of the pillow on which my head was now throbbing 
 with surprise ; and at every movement I made, there 
 was an increased rustle ; not so sharp, by a thousand 
 degrees, yet in tone not unlike the crashing of tender 
 forest-branches, or the clatter of little shells and pebbles 
 washed upon the beech. 
 
 Was the magic noise engendered in the air? Was it 
 a most novel and untuneful singing in my own head ? 
 Or had the down, wherewith my pillow was filled, 
 acquired that faculty of voice which the birds, from
 
 342 MY DREAM AT HOP-LODGE. 
 
 whom it had been plucked, had forfeited ? Assuredly 
 I could not have been more startled, had forty flocks of 
 plucked geese come cackling round my bed, crying, 
 " Give us back our feathers V 
 
 Again, I suspended my breathing, and hushed myself 
 into an intense fit of listening. There, still, were the 
 small crisp noises just under my ear, oozing apparently 
 upward from the pillow as clearly as drops of water 
 would have trickled through it. And it was still a 
 sound as of the tearing and crumpling of many quires 
 of paper. A bank clerk, pulling, pinching, and whisking 
 about piles of notes, from nine to five daily, would 
 make less noise in a week. 
 
 I began to suspect that the fairies were playing 
 pranks under my head ; that Oberon and Titania had 
 been tearing up all the letters which had passed between 
 them during their last quarrel; and that their small- 
 fingered subjects were scrambling for the tiniest pieces, 
 to fold up, three-cornerwise, and send as love-notes or 
 challenges to one another. 
 
 Perplexed past endurance, and finding, upon repeated 
 trials, that either ear, the instant it was placed to the 
 pillow, caught sounds as audibly as it would through 
 the keyhole of a quiet family's nursery, I changed my 
 position, and dreaming that I was wide awake (perhaps 
 I was), looked desperately upward through the dark- 
 ness at the invisible ceiling of the room ; when what 
 was my amazement to behold, in less than the sixtieth 
 part of an instant, a thick shower of very little bits of 
 paper descending on every side : some of a creamy hue, 
 some bluish, some rather pinky ; wire-wove, or glazed, 
 gilt-edged or sable-bordered ; but all faUing about me 
 like snow-flakes, or hovering over me like white 
 feathers, which rather floated than fell. 
 
 "Did I ever?" was the question which I silently 
 asked myself in my dream.
 
 MY DREAM AT HOP-LODGF. 343 
 
 My ejes, at this strange spectacle, started far out of 
 my head, and glowed with an unnatural light; by the 
 aid of which, as by that of a pair of long fours, I was 
 indeed enabled to view the scene. Nor was the fire 
 that burned in them useless ; for, as the fragments of 
 paper descended, the more I gazed at them, the plainer 
 I could see that they were all written upon, possibly by 
 that process which requires warmth to give legible 
 effect to it. They were bits of letters, every one ; in- 
 dited by many hands, and addi'essed to many persons, 
 on subjects without number. 
 
 Fast and faster yet they fell, each one bearing its 
 little word or syllable, or at least the tail of a g, or an 
 i's dot, until presently the room began to fill, and the 
 fragments crowded together seemed to attach them- 
 selves to one another. In a few minutes, perhaps fifty 
 of them would have adhered, and formed a sort of 
 sheet; and then another flock of flakes, descending 
 from various points, would get into companionship, and 
 so unite ; and thus they floated above me, as I gazed 
 upwards, like fleecy clouds, of a rather square and 
 formal pattern, it is true, and scribbled mysteriously all 
 over. 
 
 I could now plainly discern, as they hovered near 
 me, that the mingled multitude of scraps, the tattered 
 and scattered remains of so much correspondence, had 
 again formed themselves into letters ; yes, into readable 
 epistles; though they had certainly not re-assumed 
 their original shapes, or re\'ived themselves verbatim et 
 literatim. As on a field of battle, where a gallant sol- 
 dier's body is apt to be buried with another gallant 
 soldier's head; or, should his legs have been carried 
 away, he is haply interred with the lower extremities of 
 a veteran who belonged to a different regiment ; so here 
 I could perceive that many of the fragments had fallen
 
 344 MY DREAM AT HOP'LODGE. 
 
 into strange company, and attached themselves to 
 pieces to which they bore no epistolary relation. 
 
 Thus on one sheet which descended into my hand, I 
 saw that the writing was throughout the same, but the 
 beginning and the end had been written at different 
 periods : the first sentences seemed traced with a quill 
 whose ink was as generous wine to communicate joy; 
 but the latter part had been scrawled with a steel 
 pen dipped in gall. It began with overflowing friend- 
 ship, wondering what the writer would not gladly 
 sacrifice for him whom he addressed ; but it terminated 
 ^Yith civil regrets for altered circumstances, and a formal 
 " I have the honour to remain.^^ 
 
 I caught the first lines of a love-letter, they were 
 rapturous. Love was life ; it included all of happiness 
 the world contains, and every word expressed the 
 writer's conviction that wealth is dross, and parental 
 consent a superfluity ; but a discrepancy ensued, for 
 there was something at the close about the necessity of 
 an ample fortune, the charm of filial obedience, and the 
 proud duty imj)osed upon young hearts of tearing them- 
 selves asunder, and seeking happiness somewhere else, 
 ''remaining ever,'' &c. 
 
 Here the right persons were associated in the rejoined 
 letters, but with the terrible disadvantage of wrong 
 dates. In other cases, I detected mutilated notes in 
 one hand-writing — a lady's, but evidently addressed to 
 two difi'erent persons, thus : 
 
 " My dearest Jemima, let nothing prevent you from 
 coming ; remember, it is my birthday, and without you 
 what fehcity could be mine ? How exquisite is a pure 
 sympathy between minds such as ours ! Come in your 
 blue lutestring; nothing becomes you half so much. 
 You must forgive me for asking that treacherous thing, 
 Julia ; I can't help it All will go wrong with-
 
 MY DREAM AT HOP-LODGE. 345 
 
 out you, and so I rely. But how should I hesitate at 
 anytime to confide in heavenly truth like yours? the 
 worst of it is, that odious Jemima will, I fear, be with 
 us, flirting in her horrid blue lutestring. But let the 
 joy of a friendship like ours be unclouded by a thought 
 of such intrusions. Ever, my dearest Julia," &c. 
 
 There was one at which, as it caught my eye, I laughed 
 so loudly, as to be in great fear of waking myself. What 
 added to the oddity of it was, that it was addressed to a 
 particular friend of my own, but in two different hands ; 
 and thus it ran : 
 
 " My dear sir, will you give us the pleasure of your 
 company at dinner ? or proceedings will be taken against 
 you without further notice. Yours, &c.. Rasp and 
 Clerk." 
 
 The next epistle came fluttering by, as if half ashamed 
 of itself; yet it was full of virtuous sentiments, clad in 
 the best Latin of the best authors, and painted the 
 youthful Avriter's studious, respectable, and devout 
 college life to the eyes of a liberal, but grave and digni- 
 fied uncle. It was clear, however, that a wrong post- 
 script had affixed itself to this letter to the tune of — 
 "P. S. Come down. Jack, and blow a cloud with us. 
 I Ve a case or two of good things, and lots o^ tin from 
 Uncle Starch ; but come at once, my Flanders brick, 
 for these infernal duns are grabbing at it hke blazes." 
 
 A lady's hand-writing again attracted my gaze, but 
 here there was an anomaly relative to dates. " July 
 2,0th — As for Adolphus, as you call him, he is detestable. 
 Was there ever such a conceited fright ! I would not 
 have him if there were not another man in the world. 
 
 . For I must frankly confess that my whole heart 
 is in this engagement, and that without Adolphus exist- 
 ence M'ould be a blank, August 2lst." 
 
 q3
 
 346 MY DREAM AT HOP-LODGE, 
 
 Among the thousands floating about, I caught one 
 in a schoolboy^s hand; the first portion written like 
 copper-plate, the latter upon the pothook plan, but the 
 whole addressed to a revered parent : 
 
 " Honoured father, — The happy season has returned 
 when filial affection finds its proudest gratification in 
 reporting to beloved parents the progress of those intel- 
 lectual, moral, and religious studies, which it is the 
 blessed privilege of your son to enjoy at Birch- grove. 
 For the bodily as well as mental improvement, which I 
 trust on my return at Cliristmas you will be able to 
 recognise, I am indebted to that judicious kindness 
 which placed me under the tender and enlightened care 
 of my present preceptor. . . . Aunt will giv you this 
 she sez, and i wish you may git it, for I want some 
 more Marmalaid and also a cake, for they keep me so 
 Hungrey I cant lern nothing, also a large piece of tinn 
 to put at the back of my Westcot, for I dont like the 
 jolly wackings thats going on here ; and I dont mean 
 to come Back I can tell you, and Aunt says I sharnt, 
 but as I have got sum Curran jam I shall conclude, 
 so good by, dear papa, your aff'ectionate son Nixy, short 
 for Nicholas.^' 
 
 I had another fit of laughter, which nearly woke 
 me, on solving another riddle, a note, commencing 
 Avith expressions of the most delicate and idolatrous 
 love, suddenly turning into cold business matters, and 
 ending with " now don^t make a fool of yourself by 
 sitting up again, for I shall be late.^^ The last lines 
 were pai't of a letter written after marriage, the first 
 were not. Specimens of this class were plentiful. 
 
 I was also tickled with the absurdity of an aristocratic 
 order to a tradesman to send in his account without 
 delay, terminating with "assurances of most distin-
 
 MY DREAM AT HOP-LODGE. 34)7 
 
 guished consideration ;" and a note to Mr. Buckstone, 
 requesting orders for the theatre, might be seen gravely 
 commencing with " Reverend sir." 
 
 Of the countless quires of paper which, in separate 
 sheets, fluttered and fell around me, there was not a 
 note without its grave or ridiculous contradiction. Some 
 false fragments had engrafted themselves even on the 
 truest stock, while in others some few scraps were 
 wanting, leaving little holes in the epistle where the 
 sincerity seemed to have dropped out. Here an affecting 
 lecture on the solemn duties and flimsy vanities of life 
 was cut up by an intruding inquiry, " Where the very 
 best green silk twist is to be got,'^ as the writer would 
 "give the world to know;" and two or three lively 
 notes, containing the particulars of a wedding, had 
 been eked out with pieces bearing a mourning border ; 
 which possibly might not be altogether misplaced 
 after all. 
 
 Here and there, I perceived a letter, in which the 
 stray scraps and remnants had met together without 
 any order or ceremony, so that there was not the slightest 
 pretension to meaning in the entire document. Yet 
 it did not appear to be much inferior in style to 
 many letters which are daily marked " confidential " or 
 "immediate" by charming correspondents. 
 
 A terrible exposure was going on around me. Every 
 sheet was a witness against somebody. Here Pride 
 was unmasked, by the union of two halves of letters, 
 one dated from a hovel, the other from a hall ; there, 
 Honesty was proved a scamp, by confessing in a post- 
 script what the letter denied. Here Sincerity was 
 stamped hypocrite, by the junction of praise and cen- 
 sure under its own hand j and there. Benevolence was 
 convicted of subscribing to a public fund, and having
 
 348 THE NINETY-NINE GOOD TURNS. 
 
 " nothing to give away" in private. In each and all 
 lurked some anomaly, harmless or criminal. 
 
 The confusion at length totally obscured my senses ; 
 and I could read no more. The letters broke up again 
 into flakes, the flakes melted into the darkness like 
 snow, and I slept in serene unconsciousness till ten. 
 The secret came out at breakfast in much tender con- 
 cern about my night^s rest. Had I slept? Could I 
 forgive such forgetfulness ? 
 
 " The ladies here," said my friend, in explanation, 
 " fear that you may have quarrelled with your pillow. 
 They are fond of making paper pillows for the poor and 
 the invalided ; and of those being placed in readiness 
 upon your bed, nobody remembered it until you were 
 fast asleep." 
 
 A Paper Pillow ! And I had been dreaming the 
 family-secrets; reading, in my sleep, the family-corre- 
 spondence ! There was a slumbering indelicacy in the 
 very idea ! I uttered no remonstrance against the 
 cheap and charitable invention ; but however cool and 
 soothing may be the paper pillow to some, I reflected, 
 for my own part, that there was much practical wisdom, 
 and a most exact and admirable simile in that pretty 
 saying of King Once-upon-a-time — 
 
 " I '11 to my couch ; like me, a doimiy one /" 
 
 THE NINETY-NINE GOOD TURNS. 
 
 " Blessed are they who have favours to bestow, for 
 they shall be shunned of no man ! " 
 
 Thus spoke my cynical friend the other day, when he 
 had just vainly sought an audience of some great per-
 
 THE NINETY-NINE GOOD TURNS. 349 
 
 sonage^ who^ besieged witli suppliants, was unapproach- 
 able accordingly. 
 
 My cynical friend knew little of mankind. People 
 who liav6 favours to bestow will always be shunned by 
 two classes. By those, first, who, out of a false pride 
 and an enormous self-conceit, regard every acceptance 
 of a favour as a compromise of independence ; and who 
 associate the instinct of gratitude for kindness rendered, 
 with a degrading admission of inferiority. Next by 
 those, who having been laden with bounties and ser- 
 vices, freely bestowed, on ninety-nine occasions, are 
 refused the expected and customary boon upon the 
 hundredth. 
 
 As the malignant nature can never forgive the inno- 
 cent being it has injured, so the ungrateful nature 
 cannot forgive the generous man Avho has served it. 
 Strange, that among the inconsistencies of which we 
 are made up, one so gross as ingratitude should be 
 found; seeing that the grateful feeling implies, not a 
 sense of inferiority, but the con\iction that somebody 
 has thought us worthy of sympathy, and entitled by 
 desert to kindness. 
 
 Not less strangely inconsistent is it, that one who is 
 thankful in his heart for a single service, should be 
 ungrateful for a long-continued series. Such, too fre- 
 quently, is he who fails to obtain the hundredth favour. 
 
 Show him, at the outset of your acquaintance, a 
 little courtesy; offer him your opera-glass or your 
 snufiF-box; write him wliat is called a civil note when 
 there is no absolute necessity for doing so ; and he will 
 trumpet your praises as one of the most gracious of 
 mankind. Proceed from small civilities to essential 
 benefits ; heap favour upon favour on him ; go out of 
 your way to evince an anxiety for the promotion of his 
 interests, the gratification of his desires; extend your
 
 350 THE NINETY-NINE GOOD TURNS. 
 
 disinterested kindness from himself to his family ; get 
 an appointment for his eldest boy, and reconcile a high 
 family to a match with his daughter ; invent a new 
 hair-dye expressly to accommodate his wife, and lose a 
 guinea a night to him at whist, the whole season round; 
 bind him more and more tightly in obligations to you, 
 and hear him proclaim you, nine times a day, for nine 
 years, the best friend he ever had in the world ; the 
 most generous of mortals, the noblest of benefactors; 
 and then, at the very moment when he is your own for 
 ever, only just refuse to lend him your gun, or your 
 horse, or tell him that you could not think of writing 
 to the Review to solicit a puff of his new pamphlet, 
 that 's all ! 
 
 How, in such a case, will the grateful fellow, to 
 whom you have rendered the ninety-nine good turns, 
 turn round upon you ! He will teach you, in no time, 
 a curious lesson, that it takes years to confer obligations, 
 but only moments to forget them. Why, he Avill 
 undertake to forget, on the very spot, all that you have 
 done for him ; all that he has said of you. He will, at 
 the shortest notice, recollect nothing concerning you 
 but your refusal to oblige him in the very trifling matter 
 wherein he had calculated upon your assistance. 
 
 You dragged him out of the river once, saving his 
 life at the risk of your own ; you lent him a thousand 
 pounds; you introduced him to all the connexions in 
 which he finds the best charms of society. Does he 
 remember one of these little incidents ? No ; he only 
 recollects that you yesterday refused to buy a share 
 or two in the crazy speculation he was so rashly con- 
 cerned in. 
 
 You snatched him out of a gambler's nest, just in 
 time to save him from ruin ; you chivalrously upheld 
 him when he was traduced, and effected his admission
 
 THE NINETY-NINE GOOD TURNS. 351 
 
 into the club, when an extra blackball would have had a 
 damaging effect upon his reputation. Does he now bear 
 these little ser-v-ices ^dvidly in mind ? No ; he only bears 
 in mind that you positively declined to take his three 
 gawky nieces to the opera, and distinctly refused to ask 
 that most inveterate of bores, his wife's brother, to stay 
 a fortnight with you in the country. 
 
 You have all but fed and clothed him from infancy ; 
 does he, all on a sudden, forget this slight obligation ? 
 Yes, utterly ; you have had a dinner-party that did not 
 include him. 
 
 And what tone does he adopt now, when he speaks of 
 the ''most generous of men," of the "best friend he 
 ever had in the world?" Oh, the tone of an injui-ed 
 man, to be sure ; of a man slow to resent, reluctant to 
 speak out, but deeply injured ! " Ah ! my dear madam/' 
 he remarks to Mrs. Blab, " I thought as you do once ; 
 I would have staked my honour on that man's friend- 
 ship and liberality; but the mean mind, you know, will 
 betray itself. Only think of his refusing to give young 
 Scamp (a relation of mine by marriage), who wants a 
 few suits of clothes, such a simple thing as an introduc- 
 tion to his tailor ! " " Shame ! " cries Mrs. Blab, on the 
 part of the whole town ; " this to you, too, who have 
 been such a friend to him; who have ever spoken of him 
 so highly ; to whom he is under so many obligations !" 
 
 The receiver of the ninety-nine good turns is not un- 
 grateful at an earhcr stage of the obligation. His gra- 
 titude never breaks down until it is past the point where 
 the demand for it is higher than ever. 
 
 He has been so long accustomed to receive favours, 
 that a temporary stoppage stuns him ; and he recovers 
 his senses only to feel that he has been cruelly ill- 
 trcatcd. Hitherto, to ask has been to have ; the denial, 
 therefore, seems so strange, so wanton, so unprovoked.
 
 352 THE NINETY-NINE GOOD TURNS. 
 
 that it cancels the recollection of every debt, and turns 
 lioney into gall. 
 
 When we hear one, with malice and disappointment 
 breathing in every word, imputing to an absent person 
 every disobliging quality, it is not uncharitable to sur- 
 mise that the absentee had done him many good turns 
 and then stopped. When we have listened a long hour 
 to a fierce railer, who, having fastened his teeth on the 
 character of an old acquaintance, tears it to tatters ; 
 who is ready to swear that no particle of kindliness or 
 generosity lurks within the man ; who rates him as the 
 impersonation of all meanness and covetousness ; it is 
 not always unfair to ask, " How long is it since you 
 first began to borrow of him ? and on what day this 
 week did he decline to lend you the guinea T' 
 
 Whenever I find any one unusually bitter and bois- 
 terous in his denunciations of " man's inhumanity to 
 man," exhibited in a case of personal experience, the 
 declaimer appearing as the victim, I am apt enough to 
 think, "Now, here is a gentleman who wanted the 
 hundredth good turn, but coiild not get it." 
 
 It behoves us surely to take care, when we censure 
 another as incapable of rendering a single service, that 
 we do not mean the hundredth. Many honest natures, 
 that would blush to be deficient in the acknowledgment 
 of kindness, have been precipitated, by an uxexpected 
 refusal, into a total unconsciousness of countless bene- 
 fits received. There is, it must be owned, something 
 exasperating in this sudden turning-off at the hundredth 
 turn. One is uneasy at receiving ninety-nine obliga- 
 tions and a point-blank denial. Custom has become 
 our second nature, and a repulse seems a wrong. We 
 feel that our benefactor ought to have no will in the 
 matter ; that he has a right to comply with our modest 
 little application to give a large party expressly to please
 
 THE NINETY-NINE GOOD TURNS. 353 
 
 a few particular friends of ours whom he is to ask. Non- 
 comphance dashes us down from the high ladder, when 
 we have attained the last stave but one. Just at the top 
 of the steep ascent, we slip and roll to the bottom when 
 we least dream of it. We had made sure, and feel sore. 
 Et tu. Brute! we cry. The well that was always brim- 
 fuU, to find not a drop in it at last ! The tree that 
 dropped its ripe fruits for us as we approached, to be 
 barren suddenly ! Why, the well that was always 
 empty, the tree that never bore at all, are taken into 
 favour in preference. There is forgiveness for the man 
 who refused at first to stir a foot in our cause, and kept 
 his word ; but there is none for him who, having walked 
 a thousand miles to serve us, now declines to move an 
 inch at the bidding of our caprice. Our self-love is 
 wounded by the discovery that we cannot dictate to him ; 
 and with pride hurt, we inconsistently humble ourselves 
 to the dust, degraded b}^ the disavowal of obhgations we 
 can no longer command. 
 
 Even when the spirit of exaction, defeated after many 
 victories, expresses its sense of disappointment in a 
 milder and less revengeful form, it still fails not to (baw 
 a distinction between the one who was never obliging, 
 and the one who was always obliging till now, to the 
 prejudice of the last. A favour is received from an un- 
 expected quarter : — '' This," we cry, " is most kind, 
 most generous, most noble ; he never did me a good turn 
 before." A favour is withheld in a quarter where it was 
 anticipated: ''This," we cry, "is unkind to the last 
 degree, most unworthy, most pitiful ; he never hesitated 
 to render me a kindness before." Non-desert in the 
 one case makes the single good deed lustrous; desert 
 in the other gives to the solitary refusal the blackness 
 of an irreparable injury. 
 
 No man can be perfectly sure that he has not within
 
 354 SENTENCES ON SIMILES. 
 
 him the seeds of an ungrateful scoundrel, until he has 
 been refused the hundredth good turn. If true there, 
 he is a true man. 
 
 SENTENCES ON SIMILES. 
 
 Ham. Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in the shape of a camel 1 
 
 Pol. By the mass, and 'tis like a camel indeed. 
 
 Ham. Methinks it is like a weasel. 
 
 Pol. It is backed Uke a weasel. 
 
 Ham. Or like a whale. 
 
 Pol. Very like a whale. Hamlet. 
 
 In estimating the merits of a portrait^ there is one 
 condition more essential than the rest ; it must be like. 
 Truth of likeness is the first point of excellence. So in 
 the affair of a simile, however employed, whether in an 
 epic poem or in ordinary table-talk, there must be a 
 likeness in the case ; some positive point of resemblance 
 between two objects, to warrant the introduction of the 
 ominous word " like." 
 
 Portrait-painters, however, in defiance of the impera- 
 tiveness of the condition specified, often give a preference 
 to an imaginary past likeness over the present, and 
 assume some features of resemblance which probably 
 never existed. Again, in as many instances, they persist 
 in looking forward to a period of similitude, anticipating 
 a likeness to be hereafter recognised. 
 
 " Oh, sir," said the disappointed mother, when the 
 artist had finished her child's portrait, " you have done 
 it beautifully indeed, only it is not in the least like my 
 little boy." 
 
 " My dear madam," said the far-seeing R. A., " he 
 will ffrow like it, astonishingly like."
 
 SENTENCES ON SIMILES. 355 
 
 But the makers of similes, by pen and speech, often 
 proceed upon a plan far more unrestricted than this, 
 which seems nevertheless to have no limit, as it includes 
 with the present the past and future. Their plan 
 appears to be to look for the likeness not merely where 
 it is not, but where it never was and never will be. 
 
 Poets, of course, are pri^ileged people ; and though 
 not allowed to invent resemblances non-existent and 
 impossible, have a licence to detect in things inward 
 and remote a lurking and most unHkely similarity. 
 Their similes may either imply a hkeness immediate, 
 exact, and undeniable, or an analogy existing only in 
 feehng, in sympathy, in the dimness of association, in 
 the impalpable depths of the obscure. Of the two 
 kinds, the latter is the more poetical; and, strange to 
 say, that in this respect swarms of plain prosy people 
 are in their hourly household discourse poetical 
 exceedingly. 
 
 Where can one turn for an hour's chat, east or west 
 of the city ; on what topic can we hold a ten minutes' 
 gossip either Avith the busy or the idle, the rough or the 
 refined, the matter-of-fact or the imaginative ; and not 
 find a passion for seeking resemblances, for pursuing 
 similes under difficulties, breaking out at every second 
 sentence of the conversation ? Why, the habit of hunt- 
 ing up similitudes is universal. These are the likes 
 that beget likes. 
 
 Some matter-of-fact man took the pains once, it is 
 said, to count up the number of similes scattered by 
 Moore over the " Life of Sheridan 3" but did the cun- 
 ning critic skilled in Cocker, though probably blessing 
 his stars, as he read over his own naked prose, that he 
 was no poet, ever tax his arithmetic so far as to count 
 up the number of similes and no similes he himself 
 might be heard to let drop, in the course of one day's
 
 356 SENTENCES ON SIMILES. 
 
 disjointed discursive talk upon the hundreds of com- 
 mon-places that are continually arising ? ^^Hiy, it is a 
 faculty which the highest and the lowest have in com- 
 mon; and it would doubtless happen, if we were to 
 leave out the consideration of excellence and beauty, 
 and confine ourselves to numbers alone, that the very 
 dullest of Mr. Moore^s commentators would perpetrate 
 in a day more similes than he would. 
 
 In what degree the organ of comparison is ordinarily 
 developed on the heads we see about us, phrenology 
 best knows ; but if there be any external token, corre- 
 sponding in dimensions with the excess and constancy 
 of the habit, some of our acquaintances ought to find it 
 impossible to get their hats on. 
 
 Not one in a hundred, of the ten thousand who hav- 
 ing something to say for themselves, are pretty sure to 
 say it if you give them the opportunity, but cultivates 
 the practice ; often unconsciously, it is true, but always 
 finding in it some relief or convenience, as children do 
 in the pictures that embellish their story-books. They 
 are both helps and ornaments. Whatever the image in 
 the speaker's mind, to think of something hke it, not 
 merely assists his description, and presents it more 
 vividly, but it helps him to define it more clearly to 
 himself, and to comprehend all its bearings more 
 completely. 
 
 When he has found this out, the faculty gets more 
 frequently into play, and similes come to him of their 
 own accord. He finds one in a case of perplexity a 
 wonderful interpreter of his unexpressed meanings. 
 When his object is not clear, whether for want of clear 
 thoughts or plain words, the simile is held up like a 
 mirror, and displays the doubtful object with distinct- 
 ness. It is like the good luck of happening to think 
 "of a church of the same name,'' when you cannot
 
 SENTENCES ON SIMILES. 357 
 
 recollect how your new acquaintance is called, Nokes 
 or Styles. The use of a simile is as convenient for 
 clearing up, as the production of a miniature in the 
 final act of a play, when a general consanguinity among 
 the characters is the author's last card. 
 
 Where such effects are producible, no wonder that 
 the habit becomes catching, and that every idea begets 
 another, the instant it is born, to image and represent 
 it ; as the swan that floats double on St. Mary's Lake, 
 is imaged by its shadow in the water. Thus people 
 who, as some would inconsiderately suppose, are un- 
 blessed with one single idea, are in reality possessed of 
 a pair ; the one having no sooner taken its first peep 
 into existence, than you find it is " like " something 
 else, so dissimilar and remote, that it would never by 
 any possible chance have entered into your imagination 
 to conceive it. Actual likeness soon, of conrse, comes 
 to be little thought of, and similes are naturally adopted 
 quite at random. 
 
 But even an entire want of appropriateness is not 
 found to destroy the efficacy of the simile ; though it 
 should at last turn out to be as complete a mystification 
 as that native of Ireland of whom his countrvmen said, 
 that ''he was like nothing in the world but himself, 
 and not much of that." 
 
 There is a capital pair of similes in one of the Falstaff 
 scenes ; the first as illustrative of exactness and appro- 
 priateness, as the second is illustrative (in appearance) 
 of that total inapplicability, and that innocence of all 
 resemblance in the things compared, of which mc have 
 been speaking. 
 
 "The rogue," saitli Sir John, panting at the mere 
 idea of a running-match, " the rogue fled from me like 
 quicksilver."
 
 358 SENTENCES ON SIMILES. 
 
 " V faithj" cries DoU^ " and thou followedst him like 
 a church /" 
 
 This last is wonderfully like the similes current in 
 general company, and now in hourly use ; but in reahty 
 it is a very counterpart of its companion for exactness 
 and for truth. A running dodging fellow would natu- 
 rally enough awaken in Falstaff's mind the idea of 
 quicksilver; while of fat Jack's running after him, the 
 young lady had the same idea as of the lively move- 
 ments, the unassisted velocity, of a church. Doll could 
 have done nothing whatever in the way of description 
 of Falstaff 's hopeless incapacity for following the fugi- 
 tive, like producing the picture of immovabihty conveyed 
 by that extraordinary simile. 
 
 The necessity of resorting to the simile in all such 
 desperate cases is felt even from earliest boyhood. Even 
 in schooldays, when events so fall out that it is difficult 
 at the moment to call to mind anything like them, 
 they yet must be likened to something or other ; and 
 accordingly we hear how " Thwaites has been punching 
 Wiglins's head like miything !" Like what, it were 
 impossible to say ; but anything is better than nothing, 
 and the sentence could not be terminated without a 
 comparison. 
 
 It is on this principle, found out so early in life, and 
 in the consciousness of this want which accompanies us 
 aU thi'ough it, that certain phrases have been invented 
 and dispersed through the world, as legitimate and 
 recognised substitutes for this too general and indefinite 
 simile, "like anything." It was felt in the process of 
 time, to be more dignified to mention expHcitly some 
 one object of comparison, no matter for its absolute and 
 notorious non-resemblance in the particular case ; and 
 hence by a happy social fiction, profound as some of the
 
 SENTENCES ON SIMILES. 359 
 
 fictions for whicli the law is famous, the ingenious 
 expression, " like bricks/' rose into popularity. 
 
 To hear of ministers putting on taxes like bricks, or 
 of public meetings assembling like bricks; of Snaggs 
 drinking pale ale like bricks, and of Braggs smoking 
 mild Havannahs like bricks ; of one talking like bricks, 
 and another bolting hke bricks ; in short, of men uni- 
 versally reading, writing, toiling, and begging like 
 bricks ; papng theii- debts and cheating their creditors 
 like bricks ; soon became quite a matter of course. The 
 admirable invention seemed to be universally applicable, 
 because it nowhere applied ; it was even said of persons 
 who have a passion for erecting new tenements by the 
 thousand, in every lime-besprinkled subui-b of London, 
 that they were building houses like bricks, the houses 
 being in reality like lath. 
 
 A slight variation, equally avoiding the chances of 
 applicability, was now suggested by a sense of universal 
 convenience, and " like blazes," broke frequently on the 
 gratified ear. The tide was said to be running up like 
 blazes, or teetotalism getting on like blazes, or trade 
 being opened like blazes. The appositeness of the 
 simile was everywhere recognised ; and, as in the case 
 of bricks, it saved trouble in particularizing, and left all 
 to the imagination. 
 
 Similar advantages were discoverable in the use of 
 the term "winkin;'^ and looking like winkin, riding 
 like winkin, and spending money like winkin, equally 
 testified to the value set upon a stock phrase, by which 
 a mysterious likeness to something not admitting of a 
 definition was clearly implied. 
 
 How much better is it, since similes in conversation 
 can no more be dispensed with than syllables, to have 
 in this way a standard image, whatever it may be, bricks 
 or winkin, set up as it were by proclamation and national
 
 360 SENTENCES ON SIMILES. 
 
 consent, to whicli all other images as soon as they arise 
 in the mind must instinctively conform. Better, surely, 
 than to be beating about for similitudes, stopping and 
 stammering in the hurry of discourse to pick out Sn. 
 exact object of comparison; and after all, perhaps, suc- 
 ceeding only in suggesting, that the lady cried like the 
 muffin-man, while her lover went and shot himself like 
 a partridge. Better, again we say, than to be brought 
 to a dead standstill, with a simile sticking in one's throat, 
 " For all the world like — like — like — " and no, nothing 
 in all the world can one think of like it, because one 
 has all the world to seek a comparison in, "where to 
 choose.'' 
 
 Everybody in tiu'n, however apt at finding resem- 
 blances, and of however busy an imagination, has been 
 on some interesting occasion in this predicament ; the 
 organ of comparison is tuned, but the bellows will not 
 work. 
 
 " Why, ma'am, little Jessie, who is but eight months 
 old, would no more mind it than, than — nothing at a]l." 
 
 " Don't ask me, pray don't ask me to play at cards ; 
 I could just as soon play whist as — just— as the — a — 
 Thames." 
 
 " Strange kind of people, very strange, as you pro- 
 perly observe, my dear sir. I stayed with them six 
 weeks ; and yet I declare I know no more about any 
 one of them, than — than — than I could fly ! " 
 
 My old tutor, venerable Jacob Wright, was the first 
 person singular that ever drew my attention to the 
 common practice of simile-making. He was a master- 
 hand at it ; with him it was a grand art, and he would 
 create a simile under the ribs of death. Well remem- 
 bered to this day is the summer morning, when, having 
 a holiday from breakfast -time, he came into school at 
 seven to give us a single hour's attendance. Dressed
 
 SENTENCES ON SIMILES. 361 
 
 ready for departure, liis ordinary brown-black was cast 
 aside, and we were dazzled by tbe shining sable of his 
 suit. 
 
 We proceeded with our lessons as usual, when a 
 point for explanation arose, and Jacob, whose thoughts 
 till then had e\'idently not wandered far from his new 
 array and the approaching hours of pleasure and liberty, 
 began to expound to us some novel passage. 
 
 " A passage," said he, in his gayest tones, " which has 
 little of the peculiar character of this author, and which 
 indeed has been said by some critics to be in the man- 
 ner of Theocritus ; though it is no more like Theocri- 
 tus — " (here his glances wandered over the ceiling and 
 floor, and then round the walls of the school, tiU it 
 rested complacently on his own knees as he sat) "no 
 more like Theocritus, than it is like my black satin 
 breeches f" 
 
 Whereat there was a rush of many eyes, all in one 
 direction; and all, with one admiring, devouring gaze, 
 settled on the glossy novelties, which were of black satin 
 indeed ! Jacob, the simplest, wisest of old men, was a 
 vain old idiot that sunny morning. Breeches would 
 have ruined him if he could have got them often. Black 
 satin would have turned him into a peacock. 
 
 But this was doubtless quite an involuntary turn. 
 What good Jacob Wright was famous for, was his sheer 
 inventions and sham-similes, thrown out to set one 
 wondering and inquiring. Many a dull boy brightened 
 his wits, by reflection and investigation, while looking 
 for an analogy where none existed. But this sport he 
 practised only on the older heads, and so grave was his 
 manner that heads aged as his own might be taken in. 
 
 Harailess almost always, the jest generally tended to 
 set us reading or meditating ; but it admitted of a rather 
 mischievous imitation sometimes, and L., one of the 
 
 VOL. III. R
 
 362 SENTENCES ON SIMILES. 
 
 most mischief-loving as well as humourous of our set, was 
 often on the watch to catch victims by catching Jacobus 
 style. 
 
 He would be heard speaking seriously enough con- 
 cerning some object, of which, when he had drawn to- 
 wards him the hsteners he wanted, he would declare 
 that it possessed the most contradictory properties ; 
 adding carelessly, as if the fact were indisputable — 
 
 " It is like an ebony ruler, which, though so hard a 
 substance when applied to anything else, has, as is per- 
 fectly well known, no power to break glass." 
 
 Leaving this fact to fix itself in the wondering minds 
 of youthful experimentalists, he would wait quietly until 
 the morning, to count the boys who were to be flogged 
 for breaking windows. 
 
 Among the conscientious, however, who are for formal 
 exactness and literal truth in their similes, no plan can 
 be so safe as that on which we observe people now and 
 then acting, that of comparing a thing, not to something 
 else, but to itself. Thus they will inform you, that a 
 terrier in a rabid state, bit a soldier, and ran off hke a 
 mad dog ; that the soldier flung after him a stone hke 
 a brick, swearing all the time like a trooper ; that the 
 surgeon appHed his knife to the wound hke a bit of cold 
 steel ; that the patient bore it like a Trojan ; wliile a 
 certain pretty lass leaned over him, the tears running 
 out of her eyes like — water.
 
 363 
 
 ANTIPACIFICATION. 
 
 When the quarrelsome principle is properly under- 
 stood, there will never be any reserve. For an old 
 grudge, or a tooth that plagues you after a twelvemonth^s 
 plugging, there is but one remedy ; have it out. Resen^e 
 may be useful in many of the affaii's of life ; it is villan- 
 ous in quarrels. It says less than it thinks, and thus 
 insui'es you all the worry and fatigue of a battle without 
 the enjojTuent; the headache of the debauch without 
 its riotous jollity. It is destructive of the earnestness, 
 the sincerity of what the Irish call the " shindy .^^ It is 
 as if a Tipperary boy were to wrap up the knob of his 
 shillelagh in lambswool before he applied it to the sconce 
 of a respected relative or associate. 
 
 Reserve constitutes the chief difference between 
 touchy people and the quarrelsome. An intimate 
 acquaintance, who had called upon us three times a 
 week since George III. died, chose to absent himself 
 without explanation, about fifteen months ago, and we 
 have only just heard the reason, the true cause of 
 offence : we had happened to observe that we did not 
 think Julius Csesar quite honest; and we had hinted 
 that he was rather bald. Now any dear friend of 
 Caesar's that will quarrel with you on such a point out- 
 right, may be a pleasant feUow enough, and far be it 
 from us to baulk his propensity ; but we detest reserve 
 in such matters. We hate the fecHng that interprets a 
 remark upon Zoroaster or Confucius as a personal affront, 
 and yet shrinks from telling you so, except by cold looks 
 or a twelvemonth's absence. 
 
 But the truly quarrelsome we Hke; those by whom 
 
 R 2
 
 364 ANTIPACIFICATION. 
 
 the art is more perfectly understood, and more openly 
 practised ; and they are sure to like you in return if you 
 "wall go to war with them. The straight line to pursue 
 is a direct contradiction. You must let them have their 
 way by refusing to let them have it. Accommodate 
 them with a check ; jield to them a point-blank oppo- 
 sition ; and they are your own for ever. The best friends 
 in the world are those who are every now and then the 
 inveterate enemies of each other. 
 
 The intercourse between persons of this happy tem- 
 perament is all life and animation ; the rapid succession 
 of pebbles dropped into the stagnant pool, with now and 
 then a stone of some size to make a splash with, sets all 
 sparkling, and originates circles ever widening and ever 
 new. The truest taste of fi'iendship is just before and 
 just after a desperate and apparently irreconcilable 
 quarrel. Lovers in all ages have experienced the same 
 thing. Man and wife, judging by their practice, admit 
 the fact. Sects and parties proclaim it aloud in all they 
 say and do. Nations^ from the beginning, have stamped 
 it for a truth. 
 
 Byron wondered how the first couple "got through 
 the twenty-four hours ;" and wonderful it would be if we 
 supposed they never quarrelled. Having that privilege, 
 they had the necessary and unfailing escape from ennui. 
 People, when fiercely wrangling, and ferociously abusing 
 one another, have no sense of the tedium vitce. That is 
 a disease bred only in peace and quietness. 
 
 " And spring would be but gloomy weather, 
 If we had nothing else but spring." 
 
 The thunderstorm does " clear the air,^^ that's certain. 
 There are two classes of people with whom the quar- 
 relsome are ever ready to contend ; the people they do 
 know, and the people they do not know. Those they
 
 ANTIPACIFICATION. 365 
 
 know desen-edly have the preference. Where the 
 esteem is very strong, the attachment old and closely 
 knitj this preference, of course, is still more strongly 
 marked. They are never at a loss to gratify their desires ; 
 they can always find a ground of quarrel if they sincerely 
 respect you. 
 
 Perhaps you don't write a line for two days, in return 
 for a letter which requires no answer at all. This is 
 quite enough. Their resentment is profound, their 
 astonishment overwhelming. They cannot for their 
 lives conceive what they have ever done to merit such 
 treatment. They turn over the history of their friend- 
 ship with you, page by page ; no, not a word of the long 
 record reproaches them. They have always, &c., but 
 henceforth they never will, &c. They must write finis 
 to the history at once ; for such contemptuous neglect, 
 such indifference turned up with scorn, is not to be 
 borne. 
 
 Or perhaps you answer a note of no consequence the 
 instant you receive it. The promptitude is peculiarly 
 offensive. Something is the matter, that is quite evi- 
 dent. The alacrity to reply clearly expresses what the 
 note itself does not say. You are standing upon the 
 nicest ceremonies with them ; what was once friendship 
 has frozen into civility ; they can distinctly perceive 
 that. Had they been total strangers they should have 
 expected exactly such courtesy; and from " Dear Harry" 
 they instantly drop down to " My dear sir," writing by 
 the same post to a mutual friend to say they were always 
 a little afraid that you had no heart. 
 
 These arc but two, out of two thousand equally cer- 
 tain modes of doing your duty by a quarrelsome friend, 
 and obliging him with a grievance in the time of need. 
 Perhaps you have forgotten to return the novel you 
 borrowed of him (this is extremely probable) j he can
 
 366 ANTIPACIFICATION. 
 
 then freely indulge his fit, either of sulky regret that you 
 should so alienate the goodwill of men by your irregu- 
 larities and selfishness, or of ungovernable anger at 
 your choosing him for your victim, and his books for 
 your prey. If you have but one pamphlet of his, and 
 he wishes to quarrel, he counts up the gaps in his library, 
 and at once attributes them all to you. But if by some 
 accident you return the novel when it is wanted no 
 longer, equally certain is the provocation. You have 
 packed up his book, and sent it to him " with thanks ! " 
 He lent it frankly, cordially, with all his heart, and you 
 return it to him the very next week ! Did he ask for it ? 
 Did he enter the loan in his note-book ? Did you sup- 
 pose that he was caring more about a trashy fiction than 
 the accommodation of a friend ! What could be your 
 meaning ! He was the last person whom you should 
 have insulted with that display of cold and punctilious 
 exactness. But he now knows your opinion of him, and 
 can understand your character. He sends you "his 
 compliments " with the next communication. 
 
 The quarrelsome always derive one advantage from a 
 long and intimate knowledge of the parties with whom 
 they quarrel. They can cite the particular word or 
 deed, the omission or commission of which they com- 
 plain, as a specimen of what they have for years borne 
 in unreproaching silence. Give them but the shadow of 
 a pretence for considering themselves slighted, once and 
 but once, and then imagination will immediately help 
 them to a long succession of slights which they have 
 unmurmuringly endured. The immediate offence is 
 but the last link of a chain. It turns out that this is 
 the way they have always been served. They should 
 not mind one unkindness, they can overlook more 
 symptoms of indiff'erence than most people, but to sub- 
 mit to a series of cold-hearted and intentional neglects
 
 ANTIPACIFICATION. 367 
 
 demands meekness superhuman; and they must own 
 that even their patience gets tired of sitting on a 
 monument, and smiling night and day, without encou- 
 ragement and without a witness. Their patience in 
 fact jumps down, and starts off to Donnybrook fair. 
 
 The quarrel with strangers includes no such advantage. 
 One cannot very well, even in the full swing of passion, 
 accuse a man whom we have never encountered before, 
 of having insulted us on a hundred occasions. Yet 
 this is desirable, if not necessary. The universal historv' 
 of rows tells us plainly enough that a simple grievance 
 is never held to be a sufficient ground of battle. It 
 never could content the truly quarrelsome ambition. 
 There must be a compound offence ; real or imaginary, 
 it matters not. The principle on which all well- 
 regulated quarrels are conducted, is to "rake up" 
 wrongs, to heap injury upon injury, to pile Pelions upon 
 Ossas. Materials for this are only to be supplied by a 
 prolonged intimacy, if confidential, the better. The 
 mere stranger, therefore, is but a wretched substitute 
 for a valued friend. "With the one we must pick our 
 quarrels, with the other we may take them as they 
 come, and still find them "very pretty" contentions. 
 Nevertheless, a shindy with a mere stranger will serve 
 its purpose when a friend is not to be had. To exercise 
 our pugnacity on those for whom we care not a straw, 
 is better than to let our hours waste away in a perpetual 
 dead calm on the Pacific. 
 
 As there are two classes wherein the quarrelsome can 
 always find antagonists, so there are two modes of 
 bringing about the desired affray. The one is, to go to 
 the scene which you intend to be the field of battle with 
 a preconceived provocation, a challenge to one particular 
 combatant ; the other is, to prepare no plan of assault,
 
 368 ANTIPACIPICATION. 
 
 but to rely on the general tone of friendly conversation 
 for the productiveness of animosity. 
 
 The firstj though seldom liable to total failure, is 
 usually the least successful of the two. We have 
 known experienced and skilful quarrellers fail for hours 
 in finding a bone to pick, even at the table where the 
 best of friends were assembled. It is dangerous at 
 times to make a plant, though your own brother be the 
 object ; if you happen to miss your first spring, all the 
 company turn pacificators before the peace is broken at 
 all. If the plan of attack must be premeditated, let it 
 be general ; throw out a hint that Nelson was a poor 
 creature, and add, that you never thought Wellington 
 such a very great captain. You will then run very little 
 risk of preserving the peace. Or if alone with an 
 acquaintance, and you fear that the evening might, in 
 spite of his perverseness and irritability, pass away in 
 amity and dulness, begin at once by savagely attacking 
 somebody with whom you know he has quarrelled. He 
 will be pretty sure to start up in defence of the man to 
 whom he bears a grudge, for the sake of a mortal 
 conflict with the man to whom he is attached. 
 
 There is an order of men with whom you have but 
 to sympathise, to provoke them to tui'n upon you. 
 Tell them that they are ill-used, and they will ill-use 
 you. They cannot bear to hear from another's lips the 
 fact they loudly proclaim with their own. If you 
 prostrate yourself in pure devotion to them, they will 
 put their feet upon you where you have thrown yourself. 
 
 The better mode is, to leave it all to chance. The 
 chapter of accidents is sure to furnish some text for 
 quarrel. When friends assemble to have "a pleasant 
 night of it," the open, candid, cordial '^row,'' is gene- 
 rally but tacitly anticipated as an essential part of
 
 ANTIPACinCATION. 3G9 
 
 the social entertainment. We confess our enjoyment 
 of it, when we designate it, as the popular phrase em- 
 phatically does, " a jolly row." The less you know 
 about its origin the better. The more clearly you 
 understand the circumstances of its rise and progress, 
 the more sui'ely is it brought to an end. 
 
 Cassio's quarrel is the thing, he remembers that, " but 
 nothing wherefore," When you begin to comprehend 
 what it is all about, you cease to rehsh it. The glorious 
 riot then assumes the sober character of reason. A 
 convulsion dehberately got up is well enough in its 
 way; but the unprompted, unpremeditated tumult is 
 better ; like parties of pleasure, that are never planned 
 three weeks before date, but start into instantaneous 
 life. 
 
 Of the two adversaries, then, the stranger and the 
 friend, which the quarreller will naturally seek, the last 
 is to be preferred ; of the two modes of eHciting a con- 
 test, that which is least premeditated, and most left to 
 the happy chances of convivial and confidential inter- 
 course, is by much the best. Let him but adhere to 
 these two rules, and the quarreller has the field to him- 
 self. He is free from all imputation of malignity in 
 his attack, for he has the sincerest regard for his enemy; 
 he is cleared from every suspicion of slyness and deceit, 
 for his quarrel sprang out of the occasion, and was open 
 as day. He may in this manner pass through hfe in 
 secure and continual enjoyment of the luxury of em- 
 broilment, preserving, with the respect of all men, the 
 very particular esteem of the persons he is at war with. 
 It is only the 
 
 " Whisperinrj tongues that poison truth ;" 
 
 and give hearts once united the likeness of 
 
 " Cliffs that have been rent asunder." 
 R 3
 
 370 SOCIETY FOR THE 
 
 Whispered complaints axe detestable. It is the open 
 rupture, the bold outspoken abuse of you and yours, 
 the manly honesty that runs you down at Charing- 
 cross in the broad noon-day, that constitutes the 
 excellence of the quarrelsome friend. So far from 
 desiring concealment, he begs that you may be informed 
 of it. He goes from Brown to Brown, and from Jones 
 to Jones with the same story. 
 
 " I never make a secret of my opinion about him " 
 (no, he gives it unasked). "1 always tell him his faults 
 to his face ; we are fast friends, and I want all the 
 world to know the fooleries he commits. If it were 
 not for his pride, avarice, and conceit, his habits of 
 toadyism and ridiculous jealousy, together with that 
 unfortunate disregard to truth which I always reminded 
 him of, and that provoking proneness to treachery which 
 everybody must have noticed, he would be the best 
 creature in the world. 
 
 " If one could but believe a word he says, no man's 
 conversation would be pleasanter ; and if he would but 
 get rid of that selfishness which taints all he does, no 
 man would be capable of better actions. Tell him what 
 I say; he is my old friend, and as you observe, an 
 excellent fellow on the whole ; here 's his health ! " 
 
 You trace every ill report against you to this old and 
 excellent friend ; but can you help loving, and quarrel- 
 ling with him ? 
 
 SOCIETY FOR THE ENCOURAGEMENT OF HEARTS. 
 
 It is a remarkable fact that up to the auspicious 
 moment in which the establishment of this new society, 
 of whose existence and proceedings we have a special 
 report, was conceived for the happiness of man, no
 
 ENCOURAGEMENT OF HEARTS. 371 
 
 institution ha\dng a similar object and tendency had 
 ever been projected. Societies were anything but 
 scarce. Human nature has shown an inclination, in 
 all times and countries, to combine and associate for 
 its own pleasure and profit ; but for the purpose indi- 
 cated by the title of this admirable association, the idea 
 of gathering together never awoke in the brain. 
 
 Societies for every purpose beside, good and e\al, in 
 the earth, or in the waters under the earth. Societies 
 to make us swimmers and skaters, to create painters 
 and sculptors, to foster art and science in every shape, 
 to dig up antiquarians and screw out engineers, to 
 make laws and compel their repeal, to set us singing 
 and dancing, shooting, riding, and dri^dng ; societies to 
 drill us into ever}i;hing attainable ; to teach us some- 
 thing of all that is useless, and a little of much that is 
 useful ; to make us accomplished, knowing, learned ; to 
 give us grace and bodily strength, to use perfections 
 and to conceal defects; to do ten thousand opposite 
 things, many of them possible, and a few desirable. 
 
 Yes : people have never been slow to e^ince their 
 cleverness, such as it is. Not a child of their begetting 
 but would rather, when patted on the head, be called 
 clever than good; and the same weakness is not ahvays 
 worked out of the flesh in old age. And so we have 
 societies of every class and degree, devised from time 
 to time by wonderfully clever fellows, to make mankind 
 intellectual and happy : associations for improving the 
 head, for enchanting the ears, for fascinating the eyes, 
 for feasting every sense, for directing the voice, for 
 educating the hands, for exercising all the limbs, for 
 advancing the feet in the general march : but one 
 society, efficacious and full of blessings above all others, 
 was still wanting until now ; it was the Society for the 
 Encouragement of Hearts.
 
 372 SOCIETY FOR THE 
 
 How it originated is of little consequence. Be sure 
 of thisj that its origin was small enough; what good 
 work ever had any other ! There is no crevice so nar- 
 roAVj that good will not ooze through it, and gather and 
 augment slowly, until it can force its way by degrees, 
 and flow in a full broad stream. Once set good going, 
 and who can say where it will stop ! 
 
 Perhaps the grand originating idea of this Society 
 first awoke in a brain of not superior dimensions or 
 quality, ordinarily, to that of a moth when it is flying 
 into the flame. Perhaps the benevolence, the human- 
 ising spirit of the project, first heaved and throbbed in 
 a heart no bigger than a mite's, and having commonly 
 no sympathies, no aspirations towards anything higher 
 than cheese. Some men's hearts are of this pattern ; 
 very possibly ; but do not therefore give them and their 
 affections up. No; cherish a hope of those hearts still; 
 nay, generously prophecy their enlargement, and they 
 will expand, and glow, and become animate under the 
 very influence of that prediction. The afii'ectionate con- 
 fidence of it acts upon them like destiny. 
 
 The Society for the Encouragement of Hearts, how- 
 ever it sprung up, was born to flourish and prosper for 
 ever. It has many distinguishing features ; but the 
 chief one is that it has no bound or limit, and the only 
 rule provided for its government seems to be, that there 
 shall be no rules at all. Anybody may become a mem- 
 ber in whatever state or stage of the heart. The door 
 is open to all in all conditions. There are no black- 
 balls, except the pieces of ebony which numbers of 
 people bring with them in their bosoms. Hearts of 
 even that hue and substance are not unwelcomed, and 
 nothing is too bad for admission into the Encourage- 
 ment Society. 
 
 What is the result ! In ten hundred instances out
 
 ENCOUKAGEMENT OF HEARTS. 373 
 
 of a thousand, a rapid, beautiful, and all but marvellous 
 change. No sooner is the candidate for admission an 
 acknowledged fellow of the Society, registered and 
 enrolled, than an alteration ensues. A certain light- 
 ness pervades all the region of the heart ; the inward 
 ebony blushes for its own blackness, and softens instan- 
 taneously. Sometimes, this takes place of its own 
 accord, sometimes it happens unconsciously. But the 
 transformation is not the less certain. The dry withered 
 root puts forth a sweet and innocent blossom; the hard 
 cold cinder emits a brilliant flame, clear and of heaven- 
 ward course as when life began. 
 
 It may be asked, how can a change so sudden and 
 complete be effected, by the simple act of enrolment as 
 a fellow of the Society of Hearts, without any gradual 
 operation of its principles, or affording needful time for 
 the development of its proper influences. The answer 
 is easily supplied by another question ; how is it that a 
 man becomes an antiquarian the instant he is admitted 
 a fellow of the Society of Antiquaries ? How does it 
 happen that we become learned on being called to the 
 bar, and honourable the moment we get, by disgraceful 
 means, into Parliament ? 
 
 Enough for the fame and honour of the Society if we 
 state facts, without attempting to account for them. It 
 is a case in which clouds of witnesses can be called. 
 Old Lord Cheeseparing would serve to prove some- 
 thing; he who starved for forty years, till ha\'ing joined 
 the society under the impression that he should have 
 his board for nothing, he went out immediately to 
 bespeak many quarts of turtle-soup, gave a sumptuous 
 banquet to a score or two of astonished friends, and 
 has kept open house at Mouldy-hall ever since. A 
 society, or a system, call it what we will, that could 
 move Lord Cheeseparing to give a dinner, not to speak
 
 374 SOCIETY FOR THE 
 
 of the continual practice of hospitality, never need des- 
 pair of success. 
 
 Greater wonders, however, were worked when Luke 
 Quinton became a member. Luke was a man with 
 only one fault ; but it was the monster- vice, envy. His 
 whole heart was sound save in a single place ; it was 
 where the deadly plague-spot of envy lingered year by 
 year incurably. The horrid sore was the more burning 
 and sickening, because he was incessantly conscious of 
 its nature. His hateful malady was his hourly familiar, 
 like his shadow ; but then like his shadow he could not 
 drive it away, never separate himself from it. He knew 
 the name as well as he knew the aspect of his eternal 
 fiend, who was present with him even in sleep ; but he 
 could no more banish the reality that tormented him 
 than he could banish from his sleep the spectres that 
 reproached him. A thousand times he felt the dead 
 gnawing sensation at his heart's core ; and a thousand 
 times he said, " This is envy, let me root it out, ere it 
 eats away the very life of life !" but it came again, un- 
 thought of and on the sudden, fastened on the faint 
 sick heart, and fascinated while it stung. 
 
 This inveterate and ever-returning envy had but one 
 object. In the wide world there was but a single being 
 who excited the odious feeling in the otherwise innocent 
 breast of Luke : and this one being was his old play- 
 mate, his early-chosen and most constant friend. Fire 
 could not have burnt out of him the passion of fiiend- 
 ship that had grown up and entwined itself with his 
 life ; but on the other hand to have poured out all of 
 his blood that was daily and almost hourly tainted -with 
 the meanest envy, would have been to empty his veins. 
 
 Struggle with the strong vice, and guard himself as 
 he best might against its dark and insidious approaches, 
 he assuredly did, but he did so unavailingly. He
 
 ENCOURAGEMENT OF HEARTS. 375 
 
 reasoned with his own nature in the silent, meditative, 
 self-examining night ; and roused himself into the best 
 of humours and the happiest reliance upon his re- 
 covered soundness and security in the warm, cheerful 
 day, when he laughed openly with his companions, and 
 felt no secret shame within ; happy, because he believed 
 that his heart might be laid bare to all the world, and 
 no trace of envy be detected lurking amid its most 
 hidden sensations. But then suddenly, while esteeming 
 himself saved and purified from so corrupting and 
 humihating a sin ; while enjojdng accordingly all the 
 emotions of his better nature, and especially while par- 
 taking the sweets of a friendship that constituted the 
 master-sentiment of his existence; the former pang 
 would return, and an instantaneous convulsion of the 
 bosom would show the old evil to be yet ahve in him. 
 
 How reconcile such contradictions, or release him 
 from such a tormentor ! His friend^s good fortune, 
 which should have filled him with joy, often made his 
 heart ache. He would himself have died to have been 
 the author of it ; yet he felt a sickness like death when 
 he saw that friend, profiting by a rich windfall, and 
 revelling in some unexpected happiness. If the same 
 lot had fallen to another he had been content and 
 pleased. It delighted him to see people prosper. To 
 witness the enjoyment of good luck, was in his case to 
 share it. And this too, at all times, and with all 
 persons but the one. When this good luck fell to his 
 friend, the bright sunny flash brought to Luke only a 
 chill and a shadow. He could almost have dashed the 
 golden prize from the deserver^s hands, or have inter- 
 cepted it on its way ; and gladly would he have seen it 
 in preference enjoyed by some unhonoured, unbeloved 
 possessor. 
 
 In the midst of mirth and gaiety the black feeling
 
 376 SOCIETY FOR THE 
 
 stole over him, shot through him rather; and he seemed 
 as unable to protect himself from it as from the lightning 
 of heaven. He began to think that he was defenceless, 
 incurably subject to the constant and dreadful visita- 
 tions of a disease that, do what he might to expel or to 
 hide it, discovered itself, coldly or fiercely, in his eyes, 
 while his cheeks at the same time blushed at its pre- 
 sence. A breath would sometimes sufiice to bring the 
 blighting air upon him ; a careless allusion to his friend, 
 a word dropped in his honour. Eulogy and admiration, 
 expressed in his hearing, though spoken of the man 
 whom he had no words to praise sufficiently, wrought 
 in him an impulse of disparagement, and moved him 
 (strange as it may sound) to depreciate what he idoKsed. 
 The expression of such regard and affection as he him- 
 self felt, instead of being echoed by every wakened 
 sympathy within liim, by answering music from every 
 chord of his nature, provoked displeasure and dissent, 
 and feelings that only rankled the more if constrained 
 to be silent. Envy at such moments took possession 
 of him, and scarcely left him the semblance of self- 
 control. 
 
 The malady hung about him for ten years, poisoning 
 the spring at which he most loved to drink, embittering 
 his best enjoyment. He tried all tliis time every 
 remedy but the right one. That he found only in the 
 Association for the Encouragement of Hearts. When 
 the Society was founded, the patient, instead of shrink- 
 ing into solitude, communing with his own weakness, 
 and making vows which he had lost even the hope of 
 being able to keep, immediately joined its ranks ; and 
 he began to improve that very moment. In three days, 
 he heard his friend praised, and that highly, without 
 experiencing a pang. In a week the most rapturous 
 eulogy bestowed in the same quarter, awoke in him no
 
 ENCOURAGEMENT OF HEARTS. 377 
 
 uneasy feeling whatever. A day or two after, he began 
 even to find pleasure in listening; which rose next 
 morning to joy of the most novel kind j and he now 
 swelled the strain with all the power of his lungs, his 
 spirit was so light. He was hke a fond, passionate 
 lover, just released from the rack of jealousy. The 
 cruel and remorseless enemy dropped from his heart. 
 Envy was dead, and Luke Quinton lived, for the first 
 time in his life. The Society 'will now " warrant him 
 heart-whole." 
 
 There was the case of the Hon. Simon "Wrinkle ; it 
 only happened last week; the catastrophe, that is to 
 say; for the case itself commenced years ago, when 
 that superior town-made gentleman fell in love w'ith the 
 sweet subiu-ban beauty, Kitty Aubm'n. People laughed 
 a little at the time, but Simon was serious ; and Kitty, 
 for her part, was very serious, though she prettily pre- 
 tended to laugh. It was palpably a case of true love, 
 if ever there was one ; but there is not the sHghtest 
 ground for declaring that its course did not run smooth, 
 the sole complaint being in this peculiar instance, that 
 it did not run at all. True love stood still, and uttered 
 not a word. That was its only fault. Kitty Aubm'n 
 was manifestly all ear; Mr. Simon Wrinkle had evi- 
 dently no tongue. 
 
 Night after night, moonlight, starlight, or no light, 
 there hung the fair Capulet upon the accustomed bal- 
 cony, eager to be wooed and willing to be won; but 
 the enamoiu-ed Montague never efiectually cleared the 
 garden- wall, but stuck fast on the spikes at the top. 
 Such was their sad situation for years ; the lady audibly 
 avowing a passion of which the Hon. Mr. Wrinkle 
 would have given his ears to hear a single whisper : 
 and the gentleman dying visibly of a sentimental
 
 378 SOCIETY FOR THE 
 
 lockjaw, finding it impossible to get his mouth open 
 whenever his adored was approachable. 
 
 With every hope of being beloved, he had every fear 
 of betraying his own affection. ''If she should find 
 it out/^ he would say to himself, " what would she 
 think of me V 
 
 "If he would but speak/' murmured Kitty, every 
 night as she went to sleep : " and speaking is so easy 
 when it is but to tell what one knows already V A 
 comfortable reflection, and yet it was very provoking. 
 
 But Simon Wrinkle could do anything in the world 
 but that. No lover on earth so attentive, though as a 
 lover he had no nominal or authorised existence. No 
 passion so many-tongued and expressive as his, though 
 he had never breathed a syllable that could be said to 
 disclose it. By a thousand nameless tokens, and by 
 sympathies that reqviired no aid from speech, he had 
 poured out all the secrets of his soul; but he was 
 tongue-tied nevertheless. 
 
 " Why don't he speak !" still murmured Kitty, every 
 night, tired of the pretty pantomime of love that spoke 
 so plainly in another language. 
 
 He would have spoken out fast enough, and not have 
 allowed those precious months and years to roll over in 
 silence ; two kind hearts beating in union on the brink 
 of bliss, and yet trembling in uncertainty ; had Kitty 
 Auburn been a duchess. Not then would he have 
 lingered at the gate of his paradise ; that gate being left 
 ajar, and he with one foot inside. No, he would have 
 risked everything, and shrunk from no degree of pre- 
 sumption. He would have boldly told an empress that 
 he adored her, and have said, in plain English, " There's 
 my hand, will you have me ?" But Kitty Auburn was 
 not an empress ; she was no duchess ; any more than a
 
 ENCOURAGEMENT OF HEARTS. 379 
 
 simple field- flower is a diamond ; yet, though the 
 duchess would have had no power to dazzle Simon, 
 Kitty had; and Mr. Wrinkle wished his father had 
 been an ironmonger or a potato-merchant, that he might 
 have been relieved from the humiliation of being sup- 
 posed to be conscious of any distinction between them, 
 or any advantages unshared by herself. 
 
 " I only ask her to be Mrs. Wrinkle,'^ he reasoned ; 
 " but if she should for a moment suppose that I presume 
 to seek her hand, conceiAdng she might be influenced 
 by a thought of a coronet to come, the bare suspicion 
 of the possibility deprives me of utterance. No, I don^t 
 think I can ask the delightful, the awful question this 
 morning. But when I again come to town — " 
 
 However, the Hon. Simon Wrinkle, whether in town 
 or country, was so happy in his wooing, that he could 
 never rouse himself to make the first motion necessary 
 to marriage. " He never was, but always to be " bold. 
 He was for ever on the eve of crying, ''Do you, and 
 will you ?" Like the learned ignoramus who had been 
 talking Greek all his life without knowing it, Simon 
 had been making love for years, with the desperate 
 determination of just going to begin. "When people 
 wondered why the frank-hearted Kitty did not accept 
 his hand, they could not guess that it had never been 
 off'ered. When they admired his devotion, and told 
 her how very, very fond he was of her, she could only 
 turn away with a Httle laugh, which was far more sad 
 than merrv^ whispering to herself, " I wish to Heaven 
 he would say so, that he had said so years ago.^' 
 
 Was this a case for hope ? There seemed none. 
 Simon, it was clear, would go to his grave all wrinkles, 
 ere his lips would voluntarily unseal; and poor Kitty 
 Auburn's locks would be snow-wliite, and her sunny 
 cheerful youth be all overclouded and withered into
 
 380 SOCIETY FOR THE 
 
 wintriness^ long before the passion of her pm'e heart, so 
 warmly and truly answered, had a chance of being 
 more nearly neighboured or more dearly rewarded. 
 
 There was no hope : none, until the Society for the 
 Encouragement of Hearts opened its doors the other 
 day to the Hon. Simon Wrinkle. A gentleman so 
 much in need of its beneficent influences, was, of course, 
 instantaneously admitted to the full enjoyment of all 
 the privileges of a fellow; with what efi'ect upon his 
 temperament was soon seen in the new light wherein 
 his character appeared. He, timid and procrastinating ! 
 a trifler with another's happiness and his own, for want 
 of a little self-confidence and decision ! The last man 
 in the Society for that, was Simon the bold ; for he had 
 only been installed a fellow about eight-and-forty hours, 
 when off he started in the direction of a snug little 
 subm^ban retreat, and in hot pursuit of its drooping, 
 half-despairing mistress. 
 
 There, ciu'ed as by a magic charm of his distrust, 
 reserve, and bashful irresolution, he raised the startled 
 but still expectant Kitty out of that wasting sickness of 
 suspense to which she was sensibly falling a prey, and 
 with incomparable tenderness breathed all the impas- 
 sioned eloquence of his love in six of the most prosaic 
 little words in the language. To which Kitty could 
 only reply, waiving the poetry of gleaming eyes, and 
 cheeks rich with roses, brighter than the sunset, in 
 words just as honest and prosaic, that, of course, she 
 did, and, of course, she would ; but why had he not 
 asked her before ? 
 
 Well, there was no more delay; for Kitty was the 
 wife of Simon Wrinkle before he had completed one 
 month of his fellowship in the successful Society for the 
 Encouragement of Hearts. 
 
 To write the history of an institution so philanthropic
 
 ENCOURAGEMENT OF HEARTS. 381 
 
 is but to relate miracles over and over again, and 
 multiply examples like that of Diggins, the man of all 
 work, everybody's agent, and nobody's friend. Let us 
 add bis true testimony to tbe rest. 
 
 Diggins bad grown old in tbe service of tbe worst 
 part of tbe world, without ever seeming to know whether 
 it was bad or good. He was, in some degree, like 
 those glass -faced clocks with in\isible works: people 
 long supposed that Diggins had no feelings; that be 
 went without works. It was not that be was beheved 
 to carry some spongy substance in his breast, in place 
 of that natm-ally throbbing and beating machine which 
 nature appointed for the convenience, and, though the 
 stony rogues are not aware of it, for the comfort of her 
 children : no, the popular conviction was, that his 
 bosom was a vacancy, an original hollow ; that nature 
 in this special instance did not " abhor a vacuum ;" but 
 that the rather Irish idea of Pope, 
 
 The craving void left acliing in the breast, 
 
 was realised beneath tbe waistcoat of Diggins. Nobody 
 attributed bad feelings to him : they only denied that 
 he ever had any. Nobody called him hard-hearted; 
 they merely made oath that he never had a heart at 
 all. Diggins might as weU have been turned inside 
 out ; he was an empty vessel of mortality ; an unfur- 
 nished tenement of clay. He was known as the man 
 who had " nothing in him." 
 
 This at least is sure : he had no parent living, and 
 child be never had, son or daughter. He had no wife, 
 no sister. Diggins had no brother. He had neither 
 uncle nor cousin. He had no relation of cither sex, or 
 of any kind or degree. Diggins never had a friend in 
 the world, and, of course, was without a friend now. 
 He had no crony who had once been his schoolfellow ;
 
 382 
 
 SOCIETY FOR THE 
 
 no crabbed partner in business; no idle cup-companion. 
 Diggins bad not a single acquaintance; be bad no 
 neigbbour. He bad employers, and be bad dupes, no 
 doubt; but tbe second, perbaps, were merged in tbe 
 first. He bad fellow-countrymen, it is true ; but it is 
 bardly true tbat Diggins bad fellow-creatures. 
 
 Diggins as be was, we mean ! It is at all events 
 certain, tbat if be really possessed in former times any- 
 tbing in tbe nature of a beart, be bad never by any 
 cbance treated it to a kind action. He bad never per- 
 mitted a bttle fresb blood to flow tbrougb it ; but kept 
 it stopped up, stifled and cboked ; never sufi'ering it to 
 knock at bis ribs, or jump up into bis moutb^ or take 
 any invigorating exercise wbatever. He never per- 
 mitted it any sucb liberty, and it must bave dried up 
 to a cbip, and perisbed of starvation and imprisonment, 
 if, indeed, it ever bad an existence, save in wild ima- 
 gination. 
 
 Only note tbe difi'erence. Wben Diggins, tbe man 
 wbo bad notbing in bim, was elected into tbe Society 
 for tbe Encom^agement of Hearts ; tbougb some inquired 
 wbat business he bad tbere, wbo could only, wben be 
 returned tbanks for his admission, place bis band upon 
 bis stomacb, and declare tbat it was too full for utter- 
 ance ; otbers migbt very speedily perceive in bim tbe 
 certain action of a principle, an instinct developed 
 and put in motion by tbe vivifying atmospbere of tbe 
 Association. 
 
 Tbe cbildless Diggins, relationless, friendless, a 
 stranger in tbe vast swarming world, seemed in a little 
 time to belong to tbe social scene, to be a natural atom 
 of it, and to know other atoms wben be met them. 
 This made bim look more like them, and much less 
 like himself, for his step was brisker, bis brow smoother, 
 bis eye less dim, bis very hair less gray. Then came a
 
 ENCOURAGEMENT OF HEARTS. 383 
 
 flutter and a leap mtMn, which actually made him feel 
 like them. In a few hours he conceived an intense 
 desire to do a good thing, somewhere, for anybody ; all 
 at once, that very minute. His soul would be shut up 
 no longer, but got out for a hohday, and drew him 
 dancing after it ; and Diggins, to whom good and bad 
 had been perfectly indifferent, save in theii- effects upon 
 his own interests and objects, could in an instant judge 
 between them, never to confound them again. But 
 what most astonished him, — and it was, indeed, wonder- 
 ftdly curious, — was, that he who had no kith or kin on 
 the grassy side of the chm-chyard, should now find in 
 every part of the town such long streets full of his 
 relations ! " I must fish out an explanation of this 
 phenomenon,'' said he, rather bewildered, " in • the 
 Society for the Encouragement of Hearts ! " 
 
 Jamidice, who was for years so jealous of his Uvely 
 and innocent wife, that it was at last thought by many 
 that his melancholy was as green as it was yellow, was 
 a long time before he could be persuaded to join the 
 Society. He, a slave to the most wretched suspicion, 
 was, in fact, afraid to stir out of doors, or out of \iew of 
 his lady's window, which he watched from the attic at 
 the corner of the street, to see if Mrs. Jaundice's great- 
 grandfather had the profligacy to call and see her, while 
 her own Jaundice was from home. Pillows, poison, and 
 poniards, were alike unavailing, in such a complaint as 
 this afflicted and frantic husband's; but one of these 
 futile remedies, and possibly all three, he would infal- 
 libly have tried, either upon himself or his wife, but 
 for the subtle and merciful influences of the Society 
 of Hearts. 
 
 Entering that association, and being declared a fellow, 
 his visage, as it revealed itself to its owner by a reflec- 
 tion in the large glass opposite, seemed surprisingly
 
 384 SOCIETY FOR THE 
 
 less yellow than usual. He certainly then turned pale, 
 which further lessened the ordinary hue ; but in a few 
 minutes another change came, and he was crimson 
 from brow to beard. His inward nature, he knew not 
 how, altered as remarkably; his sensations and senti- 
 ments were no longer the same, but hke those he felt 
 and cherished on the day he married Constance. 
 
 Constance, in short, became again an angel in his eyes, 
 not more lovely than incorruptible. Ages of absence and 
 temptation would fail to dim her lustre or weaken her 
 affection ; and when he hurried home, an hour before 
 dinner, and found her fervent in argument with his 
 friend, the young barrister, insisting prettily that he 
 should stay and dine, and go with them to the Opera, 
 for Jaundice would admire and like it of all things, — 
 Jaundice, as soon as he recoA^ered his breath, vowed 
 that he should, of all imaginable things but one ! which 
 was nothing less than the gay, open, daring kiss, which, 
 without one moment^s warning, and to the utter amaze- 
 ment of the legal witness thereto, he forthwith imprinted 
 on the lips of his charming wife, before she could get 
 her little shriek out ! 
 
 " I have just come," exclaimed Jaundice, with an 
 affectedly off-hand air, giving the rosy Constance time 
 to recover herself, " just come from the Society for the 
 Encouragement of Hearts. Excellent institution that ! 
 But by Jove we ^11 go to the Opera. Constance, you 
 must wear — wear — but you ^re a divinity in anything ! " 
 
 When two friends quarrelled (the reader knows their 
 names, or can readily supply them from his own list), 
 how little was requisite to re-unite what never should 
 have been separated; yet through what gloomy days 
 and months did that estrangement endure ! A word of 
 recall would suffice, but how was it to be spoken, and 
 how was its sufficiency to be mutually understood !
 
 SOCIETY FOR THE ENCOURAGEMENT OF HEARTS. 385 
 
 Each felt the pain, and the desire to end it, for the 
 other's sake more than his own ; but neither was in a 
 situation to break ground, or make the first effort to 
 di*aw near — 
 
 To meet again like parted streams, 
 And mingle as of old. 
 
 But when, after all this anguish, misapprehension, 
 and rending asunder, they met one summer morning by 
 chance; it was on the steps of the Society for the 
 Encouragement of Hearts ; one was going in, the other 
 coming out; no pause or punctilio, rather say no 
 explanation, was at all necessary. Hands outstretched 
 were locked together, so were arms on the instant, and 
 the friends never took different roads afterwards. 
 
 And what a beautiful instance of the efficacy of this 
 society in dignifying and emboldening the heart, was 
 suppUed in the example of Jack Spanker. Poor little 
 Jack was once quite bowed to the dust, because his 
 friends wouldn't come down with it. "What hurt him 
 most was a tender and honourable sense of the fifty 
 pounds he had borrowed and could not pay back, as he 
 had promised. It was a farce, a mere feather ; yet was 
 it a world's weight on the sensitive feelings of poor Jack 
 Spanker. No item in his list of debts, which Avas not 
 particularly short, tortured him with such recollections. 
 Persons, mixing in the merry world, laughed mightily 
 if he but hinted at this the sharpest point of his griefs ; 
 but it pricked him to the soul nevertheless, and his eyes 
 dropped melting pearls into his else vacant purse. He 
 would have gladly owed more, much more, in another 
 quarter; but not to pay this debt added venom to the 
 bite of poverty. 
 
 Weary of the whole world, and most sick of himself. 
 Jack had just embraced despair as his last companion in 
 this life, when he saw himself put up as a candidate for 
 
 VOL. III. s
 
 386 SOCIETY FOR THE ENCOURAGEMENT OF HEARTS. 
 
 admission into the society, and verily became a fellow of 
 the association for the Encouragement of Hearts. Presto 
 Jack ! A remedy was within reach on the instant. He 
 flung despair to the winds, crying aloud with the pathetic 
 desperation of the poet. 
 
 And if the winds reject you, try the waves ! 
 
 He resolved to relieve himself from his most painful 
 obligation, that very hour. He was dashing Jack 
 Spanker again. So, ordering a cab to the door of the 
 Society for the Encouragement of Hearts, he drove off 
 to his creditor, who had never once applied for the 
 money, and boldly asked for the loan of a hundred 
 pounds, as he could never enjoy peace of mind until he 
 had paid the fifty ! 
 
 Dexterously indeed does this society apply the spur of 
 hope to prostrate despondency ! There is in faith no 
 limits to the encouragement which the sinking, jaded, 
 self-mistrusting heart receives through the medium of 
 this ingenious association. It is calculated, as we have 
 partly shown, to do more service to the cause of moraht^!- 
 than any incorporated society has hitherto rendered to 
 other national objects, whether to learning, science, or 
 the arts. To become an F.S.H., a Fellow of the Society 
 of Hearts, will, at a rapidly approaching period, be 
 deemed an object of high distinction, contrasted as it 
 will be with some other attainments of fellowship, now 
 in request, by the eminent usefulness of the honour.
 
 387 
 
 "TALK OF THE DEVIL 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 It hath not appeared. 
 
 SiGNOR RODERIGO. 
 
 This notorious maxim^ tlie half whereof is as expres- 
 sive and intelligible as the whole, has, time out of mind, 
 taken upon itself to assert that its hero will appear 
 whenever he is talked about; in other words, that if 
 men will rashly admit him into their mouths he will 
 infallibly start up before their eyes. In the drama of 
 life, the stage direction " Enter the De\'il," is snre to be 
 followed by an exclamation from all the characters, 
 " Your worship was the last man in our mouths.^' 
 
 Nothing is more false; not the hero of the maxim 
 himself. Nay more, nothing is more contrary to the 
 fact, as it is made familiar to every one of us, by daily 
 repetition, in ordinary life. Thus, it is not only false, 
 but we know it to be so. To say that the Unmention- 
 able appears when he is mentioned, is to figm'e as the 
 pet son of that Father of Lies. And yet we go on, not 
 merely handing doAvn the falsehood as a fact, but apply- 
 ing its philosophy to all conceivable occui'rences as fast 
 as they arise. 
 
 We are talking of Jim, and Jim knocks at the door. 
 We were just thinking of his grandmother, and she goes 
 by at that moment in an omnibus. We are speaking 
 of thunder, and a clap shakes the house ! Talk of the 
 de^il ! 
 
 Jack comes up to us in Piccadilly, just as we are 
 celebrating his rare merits ; talk of the devil ! but we 
 have puffed him thereabouts to the very clouds, scores 
 of times, when Jack has been at Mile-end or Morocco. 
 
 s 2
 
 388 TALK OF THE DEVIL 
 
 Tom bolts into the room at the very instant we were 
 abusing him ; talk of the devil ! but we have torn his 
 character to ribands behind his back, and left him 
 without a rag of respectability on a hundred occasions, 
 when Tom's hand was never near the handle of the door. 
 Enough that it happens once. The man is "always 
 tying that shoe.'^ 
 
 Common existence is necessarily full of coincidences, 
 and common flesh and blood is necessarily full of won- 
 derment j but if things and people would come when 
 they were talked about, the world would burst at once 
 into an extraordinary fit of gabble, and some of us might 
 possibly begin to speak on rather forbidden subjects. 
 Which virtuous man would begin to chatter about his 
 neighbour's wife, or which of the incorruptibles would 
 take to discoursing upon bribes, it would be invidious 
 to guess. 
 
 But do we not, as it is, talk sufficiently of the desir- 
 ables without getting them ? and do we not also love to 
 talk abundantly of the miserables? but here we have 
 better luck, and very frequently secure them by so doing. 
 
 Talk of the devil and he will appear, whether he is 
 talked of or not, if it suits him. A maiden lady of our 
 acquaintance was always talking of young aristocrats, 
 captains in the guards, and handsome commoners with 
 large estates; this for a dozen years; but they never 
 appeared ; never once in all that time. And now she is 
 talking night and day of small red lamp'd surgeons, in 
 a state of celibacy, or single banking-clerks with a 
 genteel turn and a rising salary ; but although her teeth 
 are wearing oiit with talking of them, even these do not 
 appear. Perhaps there are a good many night patients, 
 or no hohdays at the bank now; at all events nothing 
 happens apropos. 
 
 And as for McGammon, who is always talking of
 
 TALK OF THE DEVIL ! 389 
 
 honesty, let us ask of any reader wlio knows his habits 
 whether he can be proved to have spoken twice on any 
 other subject since he returned from transportation. 
 Honesty is always in his mouth ; he fastens his teeth in 
 it, and his tongue takes kindly to no word but that. 
 But did honesty ever appear in his conduct ! If you 
 observe, and it is rather curious, the figiu'es are all wore 
 off his satin waistcoat on the left side, the result of a 
 constant apphcation of the hand to the heart, when he 
 quotes his one line of poetry, " An honest man 's the 
 noblest work of God ;" but, without the least disrespect 
 to a few other persons whom we hear of, he is the 
 greatest rogue in London. 
 
 Talk of the devil ! Talk of truth, and see if that 
 will make its appearance. But no such examples as the 
 above will con%'ince the true believer that the thing 
 spoken of will not be a thing witnessed, now, or by and 
 bye ; that the person talked of \^ill not appear, if you 
 wait long enough. Old Mrs. Christian Smith believes 
 devoutly. It is a point of her religion to rest implicit 
 faith, and to be blind to all failures. 
 
 "This lamp-glass is an old servant," says one of the 
 household, " I have often wondered it never got broken !" 
 
 " Ah ! " sighs Mrs. Chiistian Smith, " I wish you had 
 never mentioned it ; it 's aU over ; that glass is doomed." 
 
 " What a while," cries that giddy Tabitha (to be sure 
 she is young, being barely turned forty), " what a long, 
 long while we have had these tea-cups. I can remember 
 them for thirty years." 
 
 " My child," weeps the devout believer, " mark what 
 I say : those cups will go ! " 
 
 It has sometimes occurred to us that the reason why 
 widows are not inclined to talk much about their 
 deceased husbands, but are rather determined, Spartan 
 fashion, never to say a syllable about them, is the fear
 
 390 TALK OF THE DEVIL ! 
 
 lest they should come back. Widows have a profound 
 faith in the practical philosophy of " Talk of the devil ! " 
 '' An excellent creature, my dear madam ; but consider 
 my feelings, and say nothing about him," 
 
 Of our male acquaintances, by much the most super- 
 stitious in this regard, is Shivers. He has an entire 
 and conclusive faith in the universality of the deviFs 
 appearance when duly mentioned. If you talk to him 
 of the hero of Waterloo, he looks as if almost ready to 
 ring the bell, and order the door to be opened for the 
 Duke of Wellington. Nay, to talk is not always neces- 
 sary ; to think is enough. 
 
 " How unlucky," he says, " that I shoidd happen to 
 have thought this morning of that wine-bill, run up be- 
 fore I was married, after forgetting it for five years. 
 The man will certainly send the account in to-morrow, 
 or perhaps call himself with it to-night. Having driven 
 it from one's mind, to pay would be provoking." 
 
 " What of the railway shares they were going to rob 
 you of?" 
 
 " Stop ! " cries Shivers, " not a syllable more about 
 them. I have heard nothing of their rascally proceed- 
 ings for these six months ; but now you have mentioned 
 the matter. Grasper will be pretty sure to be upon me 
 before the week 's out. You can't help it ; the mischiefs 
 done." 
 
 "Seen the Gibbses?" 
 
 " Those greedy, gloomy people ! No, they have let 
 us alone of late ; but now you talk of them, they '11 be 
 here. Mrs. Shivers, my dear, pray recollect that we are 
 out to the Gibbses. They are to call about Thursday 
 or Friday." When he hears, not on Friday, but three 
 months afterwards, that they have all knocked at his 
 door, he says he knew how it would be^ he was sure of 
 it ; " didn 't I tell you so ? "
 
 TALK OF THE DEVIL 1 391 
 
 Ask after a more joyous acquaintance; and the face 
 of Shivers bursts out of a shadow, and a coming event 
 casts its sunshine before. " Ha, to be sure ; yes, jolly 
 Bacchus, as we call him, I 'm very glad you mention 
 him. We shall see him here soon, depend upon it, I 
 shall have him dropping in presently." And sure 
 enough, in the space of two minutes, there enters a rosy 
 reveller, who answers pat to that mythological desig- 
 nation. " I said so,'^ cries Shivers ; and well he might ; 
 for the new-comer was under engagement to call on the 
 said Shivers that very evening, at that very hour. " Talk 
 of the de\dl!" 
 
 It is noticeable that whether, on this '' Talk of the 
 devil," that personage appears, or disappears, the con- 
 dition is supposed to be equally fulfilled. Tell Shivers 
 that his rich acquaintance, old Bullion, one of the pil- 
 lars of ^Change, had suddenly collected his stores and 
 gone off somewhere, to the amazement of the city ; and 
 he assures you that he is not in the least surprised, that 
 he expected to hear of something of that kind, for that 
 he and Mrs. Shivers were talking of him at breakfast 
 only the day before. You never could persuade him 
 that the two events were not mysteriously connected ; 
 or that Bullion could have bolted if there had been no 
 breakfast-table. 
 
 It is enough for the devil to appear elsewhere, if not 
 here ; and if there happened to be no talk of him to- 
 day, it will do if a slight allusion to him last week could 
 be established. 
 
 Mrs. Shivers diiFers from her husband, but equally 
 confides in the mysterious connection proverbially ex- 
 isting between casual talk and predestined appearance. 
 She is sure — quite sure — that if a thing is talked about, 
 it must happen. Of course it will ; it does, twenty times 
 a day. The worst of this is, that in discovering it does.
 
 393 TALK OF THE DEVIL 
 
 she detects the most unfortunate analogies^ and suggests 
 the most cruel comparisons. Her nature, all pohteness 
 and good-humour, she is yet downright insulting, if 
 something a propos is to be discussed. She was reading 
 the other morning Coventry Patmore^s fine description 
 of the old ancestral ground — 
 
 So wide, the rainbow wholly stands 
 Witliin its lordly bound — 
 
 When in an instant she jumped up, dropped the book, 
 and cried out as the door opened, 
 
 " Talking of the rainbow, here you all are in your 
 new dresses ! " 
 
 This was to her friends; her sensitive, scrupulous, 
 high-bred friends, the Chickenham family ; persons who 
 actually expii-e in theory, and turn rather faint in fact, if 
 any item of their dress is so unhappy as to attract notice. 
 
 "Talking of the rainbow, here you all are in your new 
 dresses V This to such especially nice people, such 
 severe and studious artistes, conscious of the perfection 
 of their taste, and beheving that they could always, by 
 its superiority, move about and prevent any vulgar eye 
 from discerning what they had on ! This, too, in the 
 presence of the elder Miss Cliickenham ! That young 
 lady^s complexion was decidedly the most startling and 
 fearful in its scarlet beauty ; but a very considerable 
 addition was made by the cheeks of the whole party to 
 the brilliant flush of colour that suddenly illumined the 
 boudoir of Mrs. Shivers. 
 
 And one night, just before supper, she sprang across 
 the room, saying as she went, " Talking of these things, 
 it always happens so, here is my lovely friend Mrs. Wix.-*' 
 She ran to embrace a very elegant little figure. 
 
 " It always happens so ? '^ we said to each other, in- 
 terrogatively, bat only by looks. "These things" 
 which had just been mentioned, were game and poultry.
 
 TALK OF THE DEVIL ! 393 
 
 and it turned out afterwards that Mrs. Wixwas the 
 daughter of a distinguished poulterer ! That coinci- 
 dence had flashed on the \'igilant perceptions of Mrs. 
 Shivers. The amiable creature was only conscious of 
 " Talk of the dcAil.^^ Her favom'ite idea was awakened, 
 and her ruling propensity swallowed up all sense of pro- 
 priety and delicacy towards a well-bred woman whom 
 she reallv loved. 
 
 Worse remained behind. The conversation had 
 turned upon one of those bankruptcies, the details of 
 which, ripped open now and then to the wonder and 
 disgust of an honourable and high-principled mercantile 
 community, eclipse in profligacy the common annals of 
 the Criminal Court ; when a man of the strictest probity, 
 who had recently made a pecuniary compromise that 
 placed him not a hair's-breadth below the purest, entered 
 the room. The giddy, thoughtless, kind-hearted lady, 
 who would sympathise with the struggles of a fly with a 
 large family, caught at her favourite coincidence ; and 
 though of course she did not cry, " Talk of the devil," 
 a movement was made significant enough to have proved 
 inexpressibly painful, if it had been more than mo- 
 mentary. 
 
 It is not often, however, that inconsiderateness in 
 this matter is attended with such grave and perilous 
 results. The awkwardness generally takes the comic 
 turn, and the efi'ect of a mal-a-propos allusion is simply 
 farcical. 
 
 When a gentleman enters a rather quiet room wherein 
 a few strangers and acquaintances are assembled, and 
 overhears two ladies conferring, " Is it not curious that 
 we should have been talking on that subject, just as 
 Mr. X. Y. Z. was announced ? " Mr. X. Y. Z., we may 
 be sure, passes the rest of his evening in a very amusing 
 and restless mystification. But the two ladies were 
 
 s3
 
 394 TALK OF THE DEVIL 
 
 only talking of tall people, and X. Y. Z. is tall. When, 
 however, the previous topic is ugliness, and somebody 
 the reverse of handsome appears; when the young lady 
 whispers, "Did you ever?" and the elder one (for 
 whom all good looks are fled, since they are not to be 
 found in the mirror) lisps a little audibly, "Talk of 
 the — hem ! " the silliness acquires no slight dash of the 
 impertinent. 
 
 Instances of physical deformity, of peculiarity at all 
 events, say in the eyes or in the hair, are apt enough to 
 suggest to these lively imaginations, images coincident 
 with their conversational topics. A visiter with a very 
 delicate optical cast, of which perhaps as a medium of 
 tender humour, or some particular expressiveness, he is 
 rather proud than otherwise, would possibly on his 
 entrance, elicit from such a candid and inconsiderate 
 soul as Mrs. Shivers, this : " My dear sir, how glad we 
 are to see you, and how very, very odd that you should 
 have arrived just at this moment ; for would you beheve 
 it, we were all talking of that Mr. — you know his 
 name ! " mentioning an optical case familiar to every- 
 body, and famous for its obliquity. 
 
 There is another set of persons to whom the proverb 
 is of some conversational use. But these are of a dif- 
 ferent order. They have no faith in it, and employ it 
 in no superstitious sense; but only for purposes more 
 or less quizzical and jocose; never believing that Jones 
 will ring the bell, merely because Jones is being talked 
 of in kitchen, nursery, or parlour ; and not at all con- 
 curring in the argument that the china bowl is to be 
 broken, because Sarah remarked that it was older than 
 herself, and had never got chipped. 
 
 But they have some half-serious, half-jesting fan- 
 cies, and such are to be heard of in hundreds of 
 families. They connect certain things, or places, with
 
 TALK OF THE DEVIL ! 395 
 
 certain persons and seasons. If they have some par- 
 ticular dish at dinner, or a combination of two unusual 
 ones, they know that a particular relation, very unhkely 
 to arrive else, will probably drop in and sit down with 
 them. They are sure that if they pay an evening visit to 
 such a house, it will rain desperately as they come back : 
 unless Mary stops at home, in which case it will cer- 
 tainly be starlight. This they have noticed twenty 
 times. Should their uncle James make one of his half- 
 yearly calls, they look every moment for the arrival of 
 two other guests whom they have not in^dted ; because 
 they always remark, that those two particular persons 
 make their appearance accidentally, whenever "uncle'' 
 happens to be there. If they go to the Haymarket, 
 they are confident that they shall see the ironmonger 
 with black whiskers at the corner of their street, on the 
 third row of the pit. They observe Mr. and Mrs. Baggs 
 at church on the second Sundav of the month, and then 
 they know that there Avill be a party in Gran\dlle-row 
 on the Monday. Of fifty similar regulations they are 
 similarly sure; but they do not, Hke excellent Mrs. 
 Christian Smith, venture to swear by them. You find 
 upon a Httle inquiry, that all these arrangements ai'c, in 
 their judgment, more likely to fall out so than not ; and 
 that they always happen sometimes. 
 
 With all such humourers of the joke, the remotest 
 affinity will afi'ord them the means of setting you won- 
 dering. Conversing the other night upon the Greek 
 dramatists, one of the company, as the door opened, 
 said in an expressive whisper, " Talk of the devil ! " 
 Who, we wondered silently, could the stranger be ! A 
 great scholar of course. Perhaps the grandson of the 
 learned man who boasted that he was " very near ha\ang 
 Sam. Johnson for his pupil." But there was no trace 
 of scholarship in his conversation ; and it turned out
 
 396 TALK OF THE DEVIL 
 
 that his association with the subject arose from his 
 living in Greek-street, Soho ! TJiat was quite enough 
 to remind the lady of Homer or ^Eschylus. 
 
 Some mischief-making jokers about town carry their 
 playfulness a little further ; and intentionally hoax you, 
 without trouble and with perfect success, by the simple 
 ejaculation, " Talk of the devil/' This being muttered 
 on a new arrival, the conversation is turned, no expla- 
 nation is afforded, and no inquiry can take place ; but 
 it happens that although there is not a shadow of con- 
 nection between the topic and the man, you never think 
 of him afterwards without associating him with leather, 
 or telescopes, or guano, or the new patent capsules, or 
 whatever was the subject of conversation whimsically 
 checked upon his entrance. You find your mistake out 
 months afterwards, on apologising for discussing fire- 
 engines, or what not, in his presence, who must under- 
 stand the subject so much better ! 
 
 A more serious illustration of the doctrine, that events 
 imlooked for often follow mysteriously enough upon 
 the casual mention of circumstances relating to them, 
 may here be given in a little incident of domestic life, 
 that needs no colouring whatever. To state it simply 
 as it occurred, will be to give it sufficient impressiveness. 
 
 A father and mother mourned their only child. The 
 boy died in his early spring ; after the partial develop- 
 ment of a character that raised unbounded hopes. His 
 nature was noble and brave, but more than all, it was 
 wonderfully sweet and loving. He was killed ; perishing 
 by a painful, though not lingering death. The father 
 and mother mourned their lost son. It seemed as 
 though no parents had mourned as they did, as though 
 none had ever lost what they had. Months after, when
 
 TALK OF THE DEVIL ! 397 
 
 without anguish they could bear to see his image in a 
 dream, and without violent agitation try to trace his 
 soft but golden lineaments in the shadows of the evening 
 sky, they communed in silent feeling, and felt that there 
 was strength enough now in each other's eyes to look, 
 if but for a blessed peaceful moment, upon the painted 
 features of their boy ; the portrait of his ripening youth, 
 at which since the all-darkening moment, they had not 
 dared to glance. 
 
 To a drawer, at which they had never looked but with 
 tear-blinded eyes; which for months they had never 
 passed without a sentiment of awe and extreme tender- 
 ness, and hearts beating more quickly; they now 
 repaired together. They opened it with trembling, fond, 
 and reverential hands, as if it were some sacred vessel. 
 They felt as though it guarded some gift from God ; as 
 though something of their son was yet K^ing myste- 
 riously there. They opened it, and looked with eyes all 
 love. It was a blank ; empty. They drew it quite out, 
 and searched. The treasure was not there. No word 
 of terror, of wonder, was uttered : a low, faint mm-mur 
 was barely audible : it was not a cry. They looked for 
 an instant into each other's faces, and at the empty 
 drawer. Then they opened the next ; it was not there : 
 and others ; several in rapid succession : it was not 
 there. No one had seen it, no one knew anything of it, 
 no one had taken it. Then they looked again into each 
 other's faces; and each, for the sake of the other, as 
 though there were hope and comfort, turned to search 
 once more among stores already ransacked, and in places 
 where it was impossible for the missing object to be. 
 The loss was bewildering, distracting. The relic was 
 not there, it was not in any of them. They knew it 
 was not ; but they still looked, and looked, until all was 
 utterly dark.
 
 398 TALK OP THE DEVIL 
 
 All consciousness of the mystery of this loss, all busy 
 aching wonder, was absorbed in the sense of the loss 
 itself. Surprise at once ceased; sorrow had no room 
 for any other feeling. Their looks no longer asked how 
 the holy relic had gone ; but said only by their hollow 
 gaze, that it was gone ! Neither knew till now, how 
 much of hope the heart had secretly drawn from the 
 possession of this li^dng resemblance of the being pre- 
 maturely cut off. The bitterness of the disappointment, 
 the dreary, hopeless blank, was in proportion. Nor is 
 it easy perhaps for any one, who has not suffered to 
 that sharp excess, to understand the inestimable value 
 of such a memento. It was a dreadful moment when 
 they became aware, how, months since, they had insen- 
 sibly cherished the thought of having it under their 
 pillow as they slept; and they knew not how doubly 
 melancholy must be their sleep. They felt that the last 
 stubborn heart-string had snapped. 
 
 But they never spoke of the loss after that wretched 
 and desolate night. Each felt the shocks the drying up 
 of the hidden source of comfort to which the heart had 
 turned ; but they could as soon have talked about the 
 lost one himself. Thus, in continual communion of 
 feeling, but never murmuring a word upon the one 
 unforgotten subject, they lived on and on. In time they 
 lived serenely, and learned to dry their eyes, even when 
 alone. 
 
 They could at last feel interest and pleasure in the 
 changing seasons, and could look with animation and 
 the desire to participate, upon the active and healthy 
 pursuits of life. When the summer-days were longest, 
 those days were still not wearisome; and the winter- 
 evening was often made luxurious by the charm of 
 friendly visits. If not, the silent fire-side had its busy 
 duties and its calm pleasures. So they lived ; tranquil,
 
 TALK OF THE DEVIL ! 399 
 
 trusting, grateful; true to each other always, and to Him 
 who kept them so. 
 
 But ever in the midst of all this, and throughout 
 every season and condition of life, wherever their eyes 
 might wander, whatever their thoughts might mingle 
 with, active or meditative, in society or in sohtude, the 
 one fresh, subtle, conscious feeling, held undiminished 
 empire over both hearts. There, amidst all, was the 
 undying recollection; there in every change was the 
 settled grief that had grown to be sweeter and dearer 
 than happiness. At distant intervals of time, perhaps, 
 a name, or some bygone event, would raise a fonder 
 remembrance, accompanied by a few tender words, 
 respecting their matchless boy; and then they would 
 again be composed. The thought of him seemed to " let 
 down the golden chain from high," and draw them 
 towards him and heaven. 
 
 But of the lost portrait they never spoke. Whether 
 it was that some undefined but superstitious apprehen- 
 sion mingled with their feelings of regret; whether it 
 was reluctance to pain each other by a useless recurrence 
 to a loss so irreparable, or to a circiunstance so myste- 
 rious ; but their lips never once opened upon that sad, 
 strange, and frequently intruding subject. 
 
 Several years had passed, ten or eleven, and each suc- 
 ceeding one glided more smoothly away, obliterating not 
 a line of the deep and dear recollection, but making 
 each clearer and more enduring. When, one morning 
 as they sat together, the father and mother, conversing 
 upon common careless things, the usual household 
 topics; with every object in its ordinary place around 
 them, and no novel sight or sound to startle the mind 
 out of its track, or disturb the habits of long years; 
 suddenly, instantaneously there was a movement in the 
 father's brain, a quickened beating of the heart, and a
 
 400 TALK OF THE DEVIL ! 
 
 sense of tlie necessity of giving utterance to a thought 
 which had never found voice or expression before. It 
 would not be controlled, and in a moment it broke the 
 spell of years of silence, and escaped in words. 
 
 Taking his companion's hand, he said, abruptly, 
 with a strange and somewhat wild air, in tones too that 
 were strange. 
 
 " My beloved, how mysterious was the disappearance 
 of that picture which has cost us both so many speech- 
 less pangs, so many fond and vain regrets ! Reading 
 each other's inmost thoughts, thus have we both re- 
 flected through long years, you and I ; and what prompts 
 me now to put the thought in words, I cannot tell !" 
 
 He said this like a child : he did not know why he 
 spoke : he could not help it. 
 
 The mother raised his hand devoutly to her lips. 
 Affected and surprised by his words, she sought 
 fearingly in his countenance for some sign that his 
 spirit was unusually troubled. But his brow was calm. 
 
 " The thought," she said, affectionately, " would 
 have been less supportable if we had not felt and known 
 how continually it was shared. Silence lulled it. It 
 was hushed and well borne. But to hear it mentioned 
 now at a far distant day, to find its existence certified 
 by speech, and speech of yours, startles me as with the 
 idea of something new ; instead of the old, familiar, and 
 not painful inmate of my spirit. What can have so 
 moved you to-day to break the quiet compact which our 
 souls so long since ratified ?" 
 
 But this, as before, he was unable to tell. An impulse 
 momentarily stirred in him, and in the glow and flutter 
 of it he had spoken. They then, for the first time since 
 the event, conversed upon the subject of their mys- 
 terious loss, giving expression to all their feelings, and 
 their conviction that they had not displaced the portrait
 
 TALK OF THE DEVIL ! 401 
 
 themselves ; comparing tlieir sentiments respecting the 
 inmates of the house at the time, the uninjured state of 
 the drawer, which had been found locked, and all the 
 strange, confounding circumstances of the case. All 
 this discussed in placid conversation, as it had been in 
 thought a thousand and a thousand times before, they 
 both agreed that their useless wonder was noAV to 
 express itself in words for the last time ; and that with 
 wonder, regret and anguish were also to be banished. 
 They possessed a truer image of the lost one than art 
 could render, and they blessed God. 
 
 An hour after, that father sat down in perfect com- 
 posure to his writing-desk. It was an old friend, and 
 had seen brighter days. At the side of it was a drawer 
 of some depth, which he frequently opened to take out 
 a particular seal that he required ; but it opened easily 
 only a httle way, just sufficient to admit the hand. 
 This, however, was enough, and as it had stuck fast 
 apparently with age, no effort had ever been made to 
 draw it out. But it so happened on this occasion that 
 the seal had fallen, as it had never done before, into a 
 cavity at the back of the desk, and it was now necessary 
 to pull the drawer further out. In working it back- 
 ward and forward to effect this, a short black ribbon 
 presently became Adsible, and then more of it; and, 
 now, the drawer being by a stronger effort forced 
 completely out 
 
 Powers of wonder ! of delight and awe ! what words 
 shall give expression to the instantaneous and irresis- 
 tible force with which ye seized upon the awakened and 
 ravished soul of the gazer ! The picture was there ! 
 the lost treasure was found ! 
 
 That very drawer he had opened times out of num- 
 ber; his hand had been within it almost daily for 
 years ; yes, close to the now -recovered prize ! the tangled
 
 402 TALK OF THE DEVIL 
 
 ribbon of which, set fast between the drawer's edge and 
 the desk, at once prevented a further opening and held 
 the miniatiire at the back. How flashed now upon the 
 father's recollection that he had taken it, eleven years 
 before, in his wretchedness and agony, from the old 
 cabinet to his own desk, and thrust it hastily into that 
 drawer, as some intruder came to witness the tears that 
 were streaming over it. How wonderful was all this ! 
 
 Where now was the mother's composure, when, 
 entering, she beheld her husband's delighted, yet mis- 
 beheving looks ! When she thought how often the 
 light was actually penetrating the drawer, while its 
 precious contents were still buried in darkness ! When 
 she remembered how very near the blind hand been to 
 it hundreds of times ! When she recollected above all, 
 that this loss, which two hearts had so lamented, had 
 never been the subject of one whisper between them for 
 eleven years, until that very morn, just an hour before ! 
 The allusion to it, so sudden, strange, and final; the 
 discovery so unexpected and momentary ! 
 
 But how was all this forgotten by both, as they 
 gazed together on the unfaded and expressive colours 
 before them, picturing features almost as radiant and 
 noble as the angel-face, which, with the gifted eyes of 
 faith, they never failed to see, when they searched the 
 heavens for ^t.
 
 403 
 
 THE CITY OF THE VIRTUES. 
 
 VIEW THE FIRST. 
 
 ♦ — 
 
 " Virtue could see to do what Virtue would, 
 
 By her own radiant Uglit " Milton. 
 
 Stopping, the other day, to admire, and also to 
 moralise upon, that splendid Gothic edifice, with all its 
 extensive and beautiful appurtenances, St. George's 
 Catholic Church, which has lately risen, a striking 
 monument of catholic spirit, on the Surrey side of the 
 broken-backed bridge at Westminster, on a spot inglo- 
 riously known as St. George's-fields, the eye naturally 
 wandered to the several other objects of interest con- 
 gregated around it. Charity, it would appear, had 
 made that once bare and melancholy district her 
 head-quarters, her favourite home, her best cultivated 
 domain. 
 
 In that region, acre after acre of ground is covered 
 with buildings, some magnificent, others simple but 
 befitting their object, erected for purposes of benevo- 
 lence, dedicated to the noblest uses, maintained with 
 unsparing liberality. Distinguished above all is Bethle- 
 hem Hospital, with its additional wings and well-kept 
 grounds. At a distance, about equal to the space which 
 the splendid hospital occupies, stands the Asylum for 
 Female Orphans. Adjoining the grounds of Bethlehem, 
 is the Refuge for the Houseless; opposite, stands the 
 excellent Philanthropic Institution ; at the corner, 
 stretching from one road to another, along a frontage 
 of considerable extent, is the beautiful new school for 
 the indigent Blind; facing one wing of that elegant
 
 404 THE CITY OF THE VIRTUES. 
 
 structure, is an unassuming but useful Dispensary ; at 
 a small distance from the other wing, rises the noble 
 pile of buildings recently completed by the British and 
 Foreign School Society ; and close by, humbler in their 
 pretension, are St. George's School, and the Southwark 
 Literary Institution. Within a stone's-throw, we reach 
 the Magdalen Hospital ; and the same space, not more, 
 separates us from another benevolent establishment, 
 the Freemason's Orphan Institution. 
 
 '^St. George's-fields" may not, at first, sound very 
 auspiciously. And yet, if desirous of impressing a 
 foreigner with a sense of the pre-eminent dignity and 
 grandeur of London, — though the Tower, and the 
 Abbey, and the other sights are marvellous fine things, 
 perhaps it might not be so injudicious to carry him into 
 the uncelebrated vicinity of the new Cathohc Church. 
 
 The reflection then ensued, " There is no ground in 
 England of equal extent that yields such a harvest of 
 benevolence. There is enough virtue around me to 
 atone for half the vice of this iniquitous capital. Yet 
 how often will the base and worthless, incapable even 
 of a generous thought, affect to deride this angel- work 
 as ostentation, and to stigmatise such charity as mere 
 fashion, or the pride of purse. Virtue is never re- 
 warded ! " 
 
 Thus musing, as I stood by the rails of Bethlehem, 
 perhaps it was that some power in the air, some subtle 
 influence from the interior of that institution stole over 
 my brain, — it is impossible to say, — but I began to per- 
 ceive a change gathering around me; the scene ceased to 
 retain its first forms and colours; London, in the space 
 of a few seconds, was wholly lost to me, like a town in 
 a dissolving view ; and I was transported in secrecy and 
 silence to the furthest possible point of the universe, to 
 a place called "The City of the Virtues."
 
 THE CITY OF THE VIRTUES. 405 
 
 The first impression upon my mind, after looking 
 around for a few moments in mute amazement, was, I 
 must confess, not at all favourable. There was a 
 \-isible propriety eveiywhere, that created a doubt 
 whether I ought not at once to turn out my toes and 
 get my hat brushed; and there was a general air of 
 dullness, there ^s no denying it, that rather made me 
 wish myself back again in \allanous London. But this 
 presently wore off ; there was so much to see, to inquire 
 and think about, that there was no leisure to be dull ; 
 and as for my own observance of the proprieties, I quite 
 forgot all about myself in the novelty of the objects 
 around. 
 
 In this city, vices, follies, misfortunes, miseries, had 
 place as they have elsewhere; but it was easy to see* 
 that there were fewer of them, and that the virtues so 
 greatly predominated as to be extremely common. It 
 was apparent, too, that there was considerable emulation, 
 competition it was called, pervading all ranks of society ; 
 and it required great exertion in goodness, and a con- 
 stant pressure upon the very loftiest sentiments of the 
 mind, to keep pace with the growing desire on all sides 
 to excel. Almost everybody was very good; but 
 the amiable determination of each to be, by hook 
 or by crook, better than his neighbom*, was the first 
 characteristic. 
 
 Delightful was it to look from street to street, and see 
 the spacious city thickly studded with charitable insti- 
 tutions, all conducted upon the handsome principle of a 
 total disregard to expense. At the various asylums for 
 the destitute, the inmates were all clothed and fed 
 according to usages prevalent in the station of life from 
 which they liJid fallen. I noticed an example in the 
 case of a very poor distressed fellow, who, having once 
 been lord mayor, was allowed a tureen of turtle soup
 
 406 THE CITY OF THE VIRTUES. 
 
 for liis supper. Some of these institutions^ when their 
 funds were low, added cold punch ; Avhich acted as a 
 stimulant to flagging subscribers, and distanced rival 
 establishments. 
 
 Bankruptcies were very frequent ; but they were gene- 
 rally traced to an unbounded exercise of benevolence, 
 to an instinct of kindness in the bankrupt, which had 
 prompted him to undertake the support of the families 
 of various deceased friends when incapable of maintain- 
 ing his own. The good-natured practice, so easy to 
 every man who has been taught to write, of putting his 
 name to bills for the accommodation of his neighbour, 
 was also generally followed; sometimes, as it appeared 
 to me, under circumstances of doubtful correctness, the 
 acceptor being honoured when the bill was not. But 
 the act, when most severely judged, was necessarily 
 brought within the large class of virtuous operations 
 known as amiable weaknesses, and perfection is not to 
 be expected everywhere. 
 
 It follows, from this, that good intentions, however 
 likely to end in ill results, went a very great way in the 
 City of the Virtues. Kindness of motive was pretty 
 sure, in all social and domestic arrangements, to prove 
 an excuse for mischief effected. When a citizen was 
 totally unable to do what was required of him, a promise 
 that he would not fail to do it on a certain day, given 
 touchingly and impressively, so as to kindle an innocent 
 delusion in the petitioner's mind, was held to cover all 
 deficiencies, and to be an infallible sign of sympathy and 
 good-will. 
 
 Although the promise was never fulfilled, the heart 
 had done its work nobly ; the hand only had failed, 
 and for the emptiness, the powerlessness of that, the 
 exalted impulses of its owner were of course not ac- 
 countable.
 
 THE CITY OF THE VIRTUES. 407 
 
 The same species of virtue was everywhere shown in 
 the desire of each man to praise, or, as in vicious cities 
 it would be called, to puff his fellow man. If you 
 hazarded an inquiry concerning somebody^s character, 
 truth had more tongues to exalt, than rumour, in a 
 ^dcious city, could have had to depreciate him. He was 
 " wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best ;" and if he turned 
 out to be fool or rogue, it was attributable to his innate 
 love of liberty, that told him he was free to change his 
 mind as often as he hked. If a housemaid was dis- 
 charged for intolerable uncleanliness, her mistress, when 
 people came to inquii*e respecting her quahties, found 
 out that the girl had just one faulty and only one, an 
 extravagant passion for soap. 
 
 Thus everybody gave everybody a good character, and 
 all looked as if they deserved it. The evil was — and the 
 whitest ^drtue may have a dark-complexioned progeny — 
 that these good-natured representations led to as good- 
 natured a reliance on them, and this, in its turn, to con- 
 sequences not at all promotive of good-nature. But if 
 it were an amiable weakness to assert, it was as amiable 
 a weakness to believe, and so everybody acted up to a 
 fiction which was as fair for one as for another. 
 
 This fiction was stark naked lying, no doubt ; an ex- 
 traordinary practice to find generally adopted in a city 
 of virtue ; but the good citizens called it by another 
 name, and declared that Virtue was in herself so insuf- 
 ferably bright, that it was impossible she could help 
 Avinking now and then. Although flattery, therefore, 
 was in continual request, it would have been scouted 
 under that name ; it was called philanthropy, or the 
 antidote to en\y and slander. It must be frankly 
 admitted here, that I had not been long among the 
 virtuous before the idea occun'ed to mc, that even de- 
 preciation might be a safer guide ; for it is difficult to 
 
 v/
 
 408 THE CITY OP THE VIRTUES. 
 
 deduct accurately from the account of flattery, but easy 
 to strike off from the opposite account nine-tenths on 
 the score of spite ; if nine are not enough, say ten- 
 tenths. 
 
 But it is time to advert to the principal peculiarity 
 in the government of the City of the Virtues, the chief 
 feature of its policy, its grand legislative distinction. 
 This was, the law which remained continually in full 
 force for giving Rewards to Virtue. There, as in other 
 states, vice was punished; there, as is not the case in 
 other states, virtue was rewarded. This is a novelty in 
 morals that deserves particular attention. 
 
 I found that any great deal of virtue which could be 
 clearly established in favour of a citizen was cognizable 
 by the law, and rewardable accordingly. The statutes 
 set forth the various degrees of amiability and heroism 
 which were liable to specific degrees of encouragement. 
 Thus, a citizen who had plunged into a caldron of 
 boiling lead to rescue human bfe imperilled by an acci- 
 dental fall into the same, was adjudged to have merited 
 the honoiu' of being supported for the rest of his life at 
 the charge of the state. So, too, the \artuous man who 
 should have become infected with the plague in his 
 attempt to cure another, was entitled to the attendance 
 of the state physician, and to have a palace allotted to 
 him for his future residence. 
 
 For smaller achievements in virtue, appropriate en- 
 couragements were decreed. I stepped into the public 
 court, and was witness to one or two judgments. A 
 gaunt, hungry lad, who had given his scrap of dinner to 
 a hale, ruddy veteran, whose dog had had nothing to 
 eat that day, was, on the case being clearly proved, 
 sentenced to three months residence in the mansion- 
 house, the last week of the period to be attended with 
 access to the wine-cellar. And an elderly lady, who
 
 THE CITY OF THE VIRTUES. 409 
 
 was proved to have always liad her oysters scolloped, to 
 avoid the barbarity of swallowing the innocents alive, X 
 was sentenced to eat a barrel of natives daily, and the 
 Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals pre- 
 sented her with a silver opener. 
 
 Virtue, of whatever order, was not its " own reward" 
 in that city. On the contrary, it was extremely well 
 paid, and always a valuable commodity. This was a 
 condition of things not to be contemplated by a moralist 
 without a passionate enthusiasm. 
 
 " Oh, vii'tuous community ! " I cried, " how unselfish, 
 how disinterested a view of humanity have you at length 
 afforded to my eyes ! Oh, laws ! framed for the express 
 reward of \'irtue, how unhke the laws under which I 
 have been living ! Oh, competition in benevolence and 
 magnanimity ! how unspeakably unlike the competition 
 prevalent in the society I have left ! Good, happy, 
 glorious citizens, realisers of the perfectibility which 
 has hitherto existed but in dreams, how ennobling and 
 rapturous a sight to witness the profitableness of virtue, 
 the high market-value of exalted sentiments, the benefits 
 you disinterestedly heap upon yourselves by making 
 sacrifices for others ! Virtue at last makes a good thing 
 of it, lolling in velvet, and crammed with venison ! " 
 
 THE CITY OF THE VIRTUES. 
 
 VIEW THE SECOND. 
 
 There was something in the spectacle of Virtue 
 rewarded l)y law that proved quite intoxicating, but in 
 so exemplary a community, sobriety Avas not long 
 absent ; and then I began to be sensible of a few con- 
 comitant circumstances which considerably qualified my 
 
 VOL. III. T 
 
 V
 
 4,10 THE CITY OF THE VIRTUES. 
 
 raptm-es. I admii-ed beyond measiu-e the aiixiety wliich 
 every one evinced to do some good deed, bnt -n-lien it 
 proved to be sucli a good morning's work, the admi- 
 ration lessened, and the wonder grew more intelligible 
 and familiar. ^Hien a good citizen, to shelter a large 
 family bm*nt out over the way, admitted them all into 
 his honse, and went, with his \vife, into lodgings, I was 
 lost in dehght to see people losing their neighbours 
 better than themselves ; but the sentence of the court, 
 I decreeing a handsome reward for this vii'tue, naturally 
 ' diminished my enthusiasm. The kind soul (bnt per- 
 haps he had never thought of this) had let his house 
 for the season at a high rent. 
 
 A poor object, so reduced as to be in danger of 
 perishing for want of seven and thi'eepence, was accosted 
 bv a strano;er, who, with tears in his eyes, instantly 
 paid the money, and then gloriously added half a crown, 
 making the mourner quite happy. It Avas a pleasant 
 deed to do, and not expensive; for a lucky piece of 
 chai-ity of that kind entitled the performer to a guinea 
 fi'om ojovernment. 
 
 When there was some great act of virtue to be accom- 
 plished, something unusually handsome to be done, it 
 made the soul swell with jo}-ful pride to behold hun- 
 di-eds easier to do the deed at an enonnous sacrifice ; 
 and what exultation was in the heart of the successful 
 competitor, when he had aU but ruined himself by his 
 goodness ! Yet the splendid recompense and the high 
 pubhc honour awarded when the case came to be heard 
 in coiu't, made the disinterestedness less dazzling, and 
 threw a disagreeable light upon the emulation. 
 
 The people were generally very virtuous, but then — 
 
 ^ my own virtue is candour — there was httle temptation 
 
 to be otherwise. The vicious people, decidedly the 
 
 miuority, were the uneducated, the unenhghtened !
 
 THE CITY OF THE AIRTUES. 411 
 
 they went blundering about in crime, could never get 
 on, and barelv made a living. Tbe cleverer folks fol- 
 lowed Yirtuej who scattered '^largess" liberally ; and 
 they, of course, made pretty pickings. 
 
 The system was at least open to this objection; that 
 it could not always appear whether the well-doer was 
 influenced more bv the certaiatv of train or the love of 
 good, since the one always attended upon the other. 
 Zeal for excellence, or for its reward, some would say, 
 was, moreover, carried occasionally into extremes ; and 
 in the City of the Virtues, Master Blifil would certainly 
 have been rewarded for letting Sophy's bird fly, on the 
 principle that " everything had a right to liberty';'' and 
 the squire, if he had possessed an estate there, would 
 have needed to look still more closely after those par- 
 tridges to whose emancipation he was unvirtuously 
 opposed. 
 
 Besides, the quid-pro-quo principle was more than 
 carried out. A man never scrupled to lend five pounds 
 very good-naturedly; but then he never hesitated to 
 borrow, in the handsomest manner, ten. A gentleman 
 declined to drag the destroyer of his domestic peace, 
 the stainer of that honour which was dear to him as his 
 own, into a court of law to wring ^"ile lucre from him ; 
 but then there was another court, in which a large 
 reward was decreed to brotherly forgiveness and Chris- 
 tian forbearance, under all such circumstances. 
 
 I was confirmed in the impression that many amongst 
 the virtuous community were not perfect Howards, by 
 the disappointment and vexation they plainly evinced 
 when, in the course of a morning's rounds, they had 
 met with no case of peculiar misery and distress. Xot 
 to find a fellow-creature pining in the last stage of suf- 
 fering, reduced to utter anguish and despair, was to be
 
 412 THE CITY OF THE VIRTUES. 
 
 quite out of luck, and discontent was visible upon the 
 countenance when such a dearth of calamities M^as 
 mentioned. 
 
 * Their feeling seemed to be exactly that of the apo- 
 thecary in a remarkably healthy season, or of an 
 attorney when litigation has taken leave of his part of 
 the country for a term. But they became as merry as 
 larks when they again met with a misery or two that 
 they could relieve ; and were as watchful for cases of 
 real affliction as undertakers for future favours. Fire- 
 engines are not more rapid on the road to a conflagra- 
 tion, than they were on the rush to a scene of calamity 
 and devastation ; but a suspicion certainly would steal 
 in, that the scale of rewards had something to do with 
 the zeal to outstrip and be foremost. 
 
 When troubles were scarce, and wrongs admitting of 
 redress by the exercise of a noble generosity were not 
 to be found, the exclamation of the virtuous Roman, 
 " I have lost a day," was heard in a hundred places ; 
 but I could not help thinking, that it was uttered 
 in a tone implying that everything was going out and 
 nothing coming in. Virtue received no wages that 
 day, having nothing on earth to do. 
 
 In very hard times, the performance of simple duties, 
 such as sheltering a destitute parent, or taking a sick 
 grandmother to the sea-side, was obliged to be fui-bished 
 up into a virtue, and made as rewardable as possible. 
 But in the higher ranks of the virtuous, this was held 
 to be rather shabby and undignified, and was only 
 resorted to by persons in straitened circumstances of 
 morality. 
 
 As I looked on and mingled in free intercoiu'se with 
 the citizens, I grew less and less in love with the virtue 
 that has always before it, not the prospect merely, but
 
 THE CITY OF THE VIRTUES. 413 
 
 the certainty of reward ; and secretly felt assured that 
 the old system, under which virtue was rarely rewarded 
 but frequently punished, was after all more favourable 
 to its growth and prosperity, its strength, its beauty, 
 and its permanence. 
 
 It would be pleasant, I felt, to see some man of pre- 
 eminent virtue disappointed of his reward; to see it 
 withheld by law, stopped by a quibble. How would he 
 act under the consciousness of having done good gra- 
 tuitously? The ^dsh was no sooner formed than, 
 entering the Court of Reward, I became a witness of 
 the very event. 
 
 It appeared that a man of virtue, thrice-tried and 
 purified beyond all suspicion of alloy, had become 
 accidentally cognizant of the desperate attempt of a 
 burglar to break from prison. The felon was wedged 
 between iron bars, jammed, choked, and almost cut in 
 two, unable either to go back or get out. The good 
 man could thrust him in, or drag him forth. He halted 
 between justice and generosity ; between a mere com- 
 mon dutv, and an act of exalted virtue. The felon at 
 that critical moment prayed for liberty — liberty to go 
 in penitence, and receive, before he died, the blessing 
 of an aged heart-broken father. The good man hastily 
 weiglied both sides of the case ; the capture of the felon 
 was the proper operation of the law, but the aiding in 
 his escape, thus far advanced, was a heroism bej^ond the 
 law — a justice more than legal. With a soft heart and 
 a hard hand he dragged into freedom the repentant 
 burglar, who broke that very night into the house of 
 the judge who was to have tried him. But the virtuous 
 deed was not therefore tarnished, although the bright- 
 ness of the judge^s tea-service and the beauty of his 
 wife's jewel-case were gone. Justice, however, never
 
 414 THE CITY OF THE VIRTUES. 
 
 large-minded, like Generosity, confounded the two 
 things, and peremptorily refused to concede to the good 
 man the reward of virtue. 
 
 This being the posture of affairs, the court adjourned, 
 and the cause was carried up, amidst great excitement, 
 to the legislature (where the Virtues were sitting in 
 general assembly), to be decided by a committee of the 
 whole house. 
 
 Justice was in the chair (there was of course no Vice), 
 and the case, Avith all the evidence on both sides, ha^dng 
 been read at length, several of the Virtues rose at the 
 same instant to speak to the question. From that 
 moment, which was the beginning of the debate, the 
 scene was one of such confusion, turbulence, and dis- 
 order, that to report the proceedings accurately is 
 impossible. Better be in the house of — but no matter. 
 
 Meekness was the first to fall into a rage, and to 
 swear loudly, on being called to order ; this had nearly 
 caused an adjournment. Charity began by fiercely im- 
 peaching the motives of the judge as grossly corrupt ; 
 and Amity, who had quarrelled with the judge's wife, 
 laid to her the sole blame; the lady, she said, was 
 influenced by Vanity, to whom the stolen trinkets really 
 belonged. Honesty thought that an equitable adjust- 
 ment might be come to, by selling the property stolen 
 by the felon, and giving the money to his liberator. 
 Economy could not see the absolute necessity for the 
 reward at all, and suggested a large discount if it were 
 given. Disinterestedness was convinced that the delay 
 of the payment would be the ruin of their city, for who 
 would ever think of practising the virtues if they were 
 to get nothing by them ! Temperance tried to articu- 
 late a few words, but being out of condition by reason 
 of some mistake on the previous evening, failed; and
 
 THE CITY OF THE VIRTUES. 
 
 415 
 
 then S}Tnpatliy rose to declare, that all the parties in 
 this suit were rightly served, and for her part she was 
 glad of it. Peace suggested a motion for a new trial ; 
 and Conciliation trusted there would be no disposition 
 to compromise the affair manifested on either side. 
 Hope was quite au desespoir with respect to the whole 
 business; and Faith could not see her way in the matter, 
 for she could trust nobody. Mercv thought the felon 
 ought to be hanged without trial. Pity protested that 
 his deliverer deserved to be roasted at a slow fire ; and 
 Gratitude, though admitting that the judge had con- 
 ferred lasting obligations on the State, abhorred the 
 retrospective doctrine of taking past service into account, 
 and voted that he should be cashiered. 
 
 To this effect (only the speakers were for the greater 
 portion of the time all talking together) the proceedings 
 were carried on; and the assembly broke up at last 
 without settling anything. Hospitality having incited 
 them all to luncheon (toast-and-water, with egg- 
 sandwiches) . 
 
 Though I could not boast of the honour of a very 
 intimate acquaintance with many of these Virtues, yet 
 some I knew well enough to avoid them. From such 
 an ill-mannered and mercenary set, it was a relief to 
 escape into the air; where, long before the shades of 
 evening fell, I had seen and heard enougli to couAince 
 me that the disciples were worthy of the divinities, and 
 that if the Virtues had been devils they would have had 
 an equal number of devotees for the same money. 
 Whatever was " rewarded," the good amiable citizens 
 would have zealously practised, from petty larceny up 
 to high treason. 
 
 Oh ! for a mail-train back to the old vicious city, 
 where virtue is its own reward ! Its fine, gay, bold-
 
 416 THE CITY OF THE VIRTUES. 
 
 faced villany does not always sicken, though it shocks 
 \ one ; above all, it never makes one despair : but the 
 neighbourhood of these mercenaries and hypocrites^ 
 whose virtue isrewardedby law, is insufferably pernicious, 
 and the caitiffs are as odious to taste as to moralitj^ ! 
 
 PINTS. 
 
 LONDON : 
 BRADBURV AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEKRIARS. 
 
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