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UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA \ | J
AT LOS ANGELES ' I

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SOUTHERN BRANCH

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA

LIBRARY

I OS ANGELES. CALIF.

THE WoKKS

POUGLAS JERROLD.

DN- Eradt'irv .i: Evans :i Bo'jverie Street 2 r

THE WORKS

DOUGLAS JEEROLD.

WITH LIFK BY W. BLANCIIARD JERROLD,

IN FIVE VOLUMES.
VOLUME 1.

CONTAISIKO

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES, AND PUNCH'S LETTERS TO

HIS SON.

^ 5 i ^ 9

LONDON :
BRADBURY, AGXKW, & CO., 10, BOUYERIE STREET.

LAX DOS :
BKXCBVRT, i.CNKW, k CO., PHIS.CHr., WHr;KrRIARS

INTRODITTORY ME^rOTR.

A BTOORAPHICAL introduction to tho collected writings of a
working; man of letters is useful, often, as explaining many of
thi- oluimctoristics of tho author's mind, und how he reached tho
tit'lds in wliich he fed his imaj^iuation, or built up his theories.
There is pleasure in ti-acing tho thread of his own life, that,
whetJier thin as spider's silk, or broad ' and clear, the author
draws tlu"ough his ^^Titings. "VN'e appear to gain a personal
actiuaintanco with the man whose pen has charmed us, or has
taught us wisdom, I believe that this is the chief reason why
tho lives of literaiy men, even when most uneventful, are
welcome to the public. Headers are delighted to learn how the
man who, fiom his silent study, so long entranced them,
appeaj-ed in his slippera. Did he eat, and drink, and sleep like
otlier men ? He had genius : what, then, were his eccen-
tricities ? For — authors shall spend the most humdrum lives,
living on roast and boiled duly paid for ; reading at the club ;
and keeping aU the business of their days by double entry ; and
it shall still be some time before their readers will believe that
a man may be a genius, and have no more ecceutiicity than a
city banker. There are crowds of people who hold that a gi-eat
scientific thinker must, of necessity, use a lady's finger as a
tobacco-stopper. I remember sitting, at a continental table
d'hote, neai- an enthusiastic family, who were thrown into a

INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.

condition of dangerous mental excitomont, by the arrival of »
quiet, gentlemanly man ; who took his scat at the lower end
of the table, and talked easily and cheerfully to his neighboui-s.
They had discovered that he was the groat Mr. Blank, whose
last novel they had been reatliug. Every car was stretchetl to
catch Mr. Blank's lightest word. But Mi-. Blank, having arrived
with a good appetite, confined his convei-sation to the merits of
the dinner, with a passing allusion to the ])robablo state of the
weather; and, his diiuier over, lighted a cigar in the court-yard,
and walked smarily away — to the port.

" "Who would have thought that was the great Mr. Blank ? "
cried the enthusiastic family. " ^^'hy, ho might have been Mr.
Brown or Jones I"

The difficultj' is to persuade enthusiastic readers, that
most modern men of letters have the appeai-ance and
manners of ordinaiy English gentlemen; and never go to
baUs or routs in shooting jackets, nor wear thtii- hair curled
to the waist.

A traveller early on his waj' to Richmond, passing over the
then picturesque heath of I'utney, some ten years ago, in the
summer time; would piobably see, by the gipsies' tent, a short
gentleman, with wild iron-grey hair peeping from under his
straw hat ; a sharp, bright eye ; and a lip with mocking comers
to it; chatteiing with the gipsies, who would lie upon the gi-ass,
shielding their eyes fiom the sun, with their rhc'^tuut hands ;
and laugh at their neighbour from the smig Lodge yoniler, cur-
tained in lime-trees, and musical -with a little farm-yard at the
back. I am sure the stranger would hardly have paused to
listen to the badinage, nor to mark a point of eccenhicity in the
owner of the Lodge. I am quite cei-tain the gipsies themselves,
who were old fiiends and neighboui-s of DougLis JeiTold, never
saw anything more in him than a lively gentleman, who was
very fond of early morning on the heath ; who appeared to love
the yellow furze very much, and pick it veiy often, and hold it
apparently with gieat pleasuie between hi^ lips, while, bending

IXTUOnUCTORY MEMOIR, tii

himself Lack, a litllo painfully, leaning on Lis stick, he ■watched
tho riky-pi onii.-<es of tlio opening day.

A man ©f tho simplest habits ; with tho natmo of childhood
as fiosh in him in his liftioth year as when he first looked over
the broad sea from a Shocrness garret, and saw tho great war-
ships dip under tho hoiizon — going, ho longed to know whither.
My father, the subjot't of this memoir, would have been remarked
anywhere, not for an eccentricity, but for a simple freshness of
maimer ; the manner of a country gt-utlumnn brightoufnl by tho
seu. All liis life the boy shone through the man. The laugh
remaincnl cluar and loud ; tho spirit free and adventurous ; the
mind as bent ujion tho realisation of shining dreams, as in the
days when two boys, unknown to fame, stood out of tho rain
under a London doorway, dreaming of the gallant things tliey
Would do, under Luixl Bj'hmi, in behalf of the Greeks. Since
thoso young soldiers of Indcpendonco, who wore to have be-
come voluuteei-s Douglas William Jerrold and Samuel Lamau
lilanchmxl, dreamed that glorious ilivam in tlie niin and fog of
London ; tho lives of both have been fought in the fields of
literature, far away fi-om Groeco !

The time and atmosphere in which my father was bom and
spent his youth, were calculated to give him that free, gtdlant,
and cheerful spirit wliich appeared, in after life, too strong and
impetuous for the slight, weak frame in wliich it was housed.
He T%-as bom in London, on tho 3rd of Januan,-, 1S03 ; but his
fijst recollections were of Sheemess, where his father ownetl and
managed a tlieatre. In those days, war made Shecmci^s a lively
place to live in. To a boy of quick imagination, the ti-amp
of the gallant old salts thi-ough the streets, the brave Lord
Cochrane among them, and their rough stories of their ex-
ploits ; with the ships i-oaiing their salutes, and the press-gangs
kidnapping more food for powder ; life in the old soa-port must
have had endless attractions. Then there was his father's
theatre, v.ith its scenic wonders, amid which my father actually
a}^peared more than once, canied on by Edmund Kean, in Eolla,

viu INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.

Being early a gi'oedy reader, his mind strengthened soon, fed
from w-ithiu and without. His Christmas piece and the book
his baby-hands held, and over the pages of which his great blue
eyes wandered; are treasures we, who belonged to him, reverently
keep, to remind us of the mere flash of childhood ho enjoyed.

In December, 1813, a slight, frail child was carried on board
the Namur guard-ship at the Xore, to become a midshipman in
the service of the king I A l>oy for the captain's lady to pet,
not for the hoarse throat of Mai-s to thunder at! But these
children in uniform had the blood of the gentle and brave in
thom ; and it was a good sight to behold how pmudly they
sported the du-k, and bore theii* duties, while their mothers
were mournful in the empty nursery. Childhood was gone, to
thom. Among these my father stood, through the influence of
Captain Austin, relative of the novelist, and met a brave sailor on
the ship^who has since, with a master's hand, painted the sea
he once sailed — Clarkson Stanfield. In those rough dajT? of the
olTl war, a young gentleman on board one of the king's ships,
did not lie on a bed of roses. The discipline was hanl, and the
kicks were many. They sickened, and I have no doubt well
nigh broke the hearts of crowds of dehcato boys. Wliat a story
for the cock-pit must my father's grandmother have uncon-
sciously made, when she sent to the captain, to beg that her dear
young Douglas might be allowed to wear pattens on the sloppy
decks ! Dear Douglas must, on his side, pray to be transferred
to a ship that was something more than a log anchored at the
Kore. He touched his hat to the captain, and begged to be
sent to gloiy. His petition was granted, and ho went to the
Ernest, gun-brig ; and dipped, in his turn, under the horizon
he had watched from his Sheemess nursery. Of the war he saw
nought, save its last horror. The ship in which ho sailed, con-
veyed troops to Belgium for Waterloo, and brought back a cargo
of wounded. He has described the gim-brig in Jack Eunny-
mede. This last service in which our young midshipman was
engaged, was a hon-or that lived ever after in his mind, and

INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. ix

tinchircd all his thoughts of war. When ho mot a parado of
laiui'ls. his mind tlcw buck to the gory stumiw he usi'd to see
dics*!i'd of mornings, as he sailed fi'om the Belgian coast, with a
cargo of heroes. A bi-aver spiiit never stood ; and he has boon
heoi-d to say, glowing with his memorios of the sea, that, had
he been somewhat tullcr and sti-ongor, he would have been
heard of fi-om Bntish oak ; bnt the normal state of my father's
mind was one of disgust for B<ildieiang. Although a man of com-
bativo temporamont, and (juite proj>arod to give his sons a lesson
in boxing; ho could not but bo won thi-ough his imuginution,
that loved the hannouies of nature, to the quiet and Chiislian
gl<iries of peace.

Uo brouglit fi-om his ship, when ho was put ashore at Sheoracss
after the peace, a love of the salt water and of salt water heroes,
that possessed him to his death. It apj)eared to bnvce and
strengthen his mind, and to intensify his wit. It gave him that
8tix)ng manliness which triumphwl over the feebleness and sj>are-
noss of his boily, and made his presence redoubtable, lie
flashoti his sjivings across the table, aa from a port hole ; and
everybody remembered, there was a gallant little gimner in
company, who had more powder and shot at hand.

He needed all the strength and couiage he could biing from
the sea to London, on that chill new year's daj-, 1816, when ha
landed from the Chatham boat. His father was now a man ot
broken forttme, from whose exertions there was little more to
hope. Alone with his father, the ex-midshijiman tasted what
sharp food Poverty offers to the adventuiei"s who meet her, in
Loudon. He turned to a printing office, and brought to his
father the little monej- he could earn. They shared it in the
court "where they lived ; and saved enough to hire volumes of
Walter Scott to read. There can be no doubt in the minds of
men who knew my father intimately, that his early days in
London gave a bitterness to his mind, which would burst out
from time to time. He abhorred tyi-anny ; he passionately
hated injustice ; and his attacks were vehement when a tjTant

X INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.

appeared, or an imjust thing was done. Thiongli the j-onngor
liali" of his lilb ho suffered much, llo was galled by hard task-
masters, and buffeted nidoly by men whom he despised. When
he had emancipated himself (while he wa.s yet a boy) from the
diudgcry of a printing-office, to which he was not bom, and for
which the position of " otHcer and gentleman " in the king's
ser\-ice had not fitted him — he sought to live by his pen. Men
who knew him in those his boyish days, attest how braveh' ho
fought, with his head higli, and a resolve in his heart that never
forsook him. Tho labour ho performed was so great, aiul was so
broadly spread, that it has become impossible to trace all of it.
Scraps of poetry, squibs, cb-amatic criticisms, and diinnatic pieces
of aU descriptions, flowed from his pen ; but brought no great
supply of grist to tho mill ; — antl giist was wanted.

In his twenty-fii-st year, my father had married Miss ^faiy Ann
Swann of Wetherby, in Yorkshii'c ; and his friend Blanchard
had duly cxjngiatulated him in verso. A young fanxily wa-s in-
creasing his responsibilities. Tho giist must come therefore ;
and so, he struck his bargains in fetters. His pieces made suc-
cesses on tho boards of tlie minor tlioatres; and tho scene-
painters received more money than the author. lie ha<l to
deal with dishonourable men, wlio would never give him his
due. "What wonder, then, if, now and tlien, he impaled a
scoundrel on "tho wasp's edge of an epigram"? His dear
friend Laman Blanchard, who was tho more fortunate of the
two, in eai-ly times, would sing to him —

" The time sball be

When men shall find a music in thy name" —

but he wanted now, what success should bring to wife and
childi-en. It was unfortunate that chance thiew him in the
way of bad men, who duped him when he was generous to
them ; and cheated him, when they professed to serve him. If
I insist upon this eaiiy and comparatively obscvu'o pai-t of his
cai'eer, it is because it explains a phase of his mind, and the

HsTRODT'CTORY JFEMOIR. xi

intousitj' of his passion -nhcn, in later days, ho took up tiio
cudjrt-'ls of the poor ami defenceless. Eichtor has said, "It is
long ere ihe wmiiitls inflicted by an unjust man are healed."

My father's first success, that made his name kno-vni in London,
was his nautical (biinia entitled, "■' Black- Eije'd Stisan:" an inspira-
tion brought ■n-ith him, like liieutenant Tackle, Cai)tain Channel,
and otherH, from tho sea. In after lifo ho was not proud of
its authoi-ship — being rich in Ijettor, that is, in higher, things.
Tho nautical drama holds the stage, however, because it has strong
human interest in it. Its jiathos goes quite round tho house.
Its jollity tastes of the salt ; and the British pubUc reUsh tho
rough jargon fi-om before tho mast. Actor and manager made
a fortune by it. Mr. T. P. Cooko was on tho point of being
hanged from a yanl-ann, at the Sui-rey and Driu-y Lane
theati'es, eveiy evening. Money was turned from tho box offices :
but only a few jwunds fi-om tho groaning exchequer reached
the author's pocket. He gained reputation, however ; this no
manager could take fiom him : and still, with unabated corn-age,
he \^Tf>te for tho minor theatri* — making his way steadilj', but
with toil and trouble, to Covent Gai'den and Di-urj- Lane.

And all this time he was educating himself. He would have hi;*
fij-e laid over-night, and rise by candle-light on winter's morn-
ings, to read his Latin and French ; and to make read}' for his
Itaban master (he still lives in Boulogne to tell the stoiy), who
was to come presently. He retid all the old dramatists and
poets ; and he was not content until ho could enjoy Eabelais
easily in the original. He was a diligent student of Jeremy
Taylor, and an enthusiastic Shakspearian. He worshijiped the
genius of the Bai-d of Avon, and bade every young man read
his Bible and his Shakspeare. Wit like his belongs to a serioas ^"^-^
mind.* ^NTiere other men saw only a black hole in the bottoai

* " I am convinced that tbe world will get tired (at least I hope so,) of
this eternal guffaw at all things. After all, life has something serious in
it. It cannot be all a comic history of humanity. Some men would, I

xii INTRODUCTORY MKMOIR.

of the well, he caught a sparkle from the water. It is the
privilege of the dull to sneer at wits, as shallow, or, at least,
not learned men. He never condescended to be a mere comic
talker ; and when he was expected to shine, was sUent. He had
a respect for that which was deeper in him than his wit. The
poetic germ that bubbletl up in him, was that which he cherished,
and was at pains to cultivate through his life. He used hia
force as a satiiist with a will, because by it he could best chas-
tise those he deemed to be political or social wrong-doors. He
had felt all the poor feel, with the acutoness of an exquisitely
sensitive nature. He was a liberal by instinct, and the acci-
dents of his life had sharpened this instinct, by proving to him
that it was good. No man ever had less of the agitator in him.
The coarse forms — not to say company — which were the belong-
ings of Chartists and demagogues in his time, were detestable
to him. His was a piu-e literaiy mind, that was satisfied to
I dwell in literature for ever ; and never sought for power beyond
the library.

Aly father had strong political feelings which came from a heart
that had suffered much. Ho grew serious in windy weather,
because he had sailed the stormy seas. All the powers he
had in him were in battle array in a moment, when a great
calamity had happened, or a grievous wrong had been com-
mitted. He did not coolly divide the question into three heads,
and examine each : he pouied out that which he deemed to btt
the truth in him. It would be impossible to evolve a political
sj'stem from his newspaper wiitings : but they abound in bits
of most eloquent, pleading for the helpless and the oppressed
The Corn-laws did not appear to him as they would appear to
the editor of the "Economist." He simply called for a big

believe, write the comic Sermon on the Mount. Think of a c<imic History
of England ; the drollery of Alfred ; the fun of Sir Thomas More in the
Tower; the farce of his daughter begging the dead head, and clasping it
in her coffin, on her bosom. Surely the world will be sick of this blas-
phemy." — Letter to CharUi Dickcna.

INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xiu

froe-trado loaf for the workman's cupboard, instead of the
little protection loaf, which was to keep the children hun<,Ty
and rent* high. In this way he was the fiiend of the tenant
and not of the landlord, seeing that the latter was quite able
to protect his rights, and was not unlikely to get a little more
than his ju.st due. Tlius " The Rent Day," is as political as any
of his leading articles.

And so the gallant spiiit that was in the sailor-boy — that
chafed at the idleness of a guurd-ship^remove<l to London,
did battle with poverty, and amended the faults of a most
limited education. It would not be subdued, nor wander fi-om
its object. The spirit was pliant withal — springing up euijily
after a trial, and facing the world for more punishment. Gentle
Ijaman Blanchai-d, in some letters I have, reproves the haste
and temper with which my father was getting his 'vantage
ground ; and in thiis letter the difference in the temperaments
cjf the two men whoso mutual friendship sweetened the lives of
both, is manifest. I see the two figuies before me. The one
with a fiery eye, a dilated nostril, a finn Napier face, with wild
hair over it ; the other placid, quiet, and with a beauty almost
feminine. The two men must have appioached each other from
opix)site ends of the earth : the one fiery, and resolute to con-
quer — the other calm, content to wait, and to do some other
day, when the sun is brighter. They quarrelled, like children,
about the waj- of the world ; and they parted for a time, be-
cause they could not meet like men who have a coolness — and
are stiU on speaking terms. The daiing and impatience of the
one, shook the nerves of the other. Blanchard gently sang that
the day when the world would find ' ' a music " in his friend's
name, was to come ; and his friend was not patient enough.

Through a series of circumstances on which it is not needful
to dwell ; where friends were false and the victim was too trustful ;
my father passed, even when his name was known, through
trials, in which it was difficult not to be a little at war with the
world. He afibrded help to men who proved thankless and

xiv INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR,

•

(lishonest ; and years of work at hia desk, paid tho penalty of his
indiscretion. lie was geneious to a fault ; and gavo where it
was almost foolish to give. It wius a hearty way with him to
accede to any request made on his piu-se, his intluence, or his
time. And when he found ho liad boon cheated of his sjnnpathy,
ho was roused to fuiy. With all his penetration and liLs exjie-
lieuce of the world, which ho beg-.in to learn roughly as he
stepped from his cradle, no man was more casUy imj^oscd on.
A\'hon a stranger advanced into liis presence, ho Wgan by believing
him ; and so, half tho stranger's point vras gained at tho outset.
The begging-lottor imiwstor found an oa-sy dupe in liim. Ue
had the revenge of paiuting a few of his enemies; but they were
dear models. In the hard times of his life, most of his minor
])ieces, as 'I'ht Schoof/dloifs, Doves in a Cage, The Hazard of the
X)ie, Nell Otri/nne, The Uuuscktrpcr, the Wedding Goufn, and the
one-act tragedy called The Painter of Ghent (in which, for a few
nights, ho tried his fortune on tho stage), these and a host of
others, wore ]iroduccd. In thoso years also he wrote dramatic
criticisms and leadei*s for tho Morning Herald; stories and
articles for tho annuals; maga/ino pajiere, for Blackwood, &c.,
some of which were coUectoil into throe volumes, entitled Men
of Cliarader ; he edited and contributed largely to The Heads oj
the People ; and he made a second collection of magay.iue articles
imder the title of Cal:es and Ale. These great literary activities
gave him an acknowledgetl position among the known writers
of the day ; but still his fame m^ight be said to rest mainly on
his successful contiibutions to the stage. He had, indeed,
founded a domestic di-ama, of which he said — " it is a small
thing, but mine o-wn." That impatience which, as I have
i-cmaiked, always manifested itself in him, when there was a
wrong to be set right; led him to take an active pai-t in the
oontcntiou against the monopoly of the patent theatres, and in
behalf of the rights of dramatic authoi-s.

It was when " Eunch." was stai-ted, in the year 1841, whole
my father was at Boulogne, tiiat~a~pei-iiia3ient channel, most

INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xr

happily and comjilotoly adaptod to liis gonius, ■was fii-st opened
to it. His vdt, bis pas-sion, hig quain tngs-ses — all the loims in
which he atnigliF to commiuiicato Liniseli' to tho world, and bo
imderstood by it at last, would hero find a place. Tho hoarti-
ness with which ho threw hiuuielf into what was almost a new
life to him, was characteristic. lie saw all tho doveli>pmt'n;8
hi^ now friend with tho hunch, miifht tuko. llo mi<,'ht bo
wild biiHiHin, or a wise fool, in liis genomtion. " Punch'
wivs not int<>ndeil to bo a merely comic porimlicul. "Punch"
was to be a grave philo><opher, a tender nnnancist. Ho
should have his jxilitical stixmffth. He" sLovild brinj? his wit
and humour and sjitiro, to bear ui>on \ 1.

Tho i-apid hold which tho now world-rcu<>\viiL-d uud most
puissjmt " Punch," took of the British imljio, fairly astonished
all tho heaN*)' -wnseacres who had fcittold the speedy discomfiture
of a mountobank. Tho cap and bells wero fitted uiMin wiso
h-'uds : thi- fooling was not purjKiseless, and was oven learned.
The hunchback had been removed from the street-corner to tho
drawing-rfK>m. and the libraiy ; and might bo seen in tho palace
tho Sovereign, and in the cabinet of the premier. Ho was a
1^,1 Jef — a relaxation— a new stimulant to griave professors and
faa.»ed students. Just as men whose lives are spent in grave
pursuits that stretch the intellect to its extremest tension, run
away from the labomtory, or the study, or the studio, to some
club whei-e thev will see theii- fellow-workers roaring like lions,
and wagging their tails (being members of the British Lions^^ —
so reverend readers and lecturers, pacing tho quiet quadfangles
of ancient colleges, found "Punch" a right welcome hour's
laughter once a week.

From the establishment of "Punch" to within one week of
his death, my father was an incessant contiibutor to it. Into
its columns he ^ured an infinite vaiiety of quaint papers,
satires, stories, essays, humorous and grave, and facetife and
mot;!, by the hundi-cd. "Punch" gave his mind a holiday,
Tvherc it covdd play freely. Here was a public channel for th^

x„ INTRODUCTORY MEilOIR.

sudden thought, the spontaneous joke, and all the ideas to
vhich the parsing events gave rise, at the reiuling of the morning
paper. He had a storehouse, whore he could depoeiit all the
li"htcr play of his rich fancy ; and save for others, tho pual« of
laughter that were, before Mi-. Punch came into the field,
reserved for his friends.

Tlie first series of contributions in which he was of undoubted
value to the rising fame of " l^ulch," were those which wei-e
signed " Q." These are a most fanciful, vigorous, pungent,
and sarcastic set of political squibs. They stir tho blood, and
provoke the laugh ; aye, and attune the mind to ihoughlfe tliat
have no laughter in them. They wore written in fine Saxon
English ; and went home to the hearts of IhoiLsands. Some were
thunderbolts which Mr. rundi sent with his comi>limcut.s to
enemies of tho people, and puneyors of shams, and uncon-
scionable pluralists, and to tho martinets who held up tho cat-o'-
uine-tails as real commander-in-chief of Her Majesty's forces.
Othei-8 were shai-p lancc-thrusts at bigots and noodles. I make
no doubt, however, that many holo-and-comer politicians of the
day, decided that they ditin't go far enough. There ai-e men who
would look uj)on a leader who should head the mob into the •wine
cellars of Buckingham Palace, as a mere trimmer who had only
made a feint in the right ilirection. There aie extreme men
tacked to all political parties : and these hate the moderate and
rational men of theii- own party, with a deeper hatred than they
bear to their poUtical opponents. I remember a wild democrat
of the famous 10th of Apxil, who was disgusted, and declared he
desj)aired of the Liberal party, when some i-ational men whom
ho addressed, declined to help him in getting up an organisation,
the object of which was to blow up Westminster Bridge by penny
Bubscriptions !

The opening of the Punch campaign — where Mr. Punch's
political creed was explained to the British public — was hinged
ui)on the celebrated Bed-chamber plot. My father's first con
tiibution to the new periodical appealed on the 13th of September,

INTR01?UCT0RY MEMOIR. xvu

1841, and was entitled " Peel Eogulaily Called In." My father
had been a passionate reader of natui-al history always (ho had
a copy of Buffon with him on board the Namur), and in this
article, and in a hundi-ed others, ho turned this reading to witty
account. Le Vaillaiit speaks of a turtle that continued to live
after its brain was taken from its skull, and the cavity' etufl'ed
with cotton. " Is not," says " Q.," " England, with 6i)inuing-
jenny Peel at the head of its affairs, in this precise pretiicainent !' "
The Tories were giving themselves a new name ; and " Q." writes,
" When adders shall become eels, then will wo believe that Con-
eer\-atives cannot be Tories." The times in which these papers
were begun and continued, were bigwith events : and great changes
impended at home. It was a time when Toryism was powerful ;
and my father could sjn-ak in his own way, that which he knew
£i"om his heait, aye, and fixmi his sufToring. It is almost incon-
ceivable that so shrewd a man as the late Duke of Wellington
should have said, in hard times too, that even;- poor man, if only
"sober and indnstrious," was " quite cei-tain " of acquiring a
comi>etency, — a monstrous assertion to make of any countiy on
the lace of the earth. My father's pen was dipped in gall most~
wholesomely bitter. He declared that if this were the Duke's
bebef, he knew no more of England than the Icelander in his
sledge. This was hard hitting; but a calumny as heartless as
it was absurd had been spoken of the sufifeiing thousands who
were in the United Kingdom. "Q." concludes, in no mood to
mince matters, " Gentlemen Tories, shuffle the cai-ds as you
will, the Duke of Wellington either lacks principle or brains."
The reader who should be at the trouble of following these
papers through "Punch," as the daily newspapers suggested
subjects to " Q,.," will see how closely the man and the author
stood together ; and how the strength was always put forth for
Hie weak side. The picture of pure Christianity in London, for
one day, is in my father's happiest manner. Dr. Chalmers
would have nought to do with getting a big loaf for the poor ;
ne was for " universaLChristian education for the poor." " Q."
VOL. I. , b

xviii INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.

applied the doctor's tost. Everybody has been made, or is to be
made, a practising Christian. The bench of bishops meet at
Lambeth Palace, and — " discovering that locusts and wild honey
-^the Baptist's diet — may be purchased for something less than
ten thousand a-year — and after a minute investigation of the
Testament, failing to discover the name of St. Peter's coach-
maker, or of St. Paul's footman, his valet, or his cook, tako
counsel one with another, and resolve to forego at least nine-
tenths of their yearly incomings." A Christian Sunday I " Had
one page," "Q." writes, " t^n thousand times its amplitude, it
would not contain the briefest register of the changes of that
day." " Q." concludes with Doctor Chalmers : " We ore with
Dr. Chalmers for Christianity, but not Christianity of one »iJe."
There are whimsical as well as solemn papers. The masons
who were building the Houses of Parliamt'nt, struck during a
distress. Q. suggested that the membera should build their
own roof, like beavers. Shall cuckoos and members of Parlia-
ment alone be lodged at others' pains ? Follow some humorous
suggestions. As — Sir James Graham would do the dove-tailing.
Disraeli was to do the light interior work. "Ilis logic, it is
confessed, will support nothing ; but we think he would bo a
veiy smart hand at a hat-peg." The article on Politics of the
Outward Man — a propos of some fashionable reporter's sneers
at fustian-coated men, »S:c., is full of indignation most forcibly
expressed. Man's covering — " the livory of original sin, bought
with the pilfered apples — is worn into a hole ; and Opinion,
that sour-breathed hag, claps her blue lips to the broken web,
gives a puff, and out goes man's immortal spark ! From this
moment the creature is but a carcass " — that can work. Poor
Sir Peter Laurie's woful mistakes and persevering blunders, did
not escape the satirist. The opening fire is heavy. " Q." has no
more thought of dodicating a whole page of "Punch "to one Sir
Peter Lamie than the Zoological Mr. Cross would think of
devoting an acre of his gardens to one ass, simply because it
happened to be the largest known specimen of the species ; still,

INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. zk

for the aldennan's benefit, he paints life by Comfort and then by
Penuiy . Sir Peter had conunitted a starving man to the treadmill
for a month, for having attempted to put an end to his life. " Q."
ends thus, t>n this theme: "The surest way for the rich and
powerful of the world to make the poor man more caieful of his
life, is to render it of greater value to him." Kunning over tho
pai)er8 — and there is deep feeling and abundant \»nt in all of
them — my eye is arrested by the luiiue of the Marc^uis de Boisi.>-y
— so far buck as 1842 — talking tho nonsense of the withered
brains of tho Quartier St. Geiinains, in Louis I'hilijtpe's Chamber
of Peers. Said the Marquis — " The worst onenaies of govern-
ment are persons without piqjjoi-ty." This speeeh from a cruel
heiirt, speaking through a hcud where oiJy tho smaUest cavity
had been left for braiui*, was twL*tfd !jc(»nvfully, a thcxisand ways,
by "Q.," under the head of "Tlu.'Tnutc«- 'Xutliing.'" There was
a proi)hocy in the peroi-atiau. " Ami, ahis I wo fear it is too
true — Xotliing is an eni'iuy of the Government I And Nothing
— let tho Goveitmient be sui'e of it — has a hundred thousand
emissaries." Nothing proved too sti'ong for the Maiquis de
Boissy's then master in 1848.

\Mien the CQjUJit3;r£p*U'te-were nnder discussion, " Q." was, of
course, on the side of cheap law. " Turkey," he said, " has her
eunuchs, Russia her Cossacks, and llngland hoc attorneys."
And agjun, of the clamour made by lawyers for dear law : "It
is because hf^-yei-s are not wedded to justice that, like other
proflig-ates with theii" nominal wives, they would have her diees
finely." I give these as instances of the kind of jx>litical wiiter
my father was ; and how he attacked, with new weapons, and
had tactics and ammunition all his own. The following, of
dii'ect and indiieet taxation, is a good example. Mi'. Charles
Buller preferred indirect taxation to direct taxation. " Q." likens
mdirect taxation to the activity- of the vampire bat — ^he is the
indirect tax-gatherer. "Foi- we are told that the creature, in
the silence of night, fixes itv-^elf upon the toes of the sleeper,
and drinks and diinks its gieedr di-aughts of blood, and while

XX INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.

it drinks, benevolently fans its victim with its wings ; and so the
sleoper, i. e., the tax-payor, sleeps on until the vampire is gorged;
and then the creature goes away, leav-iug the man in perfect
ianoranco of the amovmt of income he has, in his slumber,
subscribed. Now, this is the sort of tax-gatherer proposed by
Mr. Charles Biiller. Dr. Peel, however, says, 'No; I want so
nrxny ounces of blood from eveiy man. according to his capa-
bilities of losing the same. I will Uxko them, weigh them
faiily ; so hold out your arm, and — where's the ba-sin ?' "

Enough — to give the reader an idea of the manner in which
Douglas Jen'old touchwl i>«)litioal questions. lie was enthu-
siastic on the popular side, as Shellej' was. Ho dfalt with
great indisputable wi-ongs, and drove shaiT) epigrams into tho
vital marrow of them ; or wrapp^l them in quaint storj' or
hajipy metaphor. Of these paiM?i>i of his contributed to " Punch,"
whether signed " Q.," or called *' Punch's Letters to his Son," or
•' Punch's Coniiileto Letter Writer," it may bo equally said — in
tho words of Mr. Ilannay : the paper — "stands out by itself from
all the othei-8 — the sharp ciitical knowingness, si^arkling with
puns, of A'Bockett — the inimitable, wise, easy, playful, worldly,
social sketch of Thackeray. In imagery he has no rivals there ;
for his mind had a very marked tendency to the ornamental and
illustrative — even to the gi-otesque. In satire, again, he had
fewer competitors than in humour; sarcasms lurk imder his
similes, like wasps in fruit or flowera. I will just quote one
specimen from a casual article of his, because it hapi>ens to
occur to my memory, and because it illustrates his manner.
The • Chronicle ' had been attacking some artists in whom he
took an interest. In replying, he set out by teUing how,
in some vine countries, they repress the too luxuriant growths
by sending in asses to crop the shoots. Then he remarked
gravely, that young artists required pruning, and added, ' Uow
thankful we ought all to be that the "Chronicle" keeps a
donkey !' In sterner moods he was grander. Of a Jew money-
leader he said that ' he might die like Judas, but that he had nq

INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xxi

bowels to gush out ;' also, that ' he ' (the money-lendor) ' would
have sold our Saviour for more momy.^ An imaginative colour
distinguished his best satire, and it had • the deadly and wild
glitter of war rockets. This was the most original quality, too,
of his satire, and just the quality which is least common in our
present satLiical literature. Uo had read the old writers —
Urowne, Donne, Fuller, and Cowley — and was tingod with that
richer and ([uainter vein which so emphatically distinguishes
them fixtm the j)rosaic wits of our day. His wcajMaus reminded
you of Damascus rather than Binningham."

Bushels of articles of everj* description were carved with this
poetic weapon, during the sixteen years that iutoi-vened between
the establishment of '* Punch " and my father's death. In
addition to the miscellaneous list — -the titles of wliich would
fill pages— he coutiibuted to " Punch" — the tender " Story of a
Feather," and " Our Honeymoon." "Mi-s. Bib's Baby" and
"The Female Robinson Ci-usoo " were soon abandoned. ]{ut
** Mrs. Cauille's Curtain Lectures " sjirang into a wild jiopularity
that travelled over Europe. I have a Dutch translation of what
Mr. Job Caudle sulfered, in my possession. The " Story of a
Feather " had a success which my father valued more than the
noisy tiiimiphs of Mrs. Caudle. Mr. Dickens wioto to con-
gratulate hun on his " wise and beautiful book." A well-known
critic wrote of it : "The predominant chaiacteristic of this
story is power, and the moral character of it, earnestness ; it is
painted with mtensity, for it has feeling in every paragraph.
No ' wit ' could have written it, any more than he could
have written the funeral service." The same critic remarks
on the manner in which my father got under weigh with a
subject, and how he conducted the jom-ney with " pomp and
plentifalness."

This active work continued for "Punch" to within eight
days of Douglas JeiTold's death. I suspect a fragment I have
entitled "Adam's Apples," was the beginning of a new " Punch'
eeries.

xxii INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.

I>et the reader observe wliat manner of worker my father was,
even in the prosperous times to which " Punch " and his brilliant
success on the stage" introduced him. lie edited successively
"The Illuminated Magazine," "Douglas Jerrold's "Weekly
Newspaper," " Douglas JeiTold's Shilling Magazine," and for
the last five years of his life "Lloyd's "Weekly London News-
paper." Let the reader run down the list of his re-publishfd
dianiatic works only (and they ai-o not half ho wi-ot*.* for tho
stage), and ho mu.st be astonished to tind that tho writer had
time to edit a new.spapor and a magazine, and contribute oveiy
week to " Punch" into tho bargi\in. In his Shilling Magazine
he wrote his story of "St. Giles's and St. James's." Ho was
attacked, hereupon, as a wrjt<»r who desired at all times to i-ob
the rich for the benefit of the poor. He appealed against tliis
charge, which angeretl him always. " It has been my
endeavour," ho says, " to show, in the person of St. Giles, the
victim of an ignorant disreganl of tho social claims of the jx)or
upon the rich ; of the goveme«l million upon the governing few;
to present — I am well aware how imi>ei-fectly — but Avith no
wilful exaggeration of tho jwrtraiture — the picture of the infant
pauper roared in brutish ignorance, a human waif of dii-t and
iarkness. Since the original appearance of this story, the
reality of this picture in all its vital and appalling horror, has
forced it.self upon the Ijogislature, has engaged its anxious
thoughts, and wiU ultimately triumph in its humanising sii-m-
pathies. I will only add that, upon an after rcvii^ion of this
stoiy, I cannot think mystlf open to the charge of bedizening
St. Giles at the cost of St. James ; or of making Ilog Lane the
treasury of all the virtues, to the moral sacking of Mayfair.
• • • Some of it has been called 'bitter;' indeed, 'bitter'
has, I think, been a little too often the ready word when certain
critics have condescended to bend their eyes upon my page ; so
ready that, were my ink redolent of mynh and frankincense, I
well know the sort of ready-made criticism that would ciy, with
a denouncing shiver, ' Aloes, aloes I' "

INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xxiu

My father's last work of fiction was "A Man Made of Money,"
bop^nn in that, to him, fruitful literary year 1S51. There are
pound critics who believe that it will be read longer than any of
his works. It has been ranged with "Peter Schlemil " and
" Zanoni ; " and has been said to d<.'sorve nnik with the philo-
sophic stories so fa.shionable in the hist contuiy. The philosophy
on the money -gniblxr'e fa to, ponneatcs the stoiy. In his
literary estimate of my father, Mr. Uannay says, alluding to "A
Man Made of Money," it " ia the oompletest of his books a-s a
creation, and tlie most characteristic in point of stylo— is based
on a prinoii)le which prudominatcnl in his mind — is the most
original in imaginativoncfis, and the best sustained in point and
niiituess, of the works he has left." Even in this the midily
turns up — as it does in the lust fragment he left in MS.
The fi-ogmeut is in "Adam's Ajii»les:" "Adam lay beneath the
oak. An acorn dropiKxi into his hand, llis world-i-cading eye
dwelt uptm the seed, lie saw forests. IIo heard the ham-
mere of shipwnghts ; and he saw the oaks, bowed into ships,
take water, bi-oasting it like swans. And then, ^i-ith somewhat
of the saddest look, ho saw Uoratio Nulson smitten on the
deck."

Between 1851 and his death, my father made three more
appeaiunces on the stage, viz., •«'ith " liotiieil from Business,"
" St. Cupid ; or Dorothy's Fortune," and " The Heart of Gohl."
In 18j4 he resolved not to write again for the theati-e.

I believe the happiest time of my father's life was when,
feeling that he had made his giound good, he could take his
occasional leisure ; pass his summers in the countrj* — and when
ha\-ing had successes at both the patent houses with " The Bride
of Ludgiite," "The Bubbles of the Day," "The Prisoner of
War," &c., he brought a- five-act comedy to the Haj-market in
1Mb. For about twelve years of his life — and these the last —
he enjoyed the fniit of forty years of as hard fighting as ever
man, who took up literatiire as a profession, could know. The
long summer he spent in an ivj'-covered cottage, near Heme

xxiv INTRODUCTORY MKMOIR.

Bay, appeared to open a bright way into the futm c. Tic enjoyed
that holiday like a boy. He was in the orchard while the dew
■was on the grass : ho played upon the haycocks. lie was known
in the Bay, for his lively talk with the bathing folk. In the
villages round about, ho would watch the sports, and laugh as
though he had just come out of school. Ever}- muiute, the
beauty of the country enraptured him. lie would pic-k a beetle
fi'om a rose bush, and laWng it upon the buck of his Imud, would
watch it for half an hour ; and then put it upon the Hower again.
As he sat reading, or taking his claret under the trees with a friend,
he would raise his face to the heavens, and draw in the pure air,
and vow that the day was exquisite. IIo prided him.self on his
botanical knowlrnlge ; and went from bu.sh to bush, and flower
to flower, absolutely revelling in the nature alxjut him. lie
would turn suddenly ujwn the nearest companion — " And this,
sir, is "within five hours of Fleet Street I" The thought seemed
to sadden him. He had spent nearly all his life hardly clear
from London smoke : but he was never of London. lie hated
the stony streets and noisy thoroughfares : and so, rich or
poor, he generally contrived to stow his household gods
somewhere whore there was, as ho said, "a bit of green."
He once took a cottage in the Vale of Health, towards the
end of one of the severest Decembers I can c;ill to mind ; and
was surprised to find that the family did not entirely approve
of the measiu-e.

His Kentish walks suggested to him some of his best papers,
and they were written in the ivy-covered cottage, after rambles.
In this way the article on " The Reculvers," that on " The Old
Man at the Gate," and " The Two Windows," were written—
and printed in his lUuniinated Magazine, which he was then
publishing. With his pet spaniel, and his stick, he would stroll
off slowly between the Kentish hetlgerows — and sit, to watch the
sea, from the mined churchyard of the Eeculvere. He could
see the breezy entourage of his old home at Shecmess — and past
these two turrets he sailed, when he brought back those maimed

INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xx»

men from Watei-loo. Sometimes he -would dip down to the
valley behind, past King Ethelbort's gateway.

" The Two Windows " were seen on a simimer's day. We had
strollod tlirough the lovely English village from which Iltmie
Bay gets its name, and had gone through the churchyard to tho
park beyond. The rise and swell of tho iinoly-timbcred land,
dotted with sheep, and white and yi-llow witli daisies and butter-
cups, woke all my father's enthusiiusm. lie liiigfrcnl. and turm-d
about — and could not feast enough on tho beauties before him.
As we turned the angle of a clump of trees, a long, low whito
building appeared, on the brow of the hill.

•'There's a lovely situation!" said my father — " WTiat a
view ! "

View ! There wa.s a long blank wall — stretched to the beauties
of one of the luviliL'st sjiots in lovely Kent — with two little
windows, about large enough for a hen to ]>iiss through, lie
wondered what the strange building could be.

" The House," said a passing rustic.

It was the workhouse : and the humane authorities, had denied
the j)oor the comfort of this view of the meiidow, with Ueme
Church in the distance, and the blue sea beyond. My father
turned abruptly back fi-om his walk, declaring agsiin and again,
that it was tho most detestable bit of wickedness ho could
remember. He sent me back to sketch the scene, and the
lightless wall: and ho wrote "The Two Windows" for the
" Illuminated Magazine," while I put my sketch u]x»n wood. I
remember the fei-vour of the concluding lines : "If God punish
man for sins, as man punishes man for poverty, woe to the sons
of Adam!"

But the chief result of the summer in Kent — among the
wheat and hops, and under the noble chestnuts, and amid the
Saxon peasantry : the result of endless solitaiy i-ambles through
Bunny villages, under creaking signs where steaming horses
were slaking their thirst ; and past doorways where bacon could
be espied smoking in the chimney corners ;— of days spent with

xxvi INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.

u i-irh. Kentish farrarr hard by — who may have sat for the
Hennit of Bcllyfulle, and whose homestead soemod to be greasy
with the plcnt}- there and thereabouts — was the sunny book,
which my father hehl cliief among all hia works, as the truest
fragment of him he had managed to throw off — " The Chit)nicle8
of Clfivemook."

Tlie Chronicles aiv* a fragment of wluit it was originally
intoiulcd by tho author they should be ; but the fmgment, it was
his belief, had a hotter chance of reaching the hands of future
generations, than the rest of his works. All the qualities of his
genius shine their biightest here. The study of. benignant
nature is rich and rare. Sunday in the countrj' is a picture of
peace and beauty and .simple worsliip, away fitjm " the bemum-
mying wrappers of scrt." The legends have "purposes" ir
tliem, from which the author, being a man in downright earnest
v,i{]\ the world, could nev»'r long wean his fancy. The piiinting of
■" Tlic Gratis," is in s\inV>eams. Tlie Hennit is d<lightful in liis
oily and sensuous content. The scenery — the air of rich quiet-
are Kentish. The nnider can almost smell the dreamy perfume
of distant hop-fields. No where, save in the house under the
ivy, in the plenty and Iniauty of Kent, would the " Chronicles"
have been written. Not in Boulogne, for instance, where
•'The Pri.soner of War " and " Gertrude's Chenies" were con-
stnicted — the latter in a curious cottage (wherein poor, forgotten
Mrs. Jordan died, in a sad plight), up a muddy, picturesque,
precipitous lane, between high hedge-rows. It was a place only
my father could have found. A rough, more than homely
cottage, with a little terraced garden behind, and a colony of old
French maids babbling round about. I have heard magpies
on entering a Swedish village ; but I would have defied them to
stand five minutes against the ancient demoiselle* — who were
wont to talk over the wall — (their voices would have gone as easily
through it) of my father's garden. There was not a meadow,
worthy of the name, near us ; but a few miles ofiF was the Valley
Du Demicre, thiough which I have seen many men whose

INTRODUCTORY MFMOTR. xxyii

namos are familiar as household words, amble upon the backs of
patient donkeys, to eat omelettes and fresh sulad at Sotivemin
Moulin. In this retreat comcdias with French or Belgian scones,
did not coniti amiss. Weather — surroundings — had so stning an
effect on my father, tliat a few clouds would stop his morning's
work, or put off even a long trip. Ho cmdd do nothing where
he w:is in the least ill at his case ; although years before, ho had
8lavo<l at his inkstand und«r eveni' disconiliture. H«' must take
up a thing in his own way, and at his o-vn\ time. Quick to take
in all he .saw, and to boar the effect of it, and re-produce it — on
fitting occasion ; he could never rejK)i-t his obsen'ations, nor go
aboiit for the express purpose of obsor\'ing.

Ke went to Paris while I>amai-tino was paramount in 1848,
intending to wiitc a Maries of articles on the jtspoct of I'aiis in
Eovolution, and on tlio state of ]HU-ties. lie was accomjianied
by a secretarj- ; Mr. Gt>oi ge Ilodder. A most imjKjrtant series of
papere were to bo producwl. My father caiTie<l letters of intro-
duction to all the most notable men in and out of the Govern-
ment, lie could not accomplish hid mission. lie could not
pick up information — make notes on the spot — nor push his
way with letters of inti-oduction. So he retiuued to I^ondon
with his introductions in his pocket — having written one
letU'r — which he coidd have written without stin-ing from
London. It was exceedingly important to the fortunes of his
own ]>aper that the projected series should have a marked
success : but ho coiUd not vanquish his rei)ugnance for the work
— the fact being that he was totally unfitted for it. He was
angry with himself, and could not bear an allusion to the
subject. I mention this as illustrative of the way in which he
observe*! : not by eye, and note-book, and to oi-der, and with
the ilelibei-ntely proposed object of making copy of what he saw.
His reply when some friend stoppeil him in Jennyn -street, and
asked him whether he was picking up character, and he
answered — "No: but I understand a great deal is lost here" —
is suggestive to any man who knew him, of the impatience he

xxviii INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.

would manifest nt the degradation of a faculty to a mec-liauicol
operation. Albeit there are men who, ordered to describe the
noisy realm of an animal fancier, would begin by counting the
haii-8 in the eyelashes of the giunea-j)ig3. In my father's de-
scriptions there is the fidelity of the artist, and not that of the
camera. ^Vll ho wi'oto — the time once jiast when ho could not
choose but write — came to him. I e-\cpi)t, of course, his writing
for his own newspaper, and for *' Lloyd's Weekly Paper," his
connection with which ho made one of the great successes of hU
life. Custom makes comments on passing events natural to tlie
pi-actised writer ; and these are distinct and apart from the genius
that is in him. This work is a relief to the more exhaustive
process of creation.

The dream of my father's later days, was to break wit h the work-
day life of lileratme, and to t*i)end the close of his career in
some sunny jilacc in the .South ; where, at ease and in peace, he
might work out one or two ideas that he had long hold floating
in his brain ; and thi-ough which he should make his appeal to
the judgment of posterity. He had done enough to tire him of
the wear and tear of life. I have books full of his notes of his
i-eading for these pet ideas, that were to bo worked out far away
from London. They are materials thro\s-n i>ell-meU together, that
give no clue to the design of the building which they were to deco-
rate. They are montiments of i)atient closet-work, to be glanced
over by all who value what my father actually accomjilislied, with
regret. If he never obtained the settled leisure he anticipated —
and that would have enabled him to carrj' out a few of his
ambitious projects — at any rate, as I have already observed, he
enjoyed about twelve years of absolute prosperity — of welcome
change from one new scene to another, beibre he died. He had
risen to the position for which he had toiled. He saw himself
recognised from one end of the covmtiy to the other. Public
invitations flocked to him from all sides. He presided at one or
two great ceremonies. He presented the Shak.«peare testimonial
to Kossuth He took the chair at an annual soiree of the Bii--

INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xxix

niinghnm Litonuy Institution. But ho disliked public ap-
pearances, and novor cjirod to speak to an audience. On one
great occusiou, chooixHl to the echo by a crowded meeting of
working men, whoso cause ho had es])OU8cd throughout his
public lite ; he muttered a few words, and declared that his heart
was too full — he must sit down — ho must be excused. In vain,
at a later period of the evening, ])utroni«ing stump orators
invited him to make a second attempt. Ho was not equal to
a sentence. A deputation of Dinningham working men pre-
sented him with an onyx ring : and he could only stammer his
thanks. These few es-says proved to him that nature had not
fittotl him to shino at de])utation8 nor uixm platforms ; nor to
twirl an eye-glass pla\-fully while thuiulers of applau.<M3 were
Ringing in his ears ; and so ho tunietl a do.if ear to the friends
who suggesteil I'arliament to him,

" I speak with this — and this only," he Kiid, showing his pen.
lie was not ambitious socially. Nothing would have persuaded
him to scheme for a i)lace : nor to back a minister. IIo used to
amuse all who wore near him when ho dwelt on the value of
business quidities : he being a man who had so little of the
practical quality about him. A punctual coiTcspondent he
was, confining himself strictly to the questions ho had to ask
and answer. I have loiters from him just half a line long. He
was accused of unfriendly abruj)tness occasionally: but there
was not the least ill-feeling in the fewness of the words. He
talked against the practice of wi-iting private lettei-s-^with an eye
to some printer and publisher in the distance. There are
hiunorous bits here and there in his notes, but at long inten'als.*

• In the year 1843, Mr. Webster offered a prize of 500/. for the best
fire !ict comedy; whereupon ray faiher wrote, a very long letter — for liim —
U< Mr. I'ickens. I take a bit of it:— "Of course you have fluug 'Chnzzle-
wit' to the winds, and are hard at work upon a comedy. Somebody — I
fnrget bis name — t<^'M me tiiat you were seen at the Haymarket door, with
» wet newspaper in your baud, knocking frantically for Wei'Ster. Five
lju»dred pounds for the best English comedy ! As 1 think of the sum, I

XXX INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.

In his letters he was " business-like ; " but on the prospects of
a profession for a boy; on profitable practical combinations ; oa
commercial matters, he could not give an opinion. He was
not a worltUy-wise man. His emotions, his strong impulses, ami
the rapidity with which he acted^-could not belong to a man
of the world ; who never loses sight of his own interests ; and
who best knows how to promote them, having made them the
exclusive study of his Hfe. My father would point to great
examples of successful men — architects of their own fortune-^
who hud risen from the depths of poverty, to a mighty indepen-
dence. Men who have made gieat strides themselves, are apt
to think that all people may walk in seven league boots who
choose to put them on. My father "was a little of this way of
thinking. He had dared, and had won. The courage of daiing
went far ; but the build of the athlete was exti-aordinajy. He
loved to see men or women beating down difficulties of all or
any kinds : or, the heroism of patience plodding thiough dull
years, cheerful to the end of the task. In his study, if a pass;ige
fiom Shakspeare was in question, he woidd go to his shelves, lift
Mrs. Cowdon Clarke's " Concoidauco " from its well-known
corner, and. lapug his hand upon the cover, would say invaiiably
— before opening it —

" The work of a noble little woman."

He would turn the closoly-piinted pages over, and bid every-
body present mark the extraordinary quantity of matter that
was contained between the solid morocco boai-ds. And then h©
would close the volume, and as he carried it back to its hcHioured
place upon his shelves, he would repeat —

" And aU that was done, by one noble httle woman."

look loftily around this apartment of full twelve by thirteen— glance with
poetic frenzy on a lark's turf that does duty for a lawn— take a vigorouB
inspiration of the ' double Brotnptons ' that are nodding defyingly at me
through the diamond panes- and tbinic the cottage, land, pigsty, all are
mine, evoked from an ink-bottle, and labelled 'freehold,' by the call of
Webster."

INTRODUCTORV MCMOIR. xxri

It was my custom — und ho was not pleased when it was brokou
— to dine with my father every Sunday, when, as he told his in-
timate li-ien^, ho kept open house. Vorj' often only a few
young, very young, men of letters made up the partj\ The walk
round tlic gurdtu, into the poultry-yard, and upon the heath,
was de riyueur. The gai'don w»is a picture of neatness, packed
with flowers. The owner was in the fulness of his fame ; was
prosperous, — and in his country house on Putney Heath. lie
was still at work for the stage, having achieved a tiiumph with
*' Time "Works Wonders." Mrs. Caudle was giving her weekly
lectures in " Punch." There was not a cloud overhead. He
went among gieat people — borne naturally into their society —
but ho kept his simjile habits and his countiy fare, sajing —
" If my lord comes, he comes to the leg of mutton and a welcome,
like the rest."

It was this simplicity that attracted Lord Nugent so often to
West Lodge. But the Sundays were the brightest days, when
the notabilities were away. Sundays in the study — where (it
mav be useful to tell certain clerical critics who vnote most un-
charitably some six yeais ago of a man whom they knew not)
the host never missed his morning alone with his Bible, — which
he allied his Chuich. It would have spared him many years of
keen annoyance, could some of his critics, who delighted in
painting him as a savage misanthrope with a sharj) tongue ; have
seen him talking and laughing, and not saying severe things,
in his study, on these Simdays. They might have seen the man
who could be severe ; because they would have seen a man
whose eye flashed fire over some outrage done yesterday, which
he had just read of in his Sunday paper : but the sweet, childish
fund of the satiiist would have been apparent also. The playful
fancy, the light badinage with children (who never approached
him without loving him) ; the petted dog ; the friendly proffer
of influence to some beginner ; the chivalrous defence of an
absent friend; the willing forgiveness of an old injiuy — these
traits would have surely disarmed a few, who misrepresented

xxxii INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.

a generous friend and a delightful and wise companion, as
a man ■whose heart was full of gaU.

Past rancours are buiied, as he was the first who desired they
should be. I would not, in this short introduction, hft the
least comer of a veil from one of them. The mission I have
stiivcn to discharge, in reverent afi'ection for my father's momorj',
is one of peace between him and those who misunderstood him —
between him and the few in the world who may have been
taught to regard him as he certainly was not. This is why, in
this introduction to the permanent fonn which my father's
wiitings are about to take, I have been at some pains to put him
in a right attitude for the world's judgment. I have described
the difficult conditions under which he wrote. I have not ex-
plained away faults : I have rather confintnl myself to the pioof
that faults wore laid to his charge, which wore not his. I speak
of him from an intii;iate >-iew of him: with the partiality of a
son who has gratitude and a loving romembranco in his heart,
it is true; but only one placed in the relation of affection in
which I stood to him could, with authorit)% imdurtake to diuw
a picture sufficiently close to life — not of the author — but of
the man. I saw that his sharpness in attack came from a deep
heart.

It is with a vivid idea of Douglas Jerrold at home, that I
should like every reader to make acquaintance with his writings.
This idea would explain what is called his bitterness here and
there. He was a wit alwaj's and everywhere ; and he wounded
— sometimes even his friends. The sudden rush of a witticism
that springs from a bright brain to the tongue, and is shot forth
because it is a witticism and must fly, must be taken into account.
The shaft is void of malice, if it have other poison in it. I
can remember dozens of an-ows, pointed as needles, that stung
mo ; but they left no scar. In the midst of some of our plea-
sant^ist and most genial evenings at "West Lodge, a shaft would
fly and hit home. The victim might wince; but all would laugh,
iUid tjie victim with the rest, Did these an-ows, so often feathei ed

INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xxxiii

from "Wisdom's pinion," keep a friend from the wit's study
fire, wliere the beech-wood crackled, lighting up faces that
beamed under the welcome which made them childi-en, for a time,
of the familj' ? For a joke which might escape, there would be
hours of talk over books, passing literary news, or the political
event of the day, or the whimsicalities of the last club night.
These friendly meetings happened weekly, year after year ; they
travoUe<l, 'vs'ith the host's household gods, to Circus lload, St.
Jiihn's Wood, and lastly to Kilbum I'rioiy, whore death bi"oke
thorn up, and left not one of the company that hiul been so long
haj)py together, with a ilry eye. "Was it not one of these near
and dear friends who wrote — ' ' If eveiy one who had received a
kindness at his luwds, should lay a llowor upon his tomb, a
mountain of roses woidd rise over the grave of Douglas
Jonold" ? I could fill many pages with lettere from persons, to
mo unknown, that reached mo after my father's death ; ■wTitten
in grateful memory of kindnesses received. Mi-. R. 11. Ilome
wrote his gnitcfiil otferiug from Austmlia.* Humble witnesses
sent their testimony of help given to them, from all pails of the
country. The verso ^-ritten in Douglas Jenxild's honour, would
fill a goodly volume.

The author of "Tangled Talk" could not hold back his

• The kiiidnefs done to Mr. R. H. Home, was, when he, finding himself
in a pecuniary strait, proposed to write a novel. It was "The Dreamer
and theWoiker." Mr. Home writes from MiUioume: — "The publication
of thi.>i, by monthly chapters, in 'Jerrold's Mapazine,' was the means of
giving rue peace of mind for a twelvemoLth. Th se who have ever known
what it is to expect a twelvemonth of stmggle and doubts, perhaps dis-
appointments, and proliably a tlionsand 'vexations of spirit' in dismal
hii:hwa\8 of the battle of life, and who have suddenly seen all this trans-
formed into a sunny course for a fair exercise of the energies openetl out
before them, can best appreciate the kind and degree of such a service
rendered at once, and in so frank and off-hand a manner. The grateful
memory of that year's peace of mind is the flower I now send half vjtoss
the gluW, to be affectiorately la'd npi n the grave of Donjlas Jerrold.
Hail ! and farewell! 'Yale, vale! nos te ordine quo natura permittet
eiHjuemur."

VOL I. e

XXXIT

INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.

testimony to my fiithor's kindly nature. Ilosaid: " Within theao
three years" (writing in 1807) " I have been once or twice his
debtor for kind and encouraging 'words, and I would willuigly
thiow my little flower. On the verj' few occa-sions upon which
I saw him personally — not more than twice or thrice, and undc
his o-vra roof — I found liim the most genial, Bincore, and /utlurl^
of men; perfectly simple, a man who looked straight at you«
and spoke without an-iere pen$fe — without any of that doublo
consciousness which makes the talk of some mi u of talent dis-
agieoable — and most thoroughly human. That ' uboui;ding
humanity,' which I once said elsewhere is the distinguishing
chanicteristic of Mr. Jerrold's writing, shone out conspicuously
in all his beha\-iour. It was never necc^sarj-, as it is in convoi-sing
with too many, to say, by imj»lication, ' Never mind the book,
and the reputation, and the viit, and the wits, and \shat I am
thinking of you — am I not a man and a brf)ther ? ' Mr. Je« rold
recognised the manhtKxl and the brotherhood .so fully at starting,
that there was nothing to be said about it ; and youi- iutercoiu^e
with him went smootlily ujx)n its true basis — the natural ' j)ix>-
clivity ' of one human ci-eature for another. •• • • His writings
are full of a gracious domestic purity, quite distinct from the
claptraji of the plaj-wiight or the novelist. The poetrj* that
was in Mr. Jerrold has, I suspect, been much undermtod by
the general public."

I cannot altogether pass over the aspect of my father as "a
elubable man." He was a most social man : and in the
neighbourhood of Covcnt Garden — the region sacred to social
clubs — it wa.s that, when a very young man, he met a num-
ber of friends who were clubbed together, in an humble
tavern, under the magic name of Shak-speare, each member
contributing a poem, essay, or drawing, in the poet's honor.
The club was called " The Mulbemes " — and the book in wliich
the members' contributions were kept, were — The Mulberry
Leaves. The young men were all destined to be heard of in
the world — save poor William Godwin (the gieat Godwin's sou)

INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xxxv

who died young, suiitten with cholera; but who had, as my
father testified — "an uufohkd genius worthy of his name."
WTien Elton, the actor, one of the Mulberries, was drowned ; my
father took occasion to produce one of Elton's mulbeny leaves
fts illustmtive of his "graceful intelligence." Ho then said of
tho Mulbenios : "The society in wliich those poems wore pro-
duced, is now dis.«*olved. In its early .strength it numbered some
who, what«'ver may have been, or maj- yet bo thinr success in
life, cannot look back to that society of kindnnl thoughts and
sympathising hoj»es, without a sweetened memorj* — ■without tho
toucJies of an old adV-ction. My early boy-friend, Lnmau
lilanchard ; and Konny Meadows, a dear friend too, whoso names
have become musicul in the world's ear, were of that society —
of that knot of wise and jocund men, then unknown, but gaily
struggling." The Mulbem' Club blo.^jsomcd into tho Shaksj)caro
Club — and, wiUi great names on its list — died. My father con-
tribtitcHl " Shiikspoare's Cnib-treo " to the leaves, and on rare oc-
casions, whi'U tho friends were few, woiUd sing it, in that soft,
sweet voice, lu> had to tho last. He \\Toto other things also for
" the leaves." Tho theme over tempted him — to essay some new
and (juaint tapesf ry work on tho beloved poet — now it was ' ' Shak«
spearo at Bankside," and now ' ' Shakspearo in China." I can well
imagine how his mind was set to music, and winged with dreams,
when he read this passage fi-om Godwin's "Essaj'on Sepulchi-es."
— "I cannot tell that the wnsest mandarin now living in China is
not indebted for part of his enevgj- and sagacity to Shakspeare and
Milton, even though it sho\UJ liappen that he never heard of
their names." This subtletj- was exactly suited to treatment by
my father.

Other clubs succeeded the Mulberries. The coterie of literaiy
men and artists who were struggling together ' ' through difii-
cnltics to fame" felt that "the bow should be sometimes
loose." Their clubs were merry meetings of wise men : and
many wise heads still meet, to play like boys — and then go
home to the studio again, the better for the laugh and the

xxxvi INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.

eong. In all classes this loosoning of the bow is sought. My
father, true to his life, tried to ext<»n(l club luxuries to the
many. He founded the "WTuttington Club.* Gartered notabili-
ties delight to have a stoak, from a gridiron within view, and to
diink from pewter pots, and smoke long clay pipes. The " Hooka
and Eyes" and '' Our Club " were clubs, which, in later life, my
father founded : and ho was the life and soul of the wisely meiTy
meetings of men, to meet whom, a traveller making notes,
would give half ho possessed. lie was welcome, as much for
the oveiflowing humunity and the boy-freshness that were in
him, as for the flashes of his wit and the brilliancy of his con-
versation. He brought fresh air with him into the room.
Pi-ofes-sor Masson said of him : "There was, perhaps, no con-
vereation in which Mr. Jerrold took part, that did not elicit from
him half a dozen good things. To recollect such good things is
proverbially difHcult ; and hence many of Jeirold's died within
the week, or never got three milas from Covent Garden. Some,
however, lived, and got into circulation — u little the worse for
wear — in the provinces ; and not a few have been exported.

* At the opening, after a ile8|>er8te effort, he nerveJ him-elf to take the
chair at the first niettinp, and to wy:— "If we l^ave clutw cimposed, I
»ay SHV, of canes with gold heids — or, if not alway.s with gold heads, at
least with plenty of gold about them — if we have clubs of nobles, where-
fore not clubs of clerks ? For ray own part, there are lions and tigers, even
in the highest heraldry, for which I h.ave certainly not more respect than
for the cat, the legendary cat of Kichatd Whitlington. Nevertht-ieas, the
]>roposed institution of oar club has, in two or three quarters, been
criticised as au impertinence — as almost a revolutiomry movement, dis-
respectful to the vested interests of worshipful society. It has really
been inferred that the social advantages contemplated by our institution
would he vulgarised by being roa<le cheap. These pensive prophets seem
to consider the refinements of life to be like the diamond — rarity making
its only worth ; and with these people, multiply diamonds ten thou-
sandfold, and for such reason, they would no longer be considered
fit even for a gentleman. These folks have only sympathy with the
past. They love to contemplate the world with their heads over their
shoulders, turned as far back as anatomy will permit to them that sur*
passing luxury,"

INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. ixsvii

One joke of his was found lately beating abont the coast of
Sweden, seeking in vain for a competent Swedish translation ;
and the othet day a tourist from London, seeing two brawny
North Britons laughing together immoderately on a rock near
Cape "Wrath, with a heavy sea dashing at theii- feet, discovered
that the cause of their mirth was a joke of Mr. ^en-old's, which
they had int«rcepte«l on its way to the Shotlands. Another
club friend wrote in the Qiiarterly Review, "In the bright
sallies of conversational \^-it he has no surviving equal." Mr.
Hepworth DLxon, who was also a club friend, sjiid: " His wit
was all steel points, and his talk was like squadrons of lancers
in evolution. Not one pun, we have heard, is to be found in his
writings. His wit stood nearer to poetic fancy than to broad
humour."

These clubs of kindred men could not but delight a man of
his sti-ongly social temperament. He insisted, however, that all
the club appointments should be simple: plain, clean service, aiid
little more than hermit's fare. He was no public speaker, as I
have observed : but at a social board — among club friends, he
would break out into a bouquet of fireworks.

At a dinner given, at the Museum Club, to Mr. Leigh Hunt,
he was especially happy, in proposing the health of the guest of
the evening. He said of Hunt — " even in his hottest warfai-e
his natiu^l sense of beauty and gentleness was so great that,
like David of old, he armed his sUug with shining pebbles of
the brook, and never pelted even his fiercest enemy with mud.''
Hunt was happy in reply. He said that " if his friend Jenold
had the sting of the bee, he had also his honey."

I have not space here for further examples of the good things
that rained, when, in happy mood and congenial company, my
father was talking.

Death reached him in the fall tide of his life. The ship came
to anchor in mid-stream. When my father had fairly settled
himself in his house at Kilbui-n Priory, in 1856 ; and had
arranged his study leading to his garden — so that he could see

xxxviii INTRODUCTORY MKMOIR.

bis noblo rhmlodciidrons from hia desk : ho felt that he had
settled at last, for the remainder of his days. lie had projects
enough, of ti-avel that was not to bo confined to Europe ■ but
hei-o his hou-so and centre would be, henceforth. K ho did not
travel much — he was, izi ima^nation, tho cii-cumnavigator of the
glol>o. Ho never put his hat on without wishing it was a wide-
awake, shielding' liim fix)m an Italian sun, or shading his eyoa
on the Nile. At one time ho had a pnyoct for buying .Sark, — he
was so enraptured with its wildne-ss. " I am hero," ho wrote to
Mr. John Forster, "in this most wild, most soliUuy, and most
beautiful place. No dross — no fashion — no respoctability —
nothing but beauty and grumlour, with tho sea rolling and
rooiing, at timos, 'twooa me aikd Fleet Street, as though I should
never walk there again." In tho winter of 1806, and the Hj)nng
of 1857, what projects of tnivel to bo done in the coming sum-
mer, were discuss^^-d in tho snug study ! Nice, I'ortugal, liuuie I
wore to be visit^^l. Fri«'nd l^ron do Fom'.stor's boat was to
roi'oive a laughing coini»any, when the summer cumc. My father
had been ill recently — and dtrsponding — but ho was better — and it
wa.s spring. Tlio birds chatterwl at his dressing-room windows:
and the buds wero bursting I Ho turned a gay face upon life ;
and laugliing said, again and again — "a ninn was exactly as
old as he felt." Yet he hail rcceive<l a shock in tho au^amn —
when Mr. Gilbert k Beckett died at Boulogne. He MTote to Mr.
John Forster, his heart full : " Never was a family so united, so
suddenly and so wholly mmlo di-j^olate. Comp«'tence, position,
mutual atfection, ' and all that inaket* the haj»pier man,' and
all now between four boai-ds I " This feeling lasted in his mind.
The spiing, the bright mornings, however, gave him a new
lease of life. He trained his flowers : 8tix>lled upon his lawn :
saw his friends — and he had many — and was never in hajtpier
circumstances.

It was in the last week of May that he accompanied Mr.
Dickens to a dinner given by Mr. W. H. Rus.«cll, at Greenwich.
He was ailing then : but he attributed his illness to the smell of

INTKODUCTORV MKM«iIR. xxxix

tho new paint on tho gai-dcn steps loading fi-om his stndy. lie
battled with his weakness, as ho walki'd to the bout, with Mr.
r>iokens and Mr. Itussell. "I huvo a lively recollection of him,"

Mr. Dickens wrot*' to me, "stumping about Elm-tree Court
(with his hat in one hand, and tho other puBhinf> his hair back),
laughing in his heartiest manner, at a ridiculous remembrance
wo hiul in coininiiu, which I ha«l prescnte«l in some exaggerated
light, to divert him. We found our boat, and went down the
river, and lo<.>ked at tho Ivoviuthan which wu.s building, and
tulk<'<l all the way." A hapjiy day wa« spent at Greenwich,
and my father n'tumed homo in better health than ho hud loll.
" I went down to Gail's Hill next moniing," writes Mr. Dickens,
" where he wius to writo to me a£l«r a little while, ap]>ointing
his own time for coming to see me there. A week aflorwaixis,
another passenger in tho railway cajiiago in which I wua on
my way t«) London llridge, opened his moniing pajKr, and said,
* Douglas Jt-rndd is dead I ' "

It was but too true. He breathed his last, in our anns, at
noon, on tho 8th day of June, 1857. To tho last ho was calm,
and resigned ; with most Christian courage took leave of all ;
and left directions — and died, saj-ing — seeing txs all about his
bod — " Tliis is as it should be." We laid him in Norwood
Cemeter}', on a sxinny day in June (loth) near the grave of his
boy-friend Laman Blanchurd, who had gone before him : and in
one yeai" and eleven months aftei"R'ai-ds, we laid at his side, the
remains of her who had sweetened and sustained him through
his life: the best ■wife I have ever seen in this world — and a
mother whose loving eyes, no worldly pleasui-es could ever
turn, for one moment, fix)m her children.

It now remains for me to leave this collected edition of the
works which my father selected to represent him in the Uterature
of his country, to the judgment of the public. I most cordially
thank his old and dear fiiends Messrs. Bradbiuy and Evans, for
having given me an opportunity of putting the brief itory of

xl INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR.

his litei-ary life with his wiitings; because I ftfl that the reader'*
knowledge of his story is necessary to the full eiijoj-ment of
his writings. AVhere I have ventuied upon criticism, the ven-
ture has been made in the hope that it might lead to a know-
ledge at once true and close, of the subject of my memoir.

BLA>:ciLUiD JEEliOLD.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

VOL. I.

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.

jjURIXG the progivss of tlic original pulilicntion of "St. Giles
and St. Jaines " — which it is lioped is reuderetl somewhat less
faulty in the present revisevl edition — certain critics would charge
the writer with a cleaving desire to despoil the high for thepi-otit
of the low ; with a besetting tendency to mum as a sort of morul
Rohiu Htx)d, stripping the rich of their virtues that only the
veriest poor might strut in the plunder. In reply to this, I will
content myself \vith saying that I somewhat contideutly await tlie
verdict of a different opinion from the reader who may honour
these pages with a dispassionate perusaL

It has been my endeavour to show in the person of St. Giles
tiie victim of an ignorant disregard of the social claims of tlie
\)Oor upon the rich ; of the governed million upon the governing
few ; to present — I am well aware how imperfectly ; but with
no wilful exaggeration of the portraiture — the picture of the
infant pauper reared in brutish ignorance ; a human waif of diil
and darkness. Since the original appearance of tliis story, the
reality of this picture, in all its vital and appalling horror,
has forced itself upon the legislature ; has engaged its anxious
thoughts ; and will ultimately triumph in its hximanising sympa-
thies. I will only add that upon an after revision of this story,
I cannot think myself open to the chai'ge of bedizening St. Gilea

B 2

4 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION'.

.it the cost of St. James ; or of making Ilog Lane the treasury of
all the virtues to the moral sacking of May Fair.

The completion of the first volume of a collected edition of his
writings — scattered over the sj)ace of years — is an ojiportunity
tempting to tlie vanity of a writer to indulge in a retrospect of
the circumstances that first made authorship his hope, as well as
of the general tenor of lus after vocation. I will not, at least, in
these pages, yield to the inducement ; further than to say that, sclf-
helpe<l and self-guided, I began the world at an age when, as a
general rule, boys have not laid down their primers ; that the
cockpit of a man-of-war was at thirteen exchanged for the
struggle of London ; that appearing in print ere perhaps th«
meaning of words was duly mastered — no one can be more aliv«
than myself to the woilhlessoess of such early mutteriiigs.

In conclusion, I submit this volume to the generous intcrpr*
tation of the reader. Some of "it has been called "bitter:" indeed,
" bitter " has, I think, a little too often been the ready word when
certain critics have condescended to bend their eyes upon my
pr\ge : so reaily, that were my ink redolent of myrrh and frank-
incense, I well know the sort of rea*ly-made criticism that would
cry, with a denouncing shiver, " aloes ; aloes."

D. J.

Wmt Lodge, PmttT Lowkb Comxo*.
July 9, 1861.

ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMES.

CHAPTER I.

The streets were empty, rililesa cold lia<l driven all who had
the slulter of a ruof to their hunios : aiid the north-eaiit Mjust
seemed to howl iu triumph above the untrcxlden snow. Winter
was at the heart of all things. The wretched, dumb with exces-
sive misery', suflered, in stupid resignation, the tyranny of the
sca.son. Human bloinl stagnated iu the breast of w;uit ; ami
death in that desjviiring hour losing its terrors, looked, in tho
eyes of manj a \nTetoh, a sweet deliverer. It was a time when
tlie very poor, b.vrred fmrn the commonest things of earth, take
strange counsel with themselves, and, in the deep humility of
destitution, believe they are the burden and the offal of the world.

It was a time when the easy, comfortable man, touched with
finest sense of human suffering, gives from his abundance ; and,
whilst bestowing, feels almost ashamed that, with such •wide-
spread misery circled round him, he has all things fitting ; all
tilings grateful. The smitten spirit asks wherefore he is not of
the multitude of wretchedness ; demands to know for what espe-
cial excellence he is promoted above the thousand, thousand
starving creatures : in his very tenderness for misery, tests his
privilege of exemption from a woe that withere manhood in man,
bo\s'ing him downward to the brute. And so questioned, this
man gives in modesty of spirit — in verj' thankfulness of soul.
His aims are not cold, formal charities ; but reverent sacrifices to
his suffering brother.

It was a time when selfishness hugs itself in its own warmth ;
with no other thoughts than of its pleasant possessions ; all made
pleasanter, sweeter, by the desolation around. "When the mere
worldling rejoices the more in his warm chamber, because it is so
bitter cold \^-ithout ; when he eats and drinks with whetted
appetite, because he hears of destitution, prowling like a wolf
axound his well-barred house ; when, in fine, he bears his every

e ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

corafurt about him with the pride of a conqueror. A time when
such a man .sees in tlie miseiy of his fellow-beings n<jthing s;ive
his own vioturj'of fut-tune — his ovni successes in a sulfering world.
To such a man the poor are but the tattered slaves that grace
his triiunph.

It w;ls a time, too, when human nature often shows its true
divinity, and with misery like a garment clinging to it, forgets its
wretchedni-ss in sympatliy with sutlVring. A time, when in the
ceilai-s ;ui<l garixts of the poor aie acted scenes which make the
noblest heroism of life ; which prove the immortal texture of tlie
liumsin heart, not wholly seared by the branding-iron of the tor-
turing hours. A time when in want, in angui.sh, in throes of
uioilal agony, some seed is sown that beai-s a llower in heaven.

Such was the time, the h'Hjr apj>ruaching mi'Tnight, when a
woman s^it on a duor-stej) in a I^>nd<>n street. Was she sleeping,
or was she another victim of the icy season ? Her head had
fallen backward against the d(.)or, and her face shone like a white
stone in the moonlight. There w:ia a terrible history in that
face ; cut and lined as it was by the twin-workers, vice and
misery. Her temples were sunken ; her bn.)W wrinkled and
pinched ; and her thin, jagged mouth, in its stony silence, breathed
a frightful eloquence. It was a hard mysteiy to wurk out, to
look upon that face, and try to see it in its babyhood. Could it
be thought that that woman was once a child ?

Still she w.is motionless — breathlejis. And now, a quick, trij^-
piug footstep sounds in the deserted street ; and a woman, thinly,
poorly clad, but clean and neat withal, approaches the do<.>r. She
is humming a tune, a blithe defiance to the season, and her
manner is of one hastening homeward. " Good God ! if it isn't
a corpse ! " she cried, standing suddenly fixed before what scemetl,
in truth, the ethg}' of death. In a moment, recovering herself,
she stooped towards the sitter, and gently shook her. " Stone-
cold — frozen ! Lord in heaven ! that his creatui"es should jxrish
in the street ! " And then the woman, with a piercing shriek,
called the watch ; but the wateh, ti-ue to its rejmtation for soiinci
substantial sleep, answered not. " Watch — watch ! " screamed
the woman with increasing shrillness ; but the howUng of the
midnight wind was the only response. A moment she fiaused ;
then looked at what she deemed the dead ; and flinging her arms
about her. flew back along the path she had trod. With scai'cely
breath to do common credit to her powers of scolding, she drew
up at a watch-box, and addressed hereelf to the peaceful man
within. " Why, watch — here ! a pretty fellow ! — |>eople pay
rates, and — watch, watch '. — there s a dead woman — dead, I tell

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 7

j'ou — watch — pay rates, and are let to die, and — watch — watch —
watch ! " And still she soreaxued, and at length, clawed at and
shook the modest wooden tenement which, in those happy but
not distant days of England, sheltered many of England's ciNnl
guardians.

The watchfiian was coiled up for unbroken repose. He had
endently settled the matter with himself to sleep until called to
breakf;tst by the tradesman who, at the corner post, spread his
hospitable table for the early wayfarers who loved saloop.
Beside.'!, the watchman was at le<ist sixty-five )'oars old ; twenty
yeai*s he had been guardian of the puVilic peace, and he knew —
no one better — that on such a night even robbery would take a
holiday, forgetting the cares and protits of business in comfort-
able blankets. At lenirth, but slowlv, did the watchman answer
the summons. He gradually uncoiled himself; and whilst the
woman's tongue rang — rang like a bell — he calmly pushed up
hi.>^ hat, and opening his two small, swinish eyes, looked at the
intruder.

"Well! after that I hope you are awake — and after that "

" AVhat 's the matter ? " asked the watchman, feeling that the
hour of saloop was not arrived, and surlily shaking himself at the
disajipointment, " What 's the matter ? "

" The matter ! Poppy-head ! "

" Any of your bail language, and I shall lock you up." And
this the watchm;ui said with ijuite the air of a man Mho keeps
his word.

" There 's a woman froze to deatli," cried the disturber of the
watchman's peace.

" That was last night," said the watchman.

" I tell you, to-night, man — to-night. She 's on a door-step ;
there " — and the woman pointed down the street. " I should
like to know what we pay you watchmen for, if poor creatui-es
ai'e to drop down dead with cold on the highway."

The watchman lifted his lantern to the face of the speaker — it
was a frank, lively, good-humoured f.ice, with about tive-and-
thirty years lightly laid upon it — and closing one eye, as if the act
gave peculiar significance to what he said, slowly obsei-ved,
syllable bj- syUable, "Any more of your imperance, and" — here
he took an oath, confi^rming it with a smart blow of his stick
upon the pavement, " and I 'U lock you up." The woman
matle some answer ; but the words were lost, ground by the
watchman's rattle, which he whirled about. As cricket answers
cricket, the rattle found a response. Along the street the sound
was caught up, prolongeii, and carried forward ; and small bye-
lajies gave forth a wooden voice — a voice that cried to all the

8 ST. GILE:S AND .ST. JAME3.

astounded streets, "Jii.stice is awake I " And then l.Tntem after
luntem flinimered in the nifrht : one lanteni advanciii'r witli a
.sober, a considerate pace ; another, with a .sort of flutter ; another,
danciu? Hke a jack-o'-lantem over the snow. And so, lantern
after lantern, witli w.itchnien behind, came and clustere<l alxjut
the box of him, who was on the instant gre«'te«l as Drizzle.

" What 'a the row ? " cried an Iri.shman — a young fellow of
about sixty, wlio flrmrished his stick, and stampe<l u]k>ii the ]>ave-
ment, like indijipiant virtue, imi)atit'nt of a wrong. " What 's the
row ? Is it her 1 " and he was alxjut to lay hia civil hand upon
the woman.

Ev»My watchman asked hi.s separate question ; it seemed to Ihj
his separate right : and Drizzle, as though respecting the privi-
lege of hia brethren, hea.nl them all — yes, every on^ — before he
answered. Ho then replietl, very measuredly — "A woman is
froze to death."

" AVhat I agin ? " crie<l two or three.

" A;.ru\" aiiswere<l T)rizzl»*. Then turning himself round, he
headed the watch ; ami lUDtioning to the woman to show the way,
he slowly led liis fellows down the street. lu due time, they
arrived at the sjv>t.

" Froze to death ?" cried Drizzle dojibtingly, holding his lantern
to the bloo<Iles,s, rigid features of the mi.sonible o»Uca.st.

" Froze to death ? " aske<l everj' other watchman, on taking a
like suixey.

"No, — no ; not dead ! Tliank Gofl ! not dea<l," exclaime<l the
woman, stooping towards her wretche^l sisster. " Her heart beats
— I th ink it 1 K^ats."

" Werry drunk ; but not a bit dead," said Drizzle : and his
brethren — one and all — niunnured.

" Well I what are you going to do with her?" asked the woman,
vehemently.

" \NTiat should we do with her ? " cried Drizzle. " She isn't
dead, and she isn't a breaking the peace."

" But .she will be dead, if she 'a left here, and so I desire "

"You desire ! " said Drizzle, " and after all, what 's your name,
and where do you come from ? "

" My name 's Mi-s. Aniseed, I live in Short's Garden.s — and I
come from — the Lord ha' mercy I what 's that ? " she crie*! aa
something stirred beneath the ends of the woman's shawl, that
lay upon her lap. With the words, Mrs. Aniseed plucked the
shawl a^ide, and discovered a sleeping infant. " Wliat a heavenly
babe ! " she cried : and, truly, the child in its marble whiteness
looked beautiful ; a lovely human bud. — a sweet, unsullied
sojourner of earth, cradled on the knees of miserv and vice.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 9

For an instant, tlie watchmen in silence f,'azed upon the babe.
Even their natures, liardened in scenes of crime and destitution,
were touched by the appealing innocence of the child. " Poor
little heart ! " said one. " God liclp it ! " cried another.

Yes ; God. helj) it ! And with such easy adjuration do wc
leave thousands and tens of thousands of human souls to want
and ignorance ; doom them, when yet sleeping the sleep of guilt-
lessness, to future dcN-ils — their own unguided passions. Wo
make them outcjusta, wretches ; and then puni.sh, in their wicked-
ness, our own selfishness — our own neglect. We cry "Grod help
the babes," and hang the nun.

Yet a moment. The child is still K'fore us. May we not see
about it — contending for it — the principles of gootl and evil ? A
contest between the angels and the fiends ? C\>me hither, stati-s-
man ; you who live within a j)arty circle ; you who nightly fight
some miserable fight ; continujilly strive in some selfii^h struggle
for power and jjlace, considering men only aa tools, the merest
in.strumeuts of your aggnindi.-^ement ; come here, in the wintry
street, and look uj)on God'-s image in it^i babyhood ! Con.sider
this little nutn. Are not creatures such as these the noblest,
grandest things of earth ? Have they not solemn natun-s — are
they not subtly touched for the highest pui-jxises of liuman litV- f
Come they not into this world to grace and dignify it ? There is
no spot, no coarser stuff in the pauper flesh Wfore you, that indi-
cates a lower nature. There is no felon mark upon it — no
natural formation indicating the thief iu its baby lingers — no
inevitable bhisphemy upon its lips. It lies before you a fair,
unsullied tiling, fresh from the hand of G04.I. Will you, without
an effort, let the great fiend stamp his fiery brand upon it ? Shall
it, even in its sleeping innocence, be ma«le a trading thing by
misery and vice ? A creature borne from street to street, a piece
of living merchandise for mingled begg:ay luid crime ? Say ;
what, with its awakening soul, shall it learn ? What lessons
whereby to pass through life, making :in item in the social sum ?
Why, cunuiug will be its wisdom ; hyjxjcrisy its truth ; theft its
natural law of self-preservation. To this chikl, so nurture*!, so
taught, your whole code of morals, nay, your brief right and
wrong, are writ in stranger figures th:m Eg_\'ptian hieroglyphs,
and — time passes — and you scourge the creatui-e never taught,
for the heinous guilt of knowing nought but ill ! The good
has been a sealed book to him, and the dunce is punished with
the gaol.

Doubtless, there are great statesmen ; wizards in bullion and
bank-paper ; thinkers profound in cotton, and eveiy turn and
variatiini of the mai'kets, abroad and at home. But there aro

10 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

state-smen yet to come ; statesmen of nobler aims — of more lieroic
.■iction ; teachers of the people ; vindicators of the uiiivoi-sal dij^niity
of man ; ajmstles of tlie great social truth that knowledge, which
is the spiritual liglit of God, like his material light, was made t<i
bless and comfort jdl men. And when these men arise — and it
is woi-sc than weak, it is sinful, to despair of them — the youngling
poor will not be bound up<jn the vi-ry threshold of human life,
and made, by want and ignorance, life's ehame and curse. There
is not a balie lying in the i)ul)Iic street on its mother's lap — the
unconscious mendicant to rijjen into the criminal — that is not a
reproach to the state ; a scandal and a cr}ing shame upon men
who study all politics, save the politii-s of the human heart.

To rotuni tu the child of our story ; to the baby St. (.iiles ; fur
indeed it is be.

In a moment, Mrs. Aniseed caught the infiuit to lier lx>.som ;
and j)res.sed it to her cheek. As she did so, she tunie<l p:Ue, and
tears came into her eyes. " It 's deail," she cried, ''blessed angel !
the cold — the cniel cold has kiile<l it."

" Nonsense," aaiil Drizzle, " the woman's for killing everything.
It's no more dead than its mother here, and" — and here the
watchman turned to his companions for counsel — " and what are
we to do with her ?"

" We can't ii\ke her to the workhouse," said one, " it 's past
the hour."

'• Past the hour ! " exclaimed Mrs. Aniseed, still hugging anil
wanning the babe at her bosom — " it isn't past the hour to die,
is it ? "

" You 're a foolish, wiolent woman," said Drizzle. " I tell you
what we must do ; we '11 take her to the watch-house."

'' The watch-house ! " cried Mrs. Aniseed. " Poor soul ! what
have you got to comfort her with there ?"

" Comfort ! "Well, I 'm sure — you do talk it strong ! As if
women sitting about in doorways was to be treatetl with comfort.
Ho\.somever, mates," said the benevolent Drizzle, " for once
we '11 try the workhouse."

With this, two of the watchmen raised the woman, and
stumbling at almost every step, they bore their burden on.
" Make haste ! " cried Diizzle, doubtless yearning for the hos-
pitality of his box, " make haste : if the cold doesn't bite a man
like nippers ! " And so, shambling along, and violently smiting
in their turn both arms against his sides, Drizzle preceded his
fellows, and at length halted at the workhouse. " It hasn't a
■werj' kindly look, has it ?" he cried, as he peered at the mansion
of the poor. " All gone to bed, I dare say. And catch any on

ST. GILliS AND ST. JAMES. 11

'cm gftting up such a night as tliis." So 8a}'ing, Drizzle pulled
inarit'ully at the bell, as though fairly to test his powera of attack
with the power of resistance within. " The governor, and niatern,
the nusses, the porter, and all on 'em snoring in lavender." The
bale thoiigTit of this Elysimn ailded strength to Drizzle's anu,
and again he imlled. "Had hot elder wine, or dog's-nose, or
BoiUtithing o' the sort, to pull theii' precious nightcaps on ! " And
again Drizzle tugged with renewed j)urpose. " They think o' the
l>oor just us much as they think o' meat and 'tatos, — as only things
to live upon." And still the workhouse bell rang a comfoilless
accompaniment to the watchmiui's indignation. " Now, I know
it ; I could swear it " — cried Drizzle — " they 're every one on 'em
awake ; they cant be otherwise ; wide awake, and tlanking how
precious nice their blankets is, and how cruel cold it is here.
Yes ; they hear the l>ell — they do ; tln-y can't help it ; and thoy
6Jiy to themselves, there's some i)oor devil out.side th.it 's frost-bit
and going to die, and wants a hot bed, and a dose of brandy, and
all tliat, to bring the life into him again ; luid he won't have it. No
— its \):\st the houi-s, iuid he must come agin to-morrow. That 's
wliat the vai-mint sjiy" — cried Drizzle — " that 's what they 8;iy to
them.selves, and then they go oH", and sleep all the sweeter for
knowing it. It 's as good its another blanket to 'em — it is,"
exclaimed the watchman, enraged by the picture his fancy had
executed, no less than by his abortive exertions at the workhouse-
bell. " And now, what 's to be done ? Why, nothin, but to go
o the watch-house."

" And I '11 take the baby home with me," said ^Mrs. Aniseed,
" and warm it, and give it something, and — "

'■ Can't allow that," said one of the watchmen.

'• Why not, poor lamb ? " asked Diizzle, suddenly tender.
•^ She '11 take care of it — and what are we to do with it ? You
don't think she 's a goin to steal it ? "

" Steal it ! " cried the indignant Mrs. Aniseed.

" I should think not," said Di-izzle. " Folks needn't steal
things o' that sort, I 'm sure ; the market 's overloaded with 'em ;
they 're to be had for nothin', and thank 'ee too. So you '11 take
care of it till the mother comes round ? "'

" To be sure, I will, poor dear heart ! " answered Mrs. Aniseed,
hugguig the child closer.

" And your name 's Aniseed, eh ? Yes ? And you live in
Short's Gardens ? All right : to-moiTow morning bring the baby
to the watch-house. We 've nobody to uui"se it there, neither
wet nor diy."

This touch of humour was not lost upon the watchmen, for
they acknowledged it with a loud laugh. Then one of them

12 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

suddenly alive to the humanities of his calling, cried, "Let's
bear a hand with the woman, or I 'm blessed if she won't be dead
outright."

And with this, the watchmen bore the mother to the watch-
house, and Mrs. Aniseed hurried with the child to her home.

CHAPTER 11.

It was past twcWe when Mrs. Aniseed reached her abiding-
place in Short's CJardens : a place, whoso name gave warranty
of by-gone rusticity ; of a time when St. Giles really broathed
in the Fields ; when blossoming hawthorns offered incense to
the saint ; when linnets, building in the furze, sang matin
hymns to the protector o( the leper. Many changes has St.
Giles beheld : other and better changes are, we hope, to come.
Here, in the fields, was good St. Giles installi^d the physician
and the comforter of leprosy. Here was he known, and j)rayed
to as intercessor between Heaven and suffering man. Disease,
the bom thing of dirt and poverty, knelt at liis shrine and begged
for health. And yi-are jwussed on, and the disea.se abated. The
plague of human kind — arrestetl by human knowledge and energy
— was smitten down, and the lej)er became a sutftTtr UTiknown.
And then St. Giles gathered about him the children of poverty.
He became the titular siiint of rags and s<|ualor. The clestitute
and the criminal took refuge under his protecting wings. The
daily h^-jiocrite on crutches owned St. (JiU-s for liis jirotector ;
cheats and mumpers of every sort — the town brigands, that with
well-aimed falsehoods make waj'faring compassion stand and
deliver — dwelt about the shrine of St. Giles, and lied and
cheated, staived and revelled in his name. A St. Giles's bird
was a human animal of prey — a raven, a kite, a carrion-crow.
And once again, the saint presided over filth, and its bom evil,
disease ; agiun, St. Giles was sought by lepers, most hideous,
most incurable — the lepers of crime and poverty.

And — it cannot be doubted — St. Giles suffered in reputatioD
from the unseemly flocks that gathered about him. In the imagi-
nations of men, he became a low, pauper saint ; a saint of vulgar
tastes, and vile employments ; a saint that was scarcely spoken
of, save in connection with craft, and ill manners, and drunken-
ness, and IjTng, and thie^■ing. Even saints suffer in renown by
constant association with poverty and wickedness.

And then they made St. Giles a hanging saint : made him keep

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 13

a sort of half-way house, where he ofiFered the final bowl to the
Tybui-n-bouud felon. St. Giles was poor, anil was assorted with
the gjillows. That ignominy is, however, past. Now St. Giles
does not offer a comforting draught to thieves : no ; he only
breeds them.

And now is St. Giles to be wholly reformed. He is to be made
a cleiinly saint. His cellars, where his infiint votaries are begotten
for crime, and nurtured for the gaol, are to be destroyed — filled up
again. The demon tj^jhus is to be killed with sweet air and fresh
water. The brotherhood of St. Giles are no longer to be of tho
Blessed Order of Filth ; they are to wear linen, and wash their
hands and faces !

To our storj'.

It was past twelve, when Mrs. Aniseed ascended the third
flight of stairs that led to her home — her one room. A voice
was heard proceeding from that room — a voice, droning a street-
ballad of the day. " Why, Susiin, I'm blessed if I hadn't given
you up," said the voice, the owner of it being a short, broad-
chested block of a man, seated before a tolerable fire, which, with
half-contemplative look, he continued to scrutinise ; never turning
his eye towards the partner of his bosom and his hearth. And
thus, complacently whiffing smoke fi-om a ruin of a pipe, he con-
tinued to stai-e at the coals and talk : " If I didn't think some-
body had run away with you. I 've been home thi.s half-hour.
Not much luck again to-night. Hardly enough to pay for the
link. Howsomever," said Jem, as though still talking to the
fire, " I 've got something for you."

" And I 've got sometliing for you, Jem ;" said his wife, seating
herself. " Guess what it is."

" No : I never guess with a woman," said Jem ; " a man has
no chance." And then he asked, " What is it ? "

" Look here," cried his wife, unfolding her apron, and disco-
vering the sleeping babe.

Bright Jem jumped from his seat, and now looking at the child
— and now in his wife's face — asked, with solemn voice, and
upUfted eyebrows, " Wliere did you get it 1"

" I found it, Jem," said the woman.

" Found it ! Well, next time, when luck 's upon you, I hope
you '11 find something better." And then, with his forefinger he
touched the baby's cheek, and said, somewhat tenderly, " Dear
little heart ! "

" Can't you see who it 's like, Jem ? " asked Mrs. Aniseed, and
her eyes softened.

" Why, it 's like all babies," answered Jem. " I never see any
dilTercnce in 'em : all the same, like Dutch cheeses."

14 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

" Ha ! Jem," said Mrs. Aniseed, " you 've never been a
mother."

" No," said JeoL

" Else you 'd have seen that it 's aa like our dear lost Dick as
one angel's like another"

" Not a bit — nut a bit," said Jem in words ; but hid tone and
manner said, " And so it is."

" Oh, I saw it — in a minute, Jem ; and I see it now, dear little
fellow. He 'd ha' been dead, »tuue-<lead in the morning, if I
hadn't come up a^ I did."

And Jem, placing liLs hands u|»on his knees, and staring in his
wife's face, aske^l, " And where did vuu find him I" Whereujion,
Mrs. Auisceil — with conuniiidablc brevity — narnited the incident
of discovery alreatly chronicled.

"Well, jxxjr little chap," said J' lining hi.s seat and his

pipe, "he's welcome to boanl and , ^ ^ fur one night,"

Mrs. Auisectl made no answer. But aa the child began to
wake, she bustled alM>ut the room, ami soon prejannl for it a
sufficing 8ujip«r. Few were the minutes, an<l she had the child
ujxju her laj) witU ita bare legs almost roaating at the fire, and
with more than infantine energy, trying to swallow the victuals,
spoon and all

" "Why, if he doesn't eat like a young sparrow," said Jem, eye-
ing the little feeder askance. " Ue 's not strange in a strange
place, any how."

" Oh, Jem 1 " crie«l Mrs. Ani»ee«l aa though she was unbur-
thening her heart of its dearest wish — " Oh, Jem, how I should
like to keep it 1" Jem said nothing ; but slowly t.iking the pipe
from his mouth, he looketl all the amazement he was master of.
Of course his wife took no notice of this. She merely continued :
" I 'm sure, Jem, the dear little soul would bring a blessing
on us."

" Yes, and another belly to fill ; and another back to cover ;
and two more feet to shoe ; and" — and we know not what inven-
tory of obhgations Jem would have ma<le out ; but his wif.j — a
fine tactician — began to chirrup, and crj' to the child, and make
all those legendary nobes of the nursery, handed down to us
from the time that Eve nursed Cain. Jem was in a moment
silenced. WhereufKin, in due time, Mrs. Aniseed set the child
up, and then danced it in the verj- face of Jem, calling upon him
to remark its extraordinary loveliness, and by consequence, its
extraordinarj- resemblance to their lost Dick.

"He's a sharp little shaver," said Jem, gently pinching the
liaby's cheeks- when the baby laughed.

" If it doesn't seem to know what you say, Jem,'' cried Mrs.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 15

Aniseed ; and then witli new vehemence she added, " Somethuig
tells rae it would be lucky to uh."

" Nonsense, woman ! " cried Jem ; " how can we afford such
fancies ? Y(ju '11 be thinking of keeping pug-dogs and |iaiTot8
next. Besiffes, it's impossible, with the jilayhouse going down
as it is."

" I 've been quite in the way of babies to-night," said M rs.
Aniseed, a little shifting the subject ; " young master s come
to town."

" Oh, a boy is it ? " gnimbled Jem, " Well, he 'h a bettor
chiuice of it than that little chap." Mrs. Aniwed drew a viry
long, deep sigh, int^-nding it for an emphatic aflinuatioii. " lie's
a good big gold 8|>oon in hi.s mouth alrea*ly. Humph ! a lx)y is
it 1 And what, after idl, Jklrs. Aniseed, what business had you
there / You know I don't like it — and you trill go."

Now tliis remoiuitrancc upplieil to the visits of Mrs. .<Vuisee<l
to a certain house in St. James's-B«juaro ; at which house a
younger si>inster sister of the linkman's wife flnuriHlud as und<r
kitchen-maid. She, however, had a due coutcmj>t for St. tiilcs's,
and all its dwellers ; and on certain occasions had not scrupled
to express her wonderment that her sist^jr, " who after all wjus
not sich a very plain gal," should have ever tiiktn up with so
low a husbiiud as a nasty linkmiui. She h:id st>mehow comi»are<l
the big liouiiuets of the footmen with the pitch and hemji with
which Bright Jem was wont to earn what she called "his low,
dirty bread," and her nice sense of sweetness was ginevou-sly
otl'ended by the contrast. Sometimes, too, out of purest conde-
scension, Kitty Muggs — for Muggs was the virgin name whicli
no oiloriferous lacquey had as yet robbed her of — would visit
Short's Gardens. At such times it was impossible for her not to
make it known to St. Giles the vast debt of gratitude due from
it to St. James : — a debt which Bright Jem — as one of tlie
representatives of the meaner locality — never by the smidlcst
instalment ever permitted himself to pay.

*' As for Kitty, he was alwa^-s verj' glad to see her if she 'd leave
her nonsense behind her; but she always walked into the room aa
if she walkeil upon eggs ; alwa}'3 brushed the chair afore she 'd
sit down ; and always moved with her petticoats lifted up, as if
the white honest deal b»»ards of the floor was so much gutter-mud.
And then the tea was always so coarse, and not a bit like tlieir
giuipowder ; and the bacon was rusty, not a bit like their hams ;
and in fact there was nothing, no, not even the flesh and l)lood of
Short's Gardens, at all like the flesh and blood of the West-Eml.
Why didn't she keep to her own dripping, and not cast her nose
up like a flounder's tail, at the clean, wholesome food of other

16 ST. GILi:S AND ST. JAMES.

people ? He hated all such stuff ; and what 's more, he wouldn't
have it." Such, again and again, had been the wnrda of Bright
Jem ; and he never heard of the sisterly visits of his wife to the
aristocratic kitchen-maid, without protesting against them.

"Well," said Mrs. Aniseed, "she's the only relation I have in
the worlil, and I can't help seeing her. Poor girl! she's young
and giddy, but she doesn't mean nothing."

" Young and giddy !" cried Jem ; " well, I don't know at what
time of life goose leave off their giddiness, but she 's old enough
to be the mother of a goo«l many goslings. Got a Vwy, have they ?
— ha ! they 've been wanting one long enough. Got a young St.
James ? Well, babies in that quarter may be made of finer sort
of stuft th;in hfrealxjuts ; but he can hardly Ik; o handsomer little
thing than young St. Giles here." Sa\-ing tliis, Jem "held out hia
anus, and in an instant Mrs. Aniseed had ]>laced the baby in them.
" Well, he is a capital little fellow," cried Jem. "IIjuj he done
Bucking, I wonder ? "

"To be sure he has," averred Mrs. Aniseed on her own respon-
sibility.

"A lively little dog, isn't he ?" and Jem danced the child upon
his knee, and snajijw*! his fingers at it, and the child leapt up, and
laughe<l, and crowi»<l. And then Jem looking sadly at the iiif;uit,
said, " And he is like poor little Dick. I see it now, Susan ; he is
like Dick."

Mrs. Ani.seed made no answer ; but with great alacrity bustled
about the room, and prejmred suppiT. Such i)reparation was soon
made. " Now I '11 take him — you can't eat with him in your lap,"
she said.

" Let him be ; I '11 manage it — I used to do it once. Well,
well — what 's gone can't l)e helped. It 's no u.'^e a grievin',
Susan, is it ? — ^no, not a bit. If times wasn't so bad, now — to be
sure he won't take much as he is ; but then he '11 grow bigger,
and—"

" And I 'm sure he 'd be a comfort to us," cried Mrs. Aniseed,
"he looks like it."

" If he isn't fast asleep — Lord ! Lord ! " cried Jem, gazing at
the child, " who to look upon a sleeping baby, and to know what
things are every day done in the world, would ever think that aU
men was sleeping babes once. Put it to bed, Sue ; stop a
minute " — and Jem tenderly kissed the child. Then turning
round, and looking in the fire, he said to himself, " it is like little
Dick."

Though late when she went to bed, Mrs. Aniseed was an early
riser. She had prepared breakfast, and had fed her baby charge
before her husband was stirriny ; and it was plain had determined

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES, 17

within hersL'lf to ]A:ice all tliiiiL's in their very rosiest light before
tln^ eyt's (.if her iR-linnate. Slie li;i<l ulrea<ly conned and j^ot by iie;u'*
twenty ar<;iunents to prove the exceeiliug comfort — nay, the ulti-
mate pmlit, ilie cliild woiihl be to thein. And with tliese argii-
ineals sinimeKiig in her head, she moved actively about, setting
her room in order, at the same time ex])res.sing the most endtju'ing
pantomime to the infant that lay rolling before the fire. Never
bince the first quarter of lier lioneymoon had Mrs. Aniseed sliown
hei-self in sweeter temper. Bright Jem was not .slow to feel its
influence. " Why, Susan, you 're as lively as May -day this morn-
ing," said he, commencing liia toilette. " Whei'e 's the little
chap ?"

'* There he is, bless liini ! " crie<l ^VIi-s. Aniseed, "luul jus nnieh
at hi line ;ia if lie had been born here. Well, I don't know — I
uev-'r thought I coultl hjve Juiy baljy agjiiu after Dick."

•• Pooh ! wouien ciui love no end o' babies," said Jem. " They 're
made a p:ii|i'«.-e for it." Jem seated himself to breidcfast, yet ere
lie began, ncreated himself by tickling the child at his foot with
his fort-rniger, to the mutual delectation of baby and man ;
whilst I^li-s. Aniseed, {tfiusing in u half-cut slice of bread aud
butter, looked over the table, quite ' ' ' 1 with the .^jiort.
lluw she lauglied, lUid how frequently ured Jem that she

always sjiid he was the beat nurse in the world I She then re-
mained Solely attentive to the duties of the table, until Jem
having achieved his morning bacon, turned himself round, and
with his elbows upon his knees, looked thoughtfully down upon
the child.

"Well, that 's a better place than a door- step, any how," said
Jem, as the baby kicked before the tire.

" Yet that 's what it must come to again, Jem, if w^e 're hard-
hearted enough to tuni it out."

" Humph ! It 's a shame they should be bom, Sue ; a down-
right shame," said Jem momnifully.

" iji I how can the man talk such wickedness ? "

" I always tliiuk .so, when I see 'em ruiming about — poor dirfcy
creturs — as if they 'd been spa'wned in gutter-mud."

"With nobodv to teach 'em nothing 1 "

'' Oh, yes ; they all of 'em go to school, such as it is," cried
Jem bitterly.

" I 'm sure, Jem, ihey don't," said his wife. " There ar'n't
schools enough for 'em ; and then again how many of their
paj-euts don't care whether they know no more than headstrouf
pigs I "

" Oh, yes ; they all listen to a schoolmaster. I 've seen him
talking among 'em under gateways, and in corners, iu<[ in courts,
Vol, I.

IS ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

and afore sboi>wunlowd, and in all sons o' places in the streets;
yes, a schuolmaater tejiching little tliiufpj — and huw they do learn,
to be sure — no UiUor thaji that ; " and here Jem, with iiupreasive
action, held ujj a wire to.i8ting-furk.

" I never heiird of hiia in the pariah," said Mr3. Aniseed ; " what
schoolmaster do you mean I "

" The devil, Susiin, the devil : I Ve seen him amonjT the children,
honis, tail, ainl all — ha ! quite as nat'nil aa he 'a shown in any
j)antomime — I've seen Mm Jis plain as I see you; and whilst
he's been teaching 'em, I 've seen beside him Jack Ketch a grin-
nin\ and a rubbin' his hands, luid a smackin' his mouth like a
fellow as sees a hearty meal, and wanUs to fall to. I say it, Susan,
and I '11 stand to it — it 'a a shame they 're lx»ni."

" Won't it Ik? a ble,-«e<l thing to snatch this darling cretur — if
it doesn't look sensible as though it knew what we was UUkin' of
— this pretty ci\tiur from ail such trouble, all such wicke<lnosa ? "
asked Mrs. Aniseol, moving closer to her iiusltanil.

"Why, there was little Tom Jumj)er" — mu.sed Jem — "and
pretty J;ick Needles — junl that s.arcy little chaj), but ivt real harm
in him at fii-st, Ilob Winkin — didn't you and me know 'em all ?
Ami wasn't they all ruine<l al'ore they knew what ruin was ?
Wiiere are they now ? Why, ask Newgate — ask Newgate," said
Jem, moodily. " And that 's what they 'U do with you, my little
co<i:;er " — and Jem noddeil to the inf:uit, — "that 's what they'll
do with you. I cjin see it — though it 's a go<xl many years otf yet
— I can see the rojie about your little neck as sure — "

•' Iai, Jem ! " screamed Mi"s. AnistHjd ; ami she instantly seized
the baby in her ai-ms, and hugged it to her breast, as though to
protect it from imjwnding j)eril.

" Why, what au old fool you are ! " said Jem, wanly smiling at
his wife.

■' Well, you shouldn't talk m that way," answered Mrs. Aniseed,
" it 's tempting Providence. If you 're such a fortune-teller, and
can see so much, it 's a bound duty ujxm you, Jem, to prevent it."
Jem was silent : therefore his wife — tnie to her sex — talke<l on :
*' You ought to go down upon your knees, and bless youi"8elf that
you can make this darling buub your own, and save it."

Jem was silent a minute ; and then 8j)oke somewhat briskly on
the inspiration of a new thought. " It 's all very well aix)Ut
lambs, my deai- ; but how do we know they '11 let us liave it ?
How do we know that its mother — "

" It hasn't no mother, Jem. I slipt out afore you woke, and
T run down to the watch-house, and its mother died in the night,
J"m ; I thought she couMn't live. It 's a hard thing to say. but
ii s no loss to the child ; she b gone, Aud 1 won't say uothiug

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 19

about her ; V>nt them as know her give her shockincf words. So
here 's the oliilti, .Jem, ;i beg;j^ing of you, with all its little might "
— anil here the womiiii put the bciby'a hnnds together — " to take
it, and to du all you can fur it, and to be sure tl»at our little,
undt-r .such a.blfssing, will never grow less ; aj>d he)"e it i.s — isn't
it like our ih-ar Dick, Jem ? — here it is, a i>niying you to take jjity
on it, and love it, and be a lather to it. And you will, Jem 1 —
you will ?" cried the woman, the teara coming into her eyes, as
Bhe held the infant towards her hu.shand.

Now Bright Jem wa.s in face and tigure as uncomely a lump of
liuinaiiity a.'^ is onlinarily met with in any one day's travel.
His flat broail f;ice was the colour of ancient ixirchmont, thinly
sprinklt^l with deep pf>ck -marks. Hi.s mouth was cajuicioua its a
horse-shoe. Sliort brush-l>ristle8 thatelie*! his head ; and his
eye-brows, clubbing togi-ther, CT>uld not have nnistered fifty hiiira
between them. Ilis sm;ill, deep-set black eye.s — truly blaek, for
there seeuie*! no white to them — werv the lamps that lighted up
with quick and various expn-s-Mon this n»tv»t dithcult countinance;
and, in tin* present instance, did certaiidy appear as though they
twinkhil with a tire, direct from the heart. Jem wa« an ugly
m.ui. He knew it. This truth luid been so fre(|U»'ntly, so earnestly,
so jilainly impre.ssitl u]K>n him, that — slow aa most men are in
such belief — he could not but Wlieve it. More : we believe that
he was quite contented Nvith the cretnl. There are times, however,
when ugliness may steal a l<Mik — a tint from beauty. We believe
that no \vom:ui, for instance — if she marr}- for lore — let her be
ugly as Sibyl, looks altogether ugly on her wedding-day. How
it is done,whence it conies, we have not the pliilosophy to fathom ;
but sure we are that the spirit of be<"iuty does .sometimes iriatUate
the features of deformity, melting and moulding them into mo-
nientaiy comeliness^ — and most sun* we Me, that the said spirit did
with its b*.st doing, shine in the coontenance of Jem, as his wife
pressed the oi-phan cliild upt)n him.

" You '11 love it, and be a father to it ? " again cried Mrs.
Aniseed.

" If I don't," cried Jem, " I 'm— " but the wife stopped what-
ever wonl was comijig, by putting the cliild's face to Jem's mouth ;
and he t>X)k the creature in his arms, aiid hugged it foniUy, nay,
vigorously.

And now is young St. Gile-s snatched from the lowest round of
the ladder — (can it Tx? Jacob's laddt-r that, resting on the mud of
a cellar, Ls still to lead to heaven ?) — Now is he caught from direst
destitution ; from the teaching of hj'poerisy, and craft, and crrme^
to have alx)Ut him comf nts — though small comforts it is true ; to
be no longer shown, the image of poverty — a thing of human flesh

80 8T. GILKS .*;D ST. JAMES.

anil Llood to extort lialfi)eiice upon ? Is he really to be promoted
from the fuul, dark vault of a loathsome lane — sjivage bt-jists have
sweeter sleeping-places — to the wholesomeness, the light, the
airiness, the respectability of a three-pair front, in Short's
Gardens ? To that very three-pair front which Kitty ^luggs,
of St. James's-wiuare, looks down upon from her 8<rnliery
with all tlie lotlineHs of contempt? Ye.s, it is true: St. Oilea
will be promoteil. On the dunghill of poverty, huw great the
dislinctiuii between tlie layers of straw : what a world of diM'er-
euce between base, half-way, and summit ! Tliere is an aristocracy
of rags, na there U an aiistocracy of stars and garters.

Ahis ! fur only one minute is young St. (jiKs hoii.sed in his new
home — for only one minute is he the adopteil babe of James nuil
Susan Aniseed, when ho is called back to act his uncDnseious jwirt
of mendicant, when he in reclaimed, carried away In Intudage, the
born slave of penury and wrung. It is even S4j.

Before Jem hail ceased cnresging the child, he heanl an unuxual
hubbub on the ■•; another instant, ami Ids duur was fluno

op'-n, and a wr . rigged woman — worn, thin, and gha.-^tly— •

ptaggered into the room, followed by other women. " My bal»e—
my own bal>e!" cried the first wonuui, and was falling in a heap
upon the rioor, when Jem rapitUy i>laeing the child in his wife's
anus, caught the intruder. Annise*!, excited beyond her strength,
she pointed to tlte child, trie<l to sjieak, and then fainted.

The cause of thid interruption was soon made known to Jem
"The dear soul had come after her child."

"Her child!" cri'.Ml Mi-g. Aniseed. "She's not the child's
mother, and she sha'n't have it. I saw the mother hist night-
saw her froze to death — at li-a*t slie dietl ntum afterwards."

" Wliy, you see," said an old crone, " this is how it is. Tlie
dear woman there, that 'a the darling's mother, was sick of a fever
— the Lord help us, she 's sick now, and so is half the lane. Well^
you see, being so sick, she couldn't go out herself not by any
means. "Well, ami so she lends the child to Peggy Flit ; and
when Peg never came back at all, the poor cretur that 's tliere,
went well nigh mad. And this moniing, we found at the watch-
house that Peg was dead, and that you had got the babe ; an»l
you see we 've come for it, and that 's all," said the harridan with
di]>lomatic precision.

" But if she 's the mother," asked ilrs. Aniseed, " for what
should slie lend the child ? "

" For what should she lend the child ! " crowed the old woman,
looking very contemptuously at her catechist — " for what .should
Hue lend, — why in the name of blessed heaven for what else, if
ot, to go a begging with it I ''

ST. GILES. AN'D ST. JAMKS. 21

In fine — for wliy should we protract the scene? — young St. Giles,
the unconscious baby beggar, was bonie back in triumph to Hamp-
shire Hog Lane,

CHAPTER III.

It would be tedious work f«ir the reader, did we chronicle every
ewut of the long life of little St. Giles from the hour that he was
snatched from Short's Gardens until time beheld him in the
mature manhood of seven years old. A long life in south, th.it
BIX. years and a h;df ; f ir how nntch liad St. Giles ncconipli.^hed in
it ! What a stride had he made in existence, jKussing over
cliildisli days — childish ignorance ; exoni]it, by fortune of his
birth, from all the puerilities, the laugliing thoughllf.ssue.xs of
babyhood. He was now a suckling, and now a dw;u-fed man.
There wjis no dallying jtause, no middle sjiaee for him, to play
■with life, knowing not his playmate — no bit of green sward, with
flowers for toys. Oh, no ! he was made, with sudden \'ioleiice, to
know life. He saw not the lovely thing life, through gold>^n
shadows, roseate hues ; he looked not at it through the swimming
eyes of childhood ; a glorious thing to be ajiitroaclied through
what seem beauties numberless, that gradually fade and fade as
we jidvance uik.u the green uplands of time, unveiling to us hy
degrees the cold, hard, naked truth — the iron image, life. St. Giles
ha<l no such prepiu-atiom Suddenly, and with the merciless
strength of want, he wjis made to look on life in its fiercest, foulest
aspect. He saw at once the grim idol he had to serve, and all
unconsciously, he served it. Unconsciously, too, he carried in his
look, his air, his speech, a premature Misdom. He had learned,
a-s at once, his whole task ; but the suddenness of the tejicliing
liad wiped out childhood from his face : he had paid at one
Sinn, although he knew it not,' the price of life, for life's woi-st
knowledge.

How very differently did young St. James con his lesson, life !
In reality, only six months younger than his squalid brother — for
in this story St. Giles and St. James must fraternise — he was still
the veriest babe. Why, it was gladness to the heart to look at
him — to hear his bUthe voice — ^to see him, in that happy freedom
of infancy, when children play in the vestibule of life — as children
sometimes play with flowers picked from graves in a church-porch ;
heedless whence they pluck their pleasures, thoughtless of the
a>ystery of mysteries ta'ight within. And what prophecies — with

22 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

what "sweet breath composed" — were uttered to his glorifica-
tion I What a man he would make! What a blfssinf,' he would
prove to his begt-tU-i-s ! What a tn-a-sure to the world at large !
And so, young St. James, fed with the sweetest and the best,
clothed with the softest luid the richest — fomlled, ki.-^scd, caressed
— was, in truth, a glorious crt-atuie. There was hajipiiiess, deli-
cate beauty, in his soft puik and white cheek — innocence, uitelli-
geiice, in his large, laughing eyes. All he knew of the world w;w,
that it wa.s one large play-place fdled with many-sorted toys ; with
battledores, hunuaing-toi)s, ami rockiug-hoi-seti. Compai-ed with
young St. Giles, how very ignorant !

In something more th.au the six years elapsed since our last
chajiter, .St. (iiles had made more profitable u-se of time. But then
he had had the 8har])et>t teachers — and so many opjwrtuuities !
Hunger and cold were his tutors, ;uid rapid juid many are the
degrees of human knowledge conferred by them, alWit thoir
scholars are not prone to brag of their learning. Young St. Jiuues
wiis bounde<l by the garden, or the pai'ks ; or when he sjiw and
heard the hurry and roar of London, he took his imperfect lessons
through a carriagt'-window. Now, St. Giles — the matured, seven
years' adult — was a busy merchant on the great mail of men. Every
day he carried some new lie to market, played some new jiai-t, in
obedience to the tiend in his bowels, that once a day at leiist cried,
" Eat, ejit." Aiid sometimes, too, the tiend would vary his cry,
and after long grumbling, long suflering, too, would mutter, " Steal,
steal." Ami what wns there in the wi.rd to appal St. Giles?
Kothiug ; he had heard it so eai-ly : it was to him an old familiar
Sound — a househuld .syllable. True it i.s, he had heanl that it was
wrong to steal : he had heiu-<l m;uiy other things, too, that were
•wrong ; many that were right. But somehow they were jumbled
in that little active brain of his. He could not sep;u-ate them
He supposed there were some people whose business in the worhl
it was to steal ; just as there were some piople boiii to fine housea
and tine clothes, — whilst some were only bom to cellai-s and ntga.
And so, wicked St. Giles woidd pilfer — such is human iniquity —
with no more conscience than a magj^ie.

With this preface, touching the advanced years and various
accomplishments of our heroes, let us now take up om- broken
narrative.

One of the seven airiest and finest streets that compose the
Seven Dials — for we care not to name the exact spot — lx);Lsted the
advent of a tradesman, who employed the whole \ngour of bis mind,
and he himself thought not meanly of its power, on the manufacture
of muliins. At the time of our present chapter, Mr. Capstick

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 88

had only lived a twelvemonth under the protection of St. Giles ;
payin;,' the yaint due jtarish rates fur such advantarje. Wliere
Mr. Uajwlick came from, nobody knew. It \v;us phiiii, he was
one of those people who now and then droji from the sky into a
neighhourhoofl, for no other end than to adorn and dignify it.
Any way, it was plain that Mr. Ca|).stick thoxight aa much ; and
he was not a man to disguise his thoughts when they at all tended
to his self-glorification. True it w.-uj, muffins had been known in
St. (iiles's, ere Mr. Cajwtick hghti'd his oven there. But M'hat
inutlins ! How, too, were tliey ma^le — where vended 1 Why, as
Mr. Ca|»tick would oVwerve, they were made its if tiiey were bad
halfpence — ami tiiey were quite as hai\i to chew — in guilt and
darkness. ISobody knew what they were eating. Now, all the
world might see him nuike his mutlins. Indeed, he would feel
obliged to the world if it would take that trouble. To be sure, he
wjui throwing his niullins to swine — but he couldn't helj) tliat. It
w.'tsn't his nature to do anything that WJisn't tirst rate : he kn»!w
he w;ui a loser by it ; all nu-n who <lid so were ; nt-vertht-lcss. a
man who wiis a true man would go on ruining liiinself for the
World, though he might hate the world all the time he w.is doing
it. His nmthns were oi>en to the universe. There was no mys-
tery in him, none at idl. And then he would say, glowing at
tiuie.'^ with a stnuige eloquence, " What a glorious thing it would
be for the world, if ever)' man made his nmihu — whatever that
mullin might be — in the open light of heaven ; iuid not in a cuj)-
board, a hole, a corner ! It w;is making mutlins in secret, and in
darkness, that made three parts of the miserj' of mankind."
When ]H.'ople heai'd Mr. Caj)stick discoui-se after this fjushion,
they would conriilentially declare to one imother, that it was plain
he was born above his business: he was a broken-down gentleman ;
perhaps come of a Jacobite family, and made muffins to hide his
(lisgnice. True it was, there wjts a pompousness, a swagger, an
atlected contempt of the people with whom he turned the penny,
that gave some warranty for these opinions. Notwithstanding,
Iklr. Capstick, with all his consetjuence, all his misiuithmpy, — and
he wore his hatred of mankind as he would have worn a ditmiond
ruig, a thing at once to be put in the best light and to be very
proud of — was a great favourite. The cellai"s of St. Giles's echoed
his praises. He was, in his way, a great benefactor to his poorest
neighbours. " You see, Marj' Anne," he would say to his wife,
*' what a blessing there is in com. When muffins are too stale to
sell, they 're always good enough to give away." And these re-
mainder muffins he would frequently bestow upon the veriest
needy, accompanied with phrases that spoke his contempt of
human natui-e, his own particular nature included.

24 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

Siicli was Iklr. Capstick — such was the self-important muflRn-
makc'i- — wlioni we liave now to introduce to the reader. Tht- tiiue
was about two o'clock on a f^sty Iklai'ch afternoon ; and Mr. ( 'ajv
stick stood erect beliind hi.s counter, evidently stning for some
important task. Tliere was a weight of meaniu'.; in his hroad,
wliite face ; and a big black cap, selected it would seenx witli an
eye to the picturesque, impending over his brow, imparted to it a
severity not to be lost upon vulgiir behoKlers. Having thnist his
hands and half his amis into his breeches )>ockets — as though to
place hini.sclf firmly on his centre — the mulHn-maker proceeded to
interrogate a child before him, speaking very loud, ;uid frowning
very- signififantly the while. The child, reader, was young St.Giles.
You k'ft him when he was a nui-sling ; and the W>y man stands
before you. He is puny and <lwarfed ; a miserable little chit in
his anatomy ; but his sharj), f.ix-like fare — his small bla>-k eyes,
now looking bjtshfulness, and now brightening witii im])udence
— his voice, now coaxing, and now drawling — jji-ove him to be an
almost equal m.atch for his l)urly questioner, the clever, poiDj/vus,
world-knowing muflin-makcr.

" So ; you are the little dog that came begging of me in Bow-
Btreet ? " growled Capstick.

" I 'm the worry dog, sir," answered St. Giles, in no way
daunteil by Capstick's thunder.

" Don't you know that lK)ys oughtn't to lieg? Don't you know
that T cnuld have sent you to gaol for l>egging ] Eh? Don't
you know that ? " asked the magnilict-nt muirm-maker very
loudly.

" Yes, sir ; I knows it, sir," replied the child, with a wondei-ful
knowledge of law.

" And if you know better, why don't you do better ? " said
Capstick.

" Don't know what bettor is, sir," returned St. Giles, looking
down at the flooi", and shuffling his feet.

" Humph ! " mused Capstick, and then be somewhat gently
asked, " should you like to learn it, my little boy ? "

"Isn't it worry hard, sir?" inquired St. Giles. "Don't like
hard learning, sir."

" ^V^lat, you 've tried, have you ? You have been to school,
eh ? You can write a little, St. Giles, and read a little ? " said
the muffin-maker.

" No, sir ; never went to school ; never had time, sir. Besides,
sir, father always used to say, school was so weirv dummy."
" Dummy ! "WTiat 's dummy ? " cried the muffin-maker.
Young St. Giles leered up in Capstick's fivco, and then gi^'ing
himself a twist, as though enjoying the tradesman's ignorance.

ST. GILES. AND ST. JAMES. 25

said — " Xut know wh;it duiniuy Ls ! Why, sir, if you ple;ise,
duiimiy 'sjfiis/iy

" Oh I then you know /?//.■>■/( .? " a-skcil Capstiek.

" I know ji.little, sir," rejilied St. Giles, very njcnlestly : "know
more, when I grows bigger."

"1 dare say you will," cried the munin-niaJier, pityingly,
"And tell nie, what '.s your father doing now ? "

" He '9 a doing nothing now, sir."

'• No ! " said C.ai)stick.

" No, sir, — he 's deail," saiil St. Giles ; but whether in sim-
plicity or jest, the muflin-maker did not discover.

" And you 've never been taught to do anjlhing i Poor little
wretch ! " cried Capstiek.

It was plain that young St. Giles rejected the compassion of
the nndlin-niaker ; for he immediately, with much volubility,
as.sei-ted : " I knows a gootl many things, sir ; sometimes, sir,
goes singing o' ballads with Tum Bliust : was to have gone with
him to-chiy ; only Tom 's so precious hoarse, crying dying speeches
yestor<lay. Tlun I knows how to sell matches, and hold oase.s,
and do a many things, sir, a-s I forget now."

Cai>stick looked at the urchin for a few moments, then leaning
over the counter, and beckoning St. Giles closer, he said to him,
in a tone of tenderness, — " Vou 'd like to be a good boy, wouldn't
you ? "

" A course, sir," answered St. Giles, with stolid face.

" And so be a good man ; and so at last get a nice shop, such
as this, eh ? You \1 like it, eh ? "

" "Wouldn't I though ! " cried St. Giles, playing with his hair
and m-inninf'.

" Instead of wandering about the streets — and sincrinjr ballads
— and going along with boys, that at last may le;id you to be
hanged ?"

" I saw Bill Filster hung, yesterday," cried St. Giles sharply,
and his eyes sparkled as with the recollection of the treat.

" Oh Lord ! oh Lord ! " groaned the muffin-maker. " You
little rascal ! who took you ?"

"Went with some big boys," answered the unabashed St.
Giles. " I give Piiil Slant a happle to let me set apon his
shoulders. Bill Filster used to live in our lane. Poor Bill ! It
■was so prime."

The muffin-maker spasmodically whipped his cap from his
head, and drawing a long breath, wiped his brows ; the while he
looked at young St. Giles with pity, and something like bitter-
ness. The next moment he cried to himself, " Poor little wi-etcU!
Poor little animal ! "

26 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

•'I know'd Bill Filster. Once he lived in our Line, Oh,
couliln't he .sing a sdug ! He teached me one about Dick Turjjin.
Sometimes," aiid St. Giles, bending liis small quick eyes on
Cai)stick, "sometime.s people have given me a j>omiy to sing it."

The muffin-maker made no reply ; but with a lofly waving of
the hand — imme<liat>ly undei-stood by St. (liles — commanded
silence. Then did Mr. Capstick walk up and duwnj behind his
counter, self-corarauning. Fix his flying thoughts in words,
and they would read .somewhat as follow : — " A little scoundrel !
poor wretch, how can he help it? What's he been taught ?
"Wrong, wrong ; nothing but wrong. There 's a maimer in the
little villain, too, that promises something better. He's but a
babe ! Toor miserable thing ! and what a knowing little ra.scal !
Well, it won't ruin me — thank God! — it can't ruin nie." And
then Mr. Caj^tick agivin laid himself aerosa the counter, and sjiid
a little stendy to young St. Giles — "C<mie here, you sir."

" Yes, sir," siiid St. Giles*, stepjiing uj) to the muilin-maker,
and looking contidently in the face of h'ls patron.

"If I was to be your friend, and try to s;ive you from being
hanged — there, don't cry" — for St. Ciiles atfecting sensibility had
already raised liis ami to his eyes — " If I wjis to save you from
being h;ini;ed, for else you 're pretty sure to come to it, would you
be a good boy, eh I "

" (>h, wouldn't I, sir !" cried St. Giles. " I jest would then."

'•Well — do you think you coidd sell mutfins?" And this
question Mr. Cajwtick put in a low, cautious voice, with his eye
turned watchfully tow.uds tlie b.iok jKU'lour, as though he feared
some sudden detection.

"I shouM like it so!" cried young St. Giles, rubl/mg his hands.

Capstick was evidently taken with the Ixiy's alacrity for the
profession, for he quickly said — " Then I '11 make a man of you.
Yes ; I '11 set you up in business." With these wonls Capstick
produced a small basket from behind the counter. " Be a good
boy, now," he said, " an honest boy, and this basket may some
day or the other grow into a big shop. Understand ; you can
understand, I know, for you 've a lot of brains of some sort iu
your eyes, I can see. Understand, that if you 're civil and pains-
taking, your fortune's made. This is the best chance you ever
had of being a man. Here 's a biisket and a bell," — for in the
days we write of, the mulfin-bell Wiis not unmusical to legislative
eai-s — " and two dozen muffins. You '11 get two shillings for 'era,
for they 're baker's dozens. Then come here to-morrow ; I '11
Bet you up again, and give you a lumping profit for yourself
There's the goods;" juid Cap.stick, with exceeding gravity,
ylaced the basket in one hand of St. Giles, and a small metal bell

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 27

in the other. " Tell me, my boy, did you ever see Lord Mayor's
show ? "

" Yes. sir ; many times," said the seven-year-old St. Giles.

"And the Lord ^Livor in his gold coach, and tlie trunipetei-a
before him, anfl all that ? Now, attend to me" — and the muflRn-
niaker bocanie still more grave. "Attend to nie^ There's many
a Lord Mayor who never had the start you have — wlio never was
so lucky to begin life upon muffins. So, when b:vd boys come
alM)Ut you, and want you to idli- antl play with 'oin, and do woi-se
than that it m.ay be — just think of the Lonl !^Layor, and what
you may come to."

" Yes, sir, I will, sir," said young St. Giles, impatient to begin
business.

" Tlun go along with you," cried Capstick ; " and mind people
don 't call me a fool for trusting you. There, go," said the trades-
man, a little pompously — " cry muffins, and be happy !"

St. Giles ium])ed from the step into the street, and rang his
bell, and chiri>ed " mutfins " with the energy of a young enthu-
siast. (.'a]Kstick, with coniplacfiicv ujwn his face, looked for a tiiue
after the child ; he then muttered — " Well, if it saves the little
wi-etch, it 's a cheap j^enn 'orth."

" At your old doings again I" cried Mi-s. Cai^stick, who from
the dark nook of a back j)arlour had watched, what she often
called the weakness of her husl)an<l.

" My dear Mary Aime," chuckled Mr. Ca]«tick, ;us though
laughing at a goo<l joke — " 'tis the little rascal that, I told you,
set uj>on me in Bow-street. I've given him a few of the stale ones
—he 's rogue enough to pass 'em off I know. Ha ! ha I I like to
spe the villany of life — it does me good. After, as you know,
what life 's done for me, it 's meat and diink to me to see crops of
little vagabonds coming up about us like mustard-seed — all of 'em
growing up to cheat and rob, and serve the world as it should 1)6
served ; for it 's a bad world — biise and bra-ssy as a batl shilling."
And with this ostentatious, counterfeit misanthroj)y, woidd the
muffin-maker award to his best deeds the worst motives. And
^Ii-s. Cajistick w;is a shrewd woman. She sufl'ered hei"self to seem
convinceil of her husband's malice of heart, — knowing as she did
its thorough excellence. But then the muffin-maker had been
bitterly used by the world. " His wine of life," he would say,
" had been turned into vineEcar."

" Well, you '11 be ruiueil yovur own way," cried IStrs. Capstick.

" And that, Mary Aome," .said the mutfin-maker, " is some com-
fort in ruin. AVhen so many people woidd ruin us, it 's what
I call a triumjih over the villany of the world to be ruined aft^r
one's own pattern."

28 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

•* Good .afternoon, ma'am — why, y(>n 're welcome as the flowers
in spring," siiid Mi-s. Capstiek to a wonjan flainilily <li<'sse<l. .'iiul
Viurnin'T in reil liKamls, who sucMenlyeiitereil tlio shnj); a wimKin,
whose appearance did scarcely suj^<(cst the heaiity and tt iidcmcss
of spring floweif. " I haven't seen y«>u tliese tliree months."

" Oh lor no ! " said the woman, " that court will be the death
of all of U.S."

I.«t not the reader iniaifine that Kitty Muggs complained of the
tainteil ;iir or contincd limits of .-my court in the ncighl>ourhood.
No, indeed ; she spjke of no other court tli.m the Court of St,
James.

" What I Queen Charlotte will so often make yon t.ake tea with
her, eh I" said the niufhn-m.an. with his severest ^neer. "It's
too had ; she oughtn't to lie so h.ard upon you."

" Oh, there 's no much dining and dining — cabinet dinners, my
dear, they call 'em — for they .alw.nys e.at UHxst when they 've most
to do, — that I might as well be ui the galleys. However, they 're
all going to the play to-night, and — it 's a poor heart that never
rejoices — I 'm going there myself."

" Well, I don't know that you could do a better thing," said
Cap.stick ; "there 's a good deal to be learnt at a play, if fools will
learn anything.''

"Oh! a tiddle'.s end Ujwn learning. I go for a nice deep
trage<ly ; something cutting, that will do me goo«l. There 'a
nothing so refreshing as a good cry, when, my dear, you know
after .oil there 's nothing to cry about. Teal's was given us to
enjoy oui*solves with — that is, teare at the play-lionse."

"They wash out the mind, like a dirty tea-cup," said the
mufti n-niaker, "and give a poli.sh to the feelings."

"They always do with me, Mister Cay)stick," said the woman.
" I never feel so tender and so kind to all the world as whjn I 've
had a good cry ; and, thank Heaven I a veiy little makes me cry.
"What we women should do, if we couldn't cry, m}' dear, nobody
knows. We 're treated ba<l enough as it is, but if we couldn 't
cry when we Uked, how we should be put upon — what poor,
defenceless ci-eturs we should be ! "

" Nature 's been very kind to you," said the muffin-maker.
" Next to the rhinoceros, there 's nothing in the world armed like
a woman. And she knows it."

" I 'm not talking of brute beasts, Mister Capstiek," said the
fair one, tossing her head ; and then approaching the shop-door,
she looked intently down the street.

;Mi-s. Capstiek, to change the conversation, carelessly observed
■ — " You ai'e not looking for anybody, Kitt}' ? "
*' For nobody in paiticljir," said Kitty, and slie again gazed

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 29

rerv anxiouslv. " Tlie truth is, one of oiu- gentlemen ifi going to
tlie |)lav with me. We di<Ui 't leave the house together, for you
kn<i\v what foolishness people talk. I told liim to meet me here.
T 'ni going to Iniy some uuiftins," she ([uickly added, as a justitiable
trading exeus^ for the liberty she hail taken.

" Never mind the muffins," said Capstick ; " if I can help you
to a hu.sband in any lawful way, Kitty, why I owe the world such
a gruilge, I '11 do anything to do it."

Kitiy, in her maiden confusion, unconscious of the muftin
maker's satire, merely said, " Lor ! ^Ir. Cap.stick."

"What sort of a gentleman is he i" asked Mi-s. Ca))stick.

" Tluii'e, again," said the mulhn-maker, " if it is n 't droll !
There can 't be a woman ever so old, that, when she thinks she
smells a sweet-heart soniewhere, does u 't snigger and grin as if
her own courting days were come again. Well, you are a strange
lot, viiu women ! "

"Wiiatsort of a gentleman is he, Kitty?" repeated the un-
moved ^li*s. Capstick.

Kitty smiled very forcibly, ami answered, "Oh, a — a dark
gentleman. And now, Mrs. Cajistiek, let me have a shilling's-
worth of mulhns. Deiir me ! Why don't you come and live in
Pell Mel! ? Mutlins is the only things ihat we haven't tip-top at
the West-end You 're burying youi-self here, in St. Giles 's ;
you are, indeed. If you 'd oidy come We.-^t-end — only do n 't let
it be known where you come from — I could put youi* muffina, as
I may say, into millions of families."

" It 's worth thinking of," said the sly Capstick. "I might be
appointed mutJin-maker to the Royal Family. Might put up the
Royal Arms, with a gold toiusting-fork in the lion's mouth."

" To be sure you might," said the sanguine l\jtty ; " and if
you 've a mind to do it, I '11 sjieak to the cook — he 's tl»e best of
friends with the butler — the butler will speak to the valet — the
valet will speak to master — and m^^:>ter 's only got to catch the
king in a good humour to do anytliing with liim. I tell you what
do," s^iid Kitty, as struck by a brilliant thought : " send in a
couple of dozen muiiins to-morrow, and I '11 manage to introduce
'em."

" And you think his gracious ^Majesty 's to be got at in this way,
through the kitchen ? " asked Capstick.

" I 'm certain sure of it ; it 's done every day ; or what 's the
good of ha^'ing a master in what they call a cabinet ? There 's
nothing like working up "tmls, Mi\ Capstick — I know what the
court is. I 'd have done a good deal for Jem — they call him
Bright Jem, but I could never see his brightness — only he 's
fts proud as a peacock with a Sunday taU. I covdd have got hilft

30 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

—ah ! T don 't know wliat I couldn't have got him— only he 'd
never let me lusk for it. lla. ! if my foolish sister hadn't married,
as I may s;iy, in the gutter, she might have been quit« as well off
as me."

"She seems veiy happy, for all that," 8ai<l Mi-s. Caput ick.

"Poor thing! she «loesn't know no better," said Kitty; "she
oughtn't to be happy thotigh. I 'm going to tea with her, juid to
take them iimlRna ; for though she h.xs married a low tnidesman,
I can't forget she's my sister; and yet you shovild hear how I
do get laughed at alvint it, sometimes in our house. But feelings
is feelingsfMr. Papstiek. Oh !" arlded Kitty with much vivacity,
an<l an atleeted flutter— "here comes the gentleman. Now, tliink
of what I 've said, ^^fr. Capstick ; there 's the shilling." And
Kitty, taking the muffiiw, turned out of the shop, me«'ting a black
footman— black a.s guilt— a.s he w.-us al»out to enter. " Here I am,
C'e.sar," *iid Kitty ; and taking an ebony ann, she walked with
him away.

" AVhv, bless me ! She 's never going to maiT)- a nigger ! "
cried the muffin-maker's wife. "She'll never do such a thing J
Eh, Mr. Ca|«tiek ? "

" Whv, M.iry Anne." wii.l the misanthrope, " Mis.^ Kitty is a
long wav the other side of a chicken. And wlicn women of her
time of life can't snow white, they '11 anow black."

CHAPTER IV.

"W'e must again solicit the company of the reader to the lodging
of Bright Jem, Short's (larden-s. It is the .same cle.-ui, dull room,
as shown in our second chapter : one of the many nooks in which
the care and industry of woman do somehow make poverty and
snuffuess half friends ; in which penur}' h:is at least the cheerful
hue of cleanliness. Bright Jem again smoked at the fire-place.
Though more than six yeare hatl passed, they had run off liis face
like oil. Here and there his stubbly hair was dre<lge<l with grey ;
his broad back wa.s bent a little, nothing more. Indeed, Jem's
was one of those faces, in which time seems at once to do its best
and woi-st. It grew a little browner with years like walnut-wood ;
but that was all.

We cannot .s;iy — and in truth it is a ticklish question to ask of
those who are best qualified to give an answer— if there really be
not a comfort in substantial ugliness: in ugliness that, unchanged,
will la^t a man his life ; a good gi-anite face iu which there shall

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 31

be no wear and tt.ar. A man so apjxjuited, is save<i many
alarm;;, many spasms ot" pi'idc. Time camiot wouutl liis vaiiity
through his features ; he eats, drinks, and is merry, in despite of
iiurroi"s. No ac(iuaiiitanre starts at .sudden alteration, hintin;^' in
BUi:h suri)rise, deoay and the linal tomb. He grows older with no
former intimates — (.diurchyard voices ! — crying, " How you 're
ahereil !" How many a man might liave been a truer husband,
a better father, firmer friend, more valuable citizen, had lie, when
arrived at legal maturity, cut off — siiy, an uich uf his nose. This
inch — oidy an inch I — would have destroyed the vanity of the
very handsomest face; aiul so, driven the thoughts of a man from
a vulgar looking-ghuvs, a jiiece of sliop crystal, — and more, frum
the fatal mirrors carried in the hea«ls of women to reflect, heaven
knows Imw many coxc<->ml>s who clKK)se to stare into them, —
driven the man to the gl:i»is of his own mind. AVith such small
8)icrifice, he might have been a i)hilo9opher. Thus considered, how
mjuiy a coxcomb may l>e within an inch of a sjige ! Time, there
was jiu age when wise men — at least a few of them — ^gloritie<l in
8clf-mutilation, casting sanguinary oflerings to the bird of wisdom.
But this W!us in the freshness and voutli of the world ; in the
sweet innocence of e;irly time, liut the world gi'ows old ; and
like a failed, f;ishionable l>eauty, the older it grows the more it
lays on the paint.

And the sum juid end of this swelling ])aragra]jh is this. If,
O reatler ! you are young and Kdieve youi-self handsome, avoid
the i»eril of beauty. Think of Narcissus, and — cut off your nose.
Onlv :ui inch ! And now let us descend to the hearth and home
of liright Jem.

Mrs. Aniseed still shone, in comfortaltle looks, at the fire-side.
Her face w:is a little thinner, a htile longer; but time had
touched her as though, for the good heart that was in her bosom,
he loved her.

A thu-d person — a visitor — wiis pre-sent : a woman of any age.
Her face seemed bloodless — white a.s chalk — formed in sharp out-
line. She was jworly drest, — and yet it was pLiin she aimed at
a certain flow and ampUtude of costume that should reileem her
from among the vulgar. Her head was armed with a white stitf
muslin cap, frilled and pointed : it seemed a part of her ; a thing
grovving upon her, like the crest of some sti-auge bird. She sat
motionless, with her anus crossed, Uke an old figure in faded
tapestry. Poor soul ! she seemed one of the remnants of another
age, that Time, as he clears away generations, forgets now and
then to gather up : or it may V)e, purposely le;ives them for a while
as century jx)sts of a pjust age. Miss Canaiy — such was her name
— was very poor ; nevertheless, she had one sustaining comfort,

82 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMKS.

which — asthouiili it wore a conlial — she took t«i her heart twenty
times .1 <hiy. It was this : "She w!is boru a lady ; nnl)<nly could
deprive her of that." And it waa this proud thought that, like
an armed kiiif,'ht, attended her in the gallery of Covent (Jarden
Theatre, whei-e, couile«cending to poverty, she every oveuiug
offered lor sale apples and onuiges, ciiler, and a bill of the play.
It was this th(»ught of her bom gentility that kept her taeitum
and .stately aniitLst the free comments of ajtprentices, the wit of
footmen, ;uj>l the gigu'ling of holiday maid.s. The ilignity of her
uttenuico, her stately bearing, had some years jkujI obtained for
lier the name of I.«*idy (,'anary An«l .she deseived it. For .she
offered apple.s, onuigi-s, cider, and a bill of the pliy, a.s though .slie
really invited the gods to the fruit of the ^e^^|^erill<:s, to tlie vei-y
choices: sort of nectar, ainl a new j)oem by Aj»<>llo. There was
no solicitaliou in her tone, — but a sort of tli.sciplined conilescen-
siou ; juid she tot>k the money for her commo<lities with nothing
of the air ol a trailer, but i<f a tax-gjitheirr ; or nither of a queen
receiving homage in the tangible form of halfi»ence. And all this
she owed to the coiust.ant thought that glorified her far lH;y«»nd
the heroines ui»on the .stage — (emi>resses for a night), — to the
po.s.se.saing idea Uiat "she wjis born a laily ; and nolxjily could
deprive her of that." It waK this f;Uiiily priik — from what
family she rose and decluied she never toKl — that now engaged
her in, we fear, an unequal controversy with T.right Jem ; his
wife, oddly enough, taking no j)art in the debate, but sittiir; at
the fire, now smiling and now nodtUng commendation of either
deserving jiarty.

" No, Mr. James, no, 1 tell you, I was bom a lady, and I
couldu't do it," said Miss Canary. " You ai-e a verj' good man,
a very kiud creature, Mr. Aniseetl ; but excuse me, you don't
know what high life 's made oC

'' Not all made o' sugar, I d.are say," said Jem, "no more than
our life 's all made o' mud."

" But I ought to know ; for I tell you again, I was bora a lady,"
Ciied the playhouse Pomona.

''Nonsense," said Jem. " I tell you. ^Dss Canary, there isn't
sich a thing as a bom ladv in the world."

" \\'hy ! you never, Mr. James I " and Miss Canary was scan-
dalised at the heresy

" Born lady I " repeated Jem, laughingly ; and then raoA^ng his
chaii' towards his disputant, he touched her niittened ami with
las l>il>e, s;iYiug — " Look nere, now. There 's Mrs. Grimbles, at
number five, she had a little gal last week, — ^you know that ?
Well ; Mrs. Grimbles is a clear-starcher. That yon allow ? And
fur that reason — now :ell me this. — for that reason is her little

RT. r!TT-F,«! ANO ST. JAMFA 33

baby ^K>m a clear-starclier ? Eli ? I sliould like to know aa
imicli as tlijit uuw ?"

'• ( »li. Mr. JjiuR'S ! you 're a good ]>c'i-stin, — b\it you know you 'n;
a low man ; \w, no ; you can't undei-slaud tjjeae things." And
Miss Canary sniik-d a jtitying smile,

" I tell you," HJiid Jtin, " tliere 'a no such tliuii^ as bom ladie.s
and gentlenitn. Tiure 's little bits of red prls and boys born if
you will, — and you may turn 'em inti>^now, look here," said
Jem, " if there was to l>e some folks bom gentlemen and some
not, — why wiusnt tliere two Adiuns luid two Eves, fur the high
people and the low oneji ? "

" (Jh, Mr. James I " crie<l Miss Canary', half rising,' from her
Beat — " For your precious aoiil'a sake, 1 huj>e not ; but I Jo think
y<»u 're an athijit"

" I can't tell, 1 'm sure," said Jem, not comprehending the con-
veyed reproach. "1 don't know; but a.s for my s<juI, Mi.^a
Canary, — why, I try to keep it aa clean and take aa good care (»f
it aa a soldier Uikes caie of his gun, ao tluxt it may be always in
fighting order against the enemy."

" Vou think so, Mr. James ; but with your notions, it's impos-
sible. Oh, Mi-s. Aniseed, I do wonder at you ! How you can
he:u' your good man talk as he does, and still sit laughing in that
\N ay ! llti, 1 bless my stai-s, I 've not a husband to be miserable
about."

" Well, I 'm sure. Miss Canary, I •wish you Lad," said ^Irs.
Aniseed, laughing the more. " If you was only as niisenible jls I
am, what a deiil hai^pier you 'd be ! Peo]jle who live alone with
nobody but a cat, — I ilont know how it is, but they do get a
little like their company."

" Susjin," &iid Jeni ; and taking the pipe from his mouth, he
looked full at his \\-ife, and shook his head reprovingly. " I wou'k
have it, Susan."

" L;\, Jem ! !Mayn"t I speak in my own house 1 " cried the
wife,

" It 's the very last place you ought to speak in, Susan, if you
can't sj>eak nothuig that 's comfortable. If you and Miss Canary
want a good bout together, why, I ho|ie I know women too well
to be unreasonable. 'Point a place and take an early hour that
you may get it over in one day, and not at your i iwn fiieside, where
you ask a body to come and sit do^\^l cosily with you. It 's a mean
advantage. A wild lujiui wouldn't do it."

" I 'm sure, Jem, I meant nothing," said Mrs. Aniseed,

" That 's it, Susan ; that 's the shame and nonsen.se o' the thing,
A man might bear a good deal of noise from you women — I don't
mean you, Miss C'anaiy — ii" there was luUf-an-ounce of menning

VuL I. 13

34 ST. GILES AND ST. JA:\IES.

in it. But when you jjet ujxin ;in arginieiit one with .anotlior, roa
go at it like a nionkey on a «h-um. It "s all a row without a bit
of tune in it. And then, nine times out o' ten, after you 've been
spitting and clawing at one aimther, you make it up you don't
know why, and all of a sudden you 're sociable together as two
kitton.s at the same sarcer of milk. And now, Susan, my old
woman, get the tea."

Mrs. Anisee<i, with a sudden smile on her face, called there by
the kindly tone of the conju^'al mandate, said, " You 're a ipieer
cretur. Jem," and was about to quit the niom. She pauseil a
moment at the door, and nochling significantly to Jem, said,
" Muffins," anil then vanished.

We know not whether t-he word reached Miss Canary, but she
obser\'ed, with new cordiality, — " She's a dear woman. Mr. .Tames;
and now she can't hear me, I don't mind saying it — I love her like
any sister."

Hright Jem said nothing, but sucked his pipe with a loud smack.

" Nothing 's a trouble to her. She 's done many things f >r me,
that I couldn't have d>>ne myself; but then, as I say, Mr. .Tames,
I was Ixirn a lady, and though 1 <lo sell fruit in the jdayhuuse,
thank heaven ! I never forget myself."

" Not when your cat 's a starving ? " said Jem, drily.

" Now. we won't talk of that again, Mr. James. We 've talked
enough about that. You may say it 's weakness — I call it a
proper pride. I don't mind going with a pie to the bakehouse —
don't much mind answering the milk — V>ut I can't quite forcret
what I came of — no, nothing on eaith shoulil compel me to take
in the cat's-me.at. Pride must 8tf»p somewhere ; and till my dying
day, I stop at cat's-meat."

" Well. I "m very glad, ^liss Canary, I 'm not your raouser —
that 's all." said Jem ; who was interrupted in further speech by
tiu' suililen appearance of his wife, who, somewhat flustered, /et
with laughter playing about her moulb, bounced into the roor i.

'* Jem," she cried, " who do vou think 's coming ? And who
flo you think " — and here she aji])roached her husband, and waa
about to whisper in his ear, when Jem drew himself majestically
back.

•• Mi-s. Aniseed." he said, somewhat sternly, " j'ou 've no more
manners than a poll parrot."

" Don't mind me," .said .Miss Canaiy rising. " I '11 go upon the
landing for a minute."

" Don't stir a foot, ma'am," cried .Jem, jumping up and handing
ber the chair; then turning to his vdt'e — *" And this is your
Vtreedlng, — ^to whisper company out o' your room ! What liave
you ^t to say 1 "

ST. GILES AND ST. JAME^. 35

" "VTell, then, notliing but this — Kitty 's do^^'n staii-s. come
to tea. And she 's brought somebody with her," said Mi-b.
Aniseed.

" "Well, poor soul ' I hope it 's a sweetheart : she 's been a
long while looked over, and I hope her tiino 's come at la^t
Does he look like a sweetheart ] You women can tell that."
Baid Jem.

" I don't know, I 'm sure," answered Mi-s. Aniseed, and she
burst into a loud laugh. At the same moment, Kitty ^Iugi,n?
entered the room all .^smiles and good-hunmur. .shaking handu
with Bright Jem, and her esteemed aajuaiutance, Miss Canary ;
who, more than once, had sunk the recoUtction of her ladylike
origin, and visited the kitchen ol St. James's as an especial guest
of Kitty's,

" I never saw you look so charming, Kitty — well, that 1 loimet does
become you," said !Mi.ss Can;u-v. "And what a sweet riband ! "

" AMiy, Kitty, there is mischief in the wind, I 'm certain," sjud
Jem. " You 've got somebody tight at bust, I cm see that. Don't
pucker your mouth up as small as a weddin' ring, but tell us who
it is. 1 '11 give you away with all my heart aiul soul."

" Lor, Jem ! you are such a man. It 's only one of our gentle-
men come with me ; we 're going to tlie play." And tiien a foot-
step w;is heard on the stall's, and Kitty ruiuiing to the door, cried
encoui-agingly, " Come up, Cesar." Cesar obeyed the invitation,
and in an instant stoud iKtwing about him on the floor. Jem was
twitched by a momentary surjtrise, but directly recovered him-
self. Laying down his pipe, he advanced with outstretched hand
to the negro.

" You 're welcome, my friend. Anybody as Kitty Mu^es
brings here is welcome as she is." Jem, turning his eye, detecttxl
his wife painfully endeavouring to kill a laugh by thrustin" her
apron corner into her mouth. Whereujjon he repeated in a tone
not to be mistaken by his helpmate — " Quite welcome ; as wel-
come as she is." Mi-s. Aniseed, thus rebuked, with a great effort
swallowed her mirth, and immediately busied hereelf at the cup-
board. Cesar silently seated himself, and looked about him —
keenly relishing the cordiality of his reception — with a face lus-
trous as blackest satin. La his great contentment, he saw not
Miss Canar}-, who had risen fiom her chair, ;uid stood still with
unclosed lips and wandering eyes, evidently feeling that all her
treasured gentility was quitting her for ever, dx-awu magnetically
from her by the presence of a negro. She could not stay in the
same room with a blackamooi- — that was impossible. No ; she
waa born a lady ; and she would die rather than forfeit that
consolation. Bewildered, yet endeavouring to make a graceful

X> 2

SS ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

retreat, she still reuiiiLiied motionless, drawn taller, as pride and
death will draw peo{)le.

" There 's no need of ceremony. Miss Canary," s;ud Jem, moving
the chair to her, with an emphasis — " Come, sit down, and make
your life ha]>])y." Without knowing what she did, Miiw Canary
dropt in the chair; and then vehemently hated herself fur the
docility. Nevertheless, she would not remain in the room with a
negro fuotman. A livery was bad enough ; but a livery with a
black man inside it ! There was no lie she would not tell to
eacajte the degnulation.

" Yr>u 're very good, Mr. Jamea ; ver}- kind, but I 've such a
headache," said Miss CaniU'V, '* I do think my head will split
in two."

" Well, two heads, they say, is l>ettcr tlian one," cried Jem, who
gjiw at once the ciuise of the sudden illness.

" Cot a head-ache ! " exchiimid Kitty. " AVliL-re 'h my salts,
Cesai" ? " Immediately, Cesar takuig a small bottle, warm from
his pocket, advanced towards Miss (Janary, who tried U> shrink
through the back of the chair, as the bhick approached her.
" Take a gocnl smell at 'em," said Kitty, " they 're fresh to-day ;
I had 'em for the j'luy to-night. I never go without 'em, since I
wjis taken out a fainting."

" Never mind tlie sidts," said Mrs. Aniseed ; " a cuj) of nice tea
will do you goo<l." And she set the tea-tlmigs on the table.

"Yes," cried Kitty, "and I've brought you some real gun-
powder, some I got from our own canister."

Kitty was al>out to consign the treasure to the tea-pot, when
liright Jem snatched up the VL-s-sel. " Much obliged to you
Kitty, all the sanje, but you '11 keep your gunpowder. I don't
make my bowels a place for stolen goods, I can tell you."

" Stolen goods, Mr. Aniseed," cried Kitty , " stolen, why, it
was oidy taken." Jem, inexorable, sliook his head. " Well, you
are such a strange man. and have such strange words for
things!"

" No. Kitty, " answered Jeqi ; " it 's having the right words f< >r
things, that makes em seem strange to you. I 've told you this
afore ; now, don't you trv it again."

Mi-s. Aniseed, to divert this little contest, bustled about with
unwonted energy! ringing the cups and saucers, and then calling
out loudly for a volimteer to toast the muffins. " Permit me,
marm," said Cesar, with exuberant politeness ; the while Mi-s.
Aniseed drew back the toasting-fork, declaring she could by no
niamier of means " allow of such a thing."

" Let him do it ; he toasts beautiful," cried Kitty ; and Cesar
icd his wLih.

ST. GILES AN'D ST. .lAMKS. 3?

* 'Sense my back, niarni," said Cesar, as, stooping to the fire,
he turned his shoulders towards Miss Canarj'.

" Always as he is now," said Kitty in a whisper to ^Tisa
Canarj', "good-tempered as any dog." Ai\i\ then she furtively
pressed the f(>j;bi<lden gunjjowder tea upon the spinster, a.ssuring
her that the queen tlidn't drink such. Keadur, your indulgence
for human Irailty. !Mis3 Canary, forjietful of her ladyhood,
pocketed the stolen goods with the serenity of innocence.

" And so you 're a going to the play, Kitty, you and Mr.Ce.sar ?
Well, I think we shall have a good hou.se. Of course, you go to
our shop ? " said Jem. " A <leep tragedy to-night. All the better
for you, !Mi.>vs Canary, isn't it ? Well, I never could make it out;
that folks should suck more oranges, and drink more beer at a
tragedy, than any other tidng."

" It 's their feelings, Jem," .said Mrs. Aniseed.

" AVcll, I sui)pose it is. Just as folks cat and drink as they
do at a funeral. When the feelings are stirred up they must
have sometliing to struggle with, and so they go to eating and
drinking."

" Komeo and Juliet 's alwavs worth three shillin£rs more to me
than any other play," said Miss Canar}', gradually reconciled to
the black by tlie gunjiowder. " Onmges relieve the heart,"

"No doubt on it," said Jem. "Though I don't often look
inside the house, still I have seen 'em in the front row of the gallery
— (I whole lot of full-gmwai women — sucking and crjing, like
bi-oken-hearted babbies."

" We 're all a going to-night, Jem," said Kitty, " that is, all our
people. ^ly lord and my huly, and, for the first time in his life,
the dear child. Oh, what a love of loves that babby is. lUit
you remember him, Sus^m ? you recollect the night he was born,
don't you ? "

" I should tliink I did," said Mrs. Aniseed. " That 's the nifdit,
you know, Jem, I brought home that blessed infiuit."

" Blessed infant ! " groaned Jem. " Ha ! he was a blessed
infant. And what is he now ? Why, he looks :i.s if he had be»in
brought up by a witch, and played with nothing but devils. A.
little varmint ! when he sometimes comes sudilen upon me, he
makes me gasp again ; there does seem such a deal of knowing in
his looks. You might thread a needle with his head, it looks so
sharp. Poor little bit of muck ! Ha ! " and again Jem groaned.

'• Ha ! the Lord knows what will become of him," cried Mrs.
Aniseed.

" I know what will become of him," said Jem ; " the gallows
will become of him — that 's as plain as rope."

•• Well, Mr. James," said Mi.ss Canary — " and if they wiJl — n

1 <} ^ ^ :J

38 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

little more sugar, plcjise — if they will, these little wretches, nish
to destnietiuii, what 's t^ b« done with 'em ] "

" Rush to destruction ! " cried Jem indignantly — " pushed,
driven to destruction, you mean. Now, look at that little chap —
see what he 's gone through. I wonder he isn't jus full of wrinkU-d
as a monkey. He wfusn't above six months old when we h.ul
him. Wi-11, they t<X)k him fnim us ; V) he sure we M no right to
him ; there was his own mother, and — no matt^ir for that. They
took liim from us ; and for a twelvemonth after that — I 've seen
liim now in one woman's lap, now in another's, with his j)ntty
jilump face every week getting thinner and thinner — poor little
wretch ! — as tliough, bal)hy as it wa.s, it knew something of the
wickedness that waa going on about it, and days counted ilouble
days upon it. There looked a soraetlung horrible sensible in the
child — a knowini^qiPMs that was shocking, crowdeil as it wa.s intc
its bit of a farthing face. Well, so it went on for about two yeai-s.
And then, I've seen it barof<M»t in the mud, ami heard it screani-
ing ita little pij>e like a whistle, a singing ballads. And then,
when it wasn't four years old, I've seen the child with matches
in his hand ; antl I 've heanl him lie and beg, and change liia
voice up and do\^^l, anil down and up — lorxl ! it has miulc my
blood turn like water to hear such I'lnniing in a little cretur that
natur meant to !>..• aa inni>cent a.s heaven. Well, and now what
is he ? At seven years old, what is he ? Why, that little head
of his is full of w.'isjw :us July. Now and then, a sort of look
comes Kaek upon his face, as if it was a good angel looking in it,
— and then, away it goes, and there 's a imp of wickedness,
grinning and winking at you."

'• I hope we shall l>e in time to get a goo<l place," said Kitty, to
whom the histoiy of young St. Giles seemed a very low and
wicketi business. " I want to get in the front row, because I ilo
want to see how that precious cittur, that deiir angel, young
m;i^ter, likes it. Sweet fellow I They say he 's so sensible-—
shouldn't wonder if he knows every bit about it to-morrow.
There never was such a chiM as that in the world."

" What I young St. James, eh ? Well, he ought to be a nice
little chap," said Jem. " He 's lived the life of a flower ; with
nothing to do, but to let himself be nursed ami codtUed. He
hasn't had nothing to iron the dimples out of him yet. How-
somever, I shall have a look at him to-night, when I call the
carnage."

A few minutes more elapsed, and then there was a general move
towards the theatre. Miss Canary, haWng suflered a promise to
be tortured from her that she would \-isit Kitty at the West-end,
left Short's Gardens to prepare her basket in the galler)'. Bright

ST. GILES AND ST. JA.MES, 39

Jem, having heartily rihakeu C'fs.u-"s liaiul — Cesar liad remained
silent ;uj night during his visit, tliuugh lie looked and smiled
all kind of gi'atelul eloquence — depjuletl ou his custom:iry duty ;
uiid Kitty had then nothing to do, but to persuade her sister
to aceunijijuiy her and Cesar to the house. "I'll pay for you,
•Susan, su you needn't mind the expense," sjiid Kitty.

" Oh, it isn't that," said Mrs. Aniseed, " not at all that, but — "

" Well, then, what can it be ? Jem says you may go if you
like, and I can see nothing to pervent you."

No, Kitty ; you cannot see. Your eyes are lost in your heart,
and you cannot see a fnotman of most objectioiiaVile blackness — a
human blot — an ignominious stain that the prejudices of your
sister, kiud, cordial soul as she is, shrink from as from something
dangerous to respectability. You, Kitty, cannot see tliis. \\>n
merely look upon Cesar Cum — the only creature of all the ten
thousand thousand men, who in your jiilgrimage through life,
has ever prolfered to you the helping of his arm, who haa ever
stammered, trembleil, smiled at your look, and run like a hound
at your voice — you merely see in hini a goodness, a sympathy
that you have yearned for ; and, for the tint of the virtue, you see
uot that : to vou it mav l»e either black, reil, or white. Certainlv,
so much has the tire of your heart alisoibed tlie colour of your
slave, that to you black Cesar Gum is fair as Ganymede. Sweet
inagiclaii Love ! Mighty benevolence, Cupid, that takes away
stains and blots — that gives the line of beauty to zig-zag, upturned
uoses — that smiles, a god of enchantment, in all eyes however
green, blinking, or stone-like — that gives a pouting prettiness eveu
lo a hare-lij I, bending it like Love's o\\^l bow! Great j uggler,
Cupid, that from his wijigs shakes precious dust in mortal eyes ;
anil lo ! they see nor blight, nor deformity, nor stain ; or see
them turned to ornament ; even, as it is said, the pearl of au
oyster is only so much oyster disease. Plutus has been called a
grand decorator. He can but gild ugliness ; passing off the thint;
for its brightness. But Love — Love ciui give to it the shape, and
jjiunr, it with tints of liis own mother. Plutus may, after all, be
only a maker of human pocket-pieces. He washes deformity
with bright niet;d, and so puts it off upon the near-sighted ; now
Love is an alchemist, and will, at least to the eyes and ears of
some o>i€, turn the coarsest lump of clay to one piece of human
gold. And it was Love that, passing his rose-tipped, baby fingers
along the lids of Kitty Muggs, made her see white in black : it
was Love that, to her \'isiou, turned ebony to ivoiy.

" Didn't you heai* Jem say you might go ] " again cried the
unconscious Kitty.

" Shall be most happy, assure you marm," said Cesar, clasping

40 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

his hands, and raising them eutreatuigly. " Tiike gi-eat care ot
you, nt'Vibt'r fear."

" Well, I will go," said Mrs. Aniseed, her repugnance conquered
by Cesar's good temper ; and in a few minutes — for Mi-s. Aniseed
possessed, perhaps, that highest and most valuable of all the
female virtues, a vii-tue that Eve herself was certainly not bum
with, she was a quick dresser — in a few minutes the tliree were
on their road to Co vent Garden Theatre. A few minutes more,
and they entered the gjillery. All things jK>rtended a liappy
evening, for they were early enough for the front row ; Mi*. Cesar
Gum taking liis joyful seat between tlie ladies,

"Mind tlie bottle, dear," said Kitty in a low voice to Cesar,
who nodtled ; his eyes sparkling up at the temler syllal)lc. " Such
a sweet drop of Matleary from our house, Susan ; ha ! ha ! never
miml Jem."

The gallery filled with holiday-makers ami gallery wits. Miss

Canary was soon haile<l as an old acquaintance ; every possible

dignity being thrown, like roses, upon her. One apjirentice begged

to inquire of her, " When the Emi)erur of Chaney was c<jmiiig over

to mru-ry her ? " Another asked her, " "Wliat she 'd take for her

diamond e.ir-rinjjs ? " But beautiful was it to behold the n\m-like

serenity of Miss Canan.'. She moveil among her scolfei-s, silent

and stately, as the ghost of a departed countess. " I mind 'em no

raore," she observed, as in the course of her vocation she approi\ched

Mrs. Aniseed, " no more than the heads of S(j many door-knockers."

Cesar mutely acquiesced in this wi.silom ; and in an evil hour

for him, turning a wrathful fjice upon the revilers, he diverted

all their sport from Miss Canary to himself " Bill," crietl one,

" isn't it going to thunder ? It looks so very black." " I wish I

was a niifser" roared another, "then I'd l>e a black rose atween

a couple of lilies, too." And then other pretty terms, such aa

** snowball," " powder-puft'," were hurled at Cesar, who sat and

jrrinned in helpless anger at the green curtain. And then poor

Mrs. Aniseed ! she shifted on her seat, and felt as if that terrible

burning-glass which brings into a focus the rays of " the eyes of

rtll the woi'ld " was upon her, and she was being gradually scorched

to tinder. At length the tragedy, " George Barnwell," began.

Kitty was now melted by George, and now put in fever-heat by

Millwood, of whom, leaning back to speak to ^Irs. Aniseed, she

confidently observed, " I 'd have such creturs tore by wild osses."

To this Mrs. Aniseed, reciprocating the humanity, curtly replied,

" And so would I, dear."

The second act passed, when Kitty exclaimed, in a spasm of
delight, " There he is ; there 's little master. Look at him, Susan
— a sweet cretur," and Kitty pointed out a beautiful child, who.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 41

witli its mother and father, bad just entered tlie boxes. Tho
cliiM was superlily dresscil, and wlion he entered wore a wliite
beaver hat, with a huge phmie of pink and white ft-atliei-a.
"There he is," again cried Kilty; "we must drink his liealth."
W'herenpon Oewtr pmdiici'd the hottle, and the he.-dth of young
St. James — he all the while nnct^nseious of the honour — was ih-unk
in Mjuleira from his paternal dwelling.

The jjlay [iroceedeil, and Kitty wept and sucked oranges — and
wept, and snifted salts, and fifty times declared it was too deep ;
she 'd never come again — and then sucked another onuige — ;uid
then, when the play was over, said she was glad it was done,
though she had never enjoyed heivelf half so much. And then
she -said, "After all, I think a good ei-y sometimes does us good ;
it makes us remember we are human creture. But oh, that
^Millwood, Susjm. "When wonu-n are bad — to be sure it's so vei-y
seldom! — I'm afraid tliey beat the men." Every tear, however,
shed by Kitty at the play, was recompensed by a roaring laugh
at the farce. Anil, at length, brimful of happiness — all being
over — the party rose to go home. "Let's see 'era get into tlie
carriage — they needn't see us," said Kitty ; and hurriedly they
quitteil the gallery, ;uid ran round to the box-<loor.

Bright Jem was in the very heat of action ; his month mnsioal
with noltlest names. Dukes, Marque.sses, and Eaids fell from his
lips, <ia he called carriage after carriage.

" Man^uess of St. James's carriage," at length he cried with
peculiar emjtluusis ; and a super!) equipage rolled to the door.
The Marquess and Marchioness entered the vehicle, and a foot-
man, lifting in the child, in his awkwardness knocked oil" the boy'a
superb hat : it rolled along the stones, and — was gone.

There was a sudden astonishment, and then a sudden cry of
"Stop thief!" Constables, and Cesar, who with Mrs. Ani.seed
and Kitty, had been looking on, gave chase ; and in a few minutes
returned with the hat and the culprit, who, as it appeared,
darting from under the horses' legs to tJie pavement, hail caught
up the ]iroperty.

" Uere s the hat, my lord," cried a constable, " and here 's the
attle thief."

"Lord have mercy on us!" cried Mrs. Aiiiseed, "if it isn't
that wretched child !''

" I know'd it ! I always said it," cried Jem, almost broken-
hearted. " I know'd he 'd come to it — I know'd it I "

It was even so. Young St. Giles was the robber of yormg
St. James.

42 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

CHAPTF.K y.

Short wa« the diatance from Covent Ganlen Theatre to Covent
Cianlfii \v:it<"h-hou9t.' ; ami, tlierefore, in a ft-w niimites \v;i.s young
St. tiilcs arniij^niMl Ix'fore the niglit-constable. Cesar (Jum hail
followed the otfemler as an unjM)rt.uit witness ajjainst him ; whilst
BriLrht Jem ami his wife attemltd as soiTowiiij^ friemls of the
j)ri.-uner. Kitty Muj,'j:js was of the j>arty ; and her indi^niation
at the wronp committed "on so blessed a baby " — we mean, of
course, St. James — woidd have burst forth in lomlest utterance
liad she not been contmlled by the moral influence of Rrij;ht Jem,
Hence, she had only the small .sjitisfaction of declaring, in a low
voice, to her sister, "that the little wretch would lie sure to be
liaULTed — for he had the j^ibbet, evi-rv bit of it, in his countenan'H*."
"Willi this consulation, she .suflered lierself to be somewhat
painful. " Tlie Lord help him!" cried M re. Aniseed. "Well,
you ought to l)e ashamed of yourself to say such a thuig ! "
whispereil Kitty Mugg.s.

Bright Jem was sa«l and silent. As Cesar, with unu.sual gliV
nes.>*, narratetl the capture of the prisoner witli the stolen property
ujxm him, jioor Jem, shading his eyes with his haml, looked
mournfully at the l»igmy culprit. Not a word did Jem utter- but
the heart-ache spoke in hi- face.

"And what liave vou CDt to aav to this?" askeil the ni'dit-
constable of St. Giles. " You 're a young gallows-bird, you are ;
hardly out of the shell, yet. What have you got to say ? "

"Why, I didn't take the at," answered 3'oung St. Giles, fixiiig
his sharp black eyes full on the face of his interrogator, aid
sjieaking jvs though he repeated an old familiar lesson, " I didn't
take it : the at rolled to me ; and I thought as it had tumlded out
of a coach as was going on, and I nin arter it, and calling out, if
nobody had lost a at, when that black gentleman there laid hold
on me, and sjiid as how I stole it. How could I help it, if the at
would roll to me 1 I didn't want the at."

" Ha ! " said the constable, " there 's a good deal of wickedness
crammed into that little skin of yours — I shall lock you up.
There — go in with you," and the constable pointed to a cell,
the door of which was ah'eady opened for the reception of tho
prisoner.

And ditl young St. Giles quail or whimper at his prisou

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 48

threshold ? Did his young heart siuk at the gloomy dungeon ?
Oh no. C'liild as he was, it wits plain he felt that he was ae-tiiig
a part : he had y)ecunie in some way important, ;uid he seemed
resolved to rise with the occasion. He had listened to tales of
felon loiiitude, of galluws heroism ; and ambition stirred witliia
him. He had heard of the Tyburn humourist, who, with his
miserable jest in the jaws of death, eaat his shoes from the eai't,
to thwart an oft-told ])roplucy that he would die shod. All
these stories St. Giles had listtned to, and took to his heart as
precious recollections. While other children had conned their
books — and written maxim copies — and letimed their catechism,
— St. Giles had learned this one thiut; — to be " g.ame." His
worUl — the world of Hog Lane had taught him that ; he hatl
listened to the counsel from lips with the bloom of Newgate on
them. The foot-pad, the pickpocket, the burglar, had been his
teachers : they had set him copies, and he had written them in
his brain for life-long wisdom. Other little boys had been taught
to "love tlieir neighlK)ur as themselves." Now, the prime ruling
lesson set to young St. Gih's was " honour among thieves." Other
boys might show lewanling metlals — precious testimony of their
schooltime work ; youiig St. Giles knew notliing of these ; luul
never heju'd of them ; and yet unconsciously he showed what to
him was best evidence of his worth : for at the door of his cell, he
showed that he was '"game." Scai'cely was he bidden to enter
the dungeon, than he turned his face u\t to the constable, and his
eyes twinkling and leering, anil his little mouth quivering with
scorn, he said — " You don't mean it, Mister ; I know you don't
mean it ?"

" Come, in with you, ragged and sarcy ! " cried the constable.

" "Weil, then," s;iid the urcliin, " here goes — good night to you,"
and so saying, lie flung a summerset into the cell : the lock was
turned, and Bright Jem — fetchmg a deep groan — quitted the
watch-house, his wife, sobbing aloud, and following him.

" WTiat can they do to the poor child ? " asked Mrs. Aniseed of
Jem, as the next mornuig he sat silent and son-owful, with his
pipe in his mouth, looking at the fire.

" Why, Susan, that 's what I was thinking of What can they
do with him ? He isn't old enough to hang ; but he 's quite big
enough to be whipped. Bridewell and whipping ; yes that 's it,
that 's how they '11 teach him. They '11 make Jack Ketch his
schoolmaster ; and nicely he '11 learn him liis lesson towards
Tv'burn. The old stoiy, Susan — the old stoiy," and Jem drew
a long sigh.

"Don't you thuik, Jem, something might be done to send
him to sea ? He 'd get taken away liom the bad people about

44 ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMES.

him, and who knows, might after all turn out a bright man."
Such w;ia the hopeful faith of Mi's. Aniseed.

" Why, there's something in that to be sure. F.)r my part,
I think that 's a gou<l deal wliat the sea w;is made for — to take
away the offal of the land. He might get cured at so.i ; if we
cf<\\U\ get anyVK>dy a.s would take him. I 'm told the se.a does
w<ind('i-s, sometimes, with the nmrals of folks. I 've he;ird of
thieves and rogues of all sorts, that once aboard ship, have come
round 'straonlinary. Now, whether it 's in the salt water or the
bo'swains, who shall say ? lie wouldn't make a bad drummer
neither, with them little quick fists of his, if we could get him in
the army."

" Oh, I 'd rather he was sent to sea, Jem," cried J^Irs. .tVniseed,
" then he 'd be out of hann's way."

" Oh, the army reforms all sorts of rogues, too," averred Jem.
"Sometimes they get their morals pi jr-c laved, as well as their
clothes. Wonderful what heroes are made of, sometimes. You
see, I suppose, there 's something in some parts of the trade that
avrrt'cs with some folks. When they storm a town now, and take
all they can lay their hands on, why there 's all the plf.xsure of
the robbery without any fear of the galhjws. It 's stealing made
glorious wth flags and drums. Nobody knows how that little
varmint might get on."

Here Jem was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a
woman hung with rags and looking prematurely olil. Misery
and Wee were in her face, though the traces of evil were for the
time softened by sorrow. She was weepuig bitterly, ari<l \^nth
clx«:ped, trembling hands, ran mto the room. It wa.s the wretched
mother of young St. Giles; the miserable woman who more
than six yeara before had claimed her cliild in that room ; who
had borne her victim babe .away to play its early part in
wretchedness and deceit. Slie had since frequently met Jem,
l/ut always hurried from him. His reproofs, though brief, were
too significant, too searching, for even her shame to encounter.
" Oh, Jem ! Jem ! " she cried, " save my dear child — save my
innocent lamb."

" Ha ! and if he isn't innocent," cried Jem, " whose fault 's
that ? "

"But he is — ^he is," screamed the woman. "You won't turn
agin him, too ? He steal an}'thing ! A precious cretur ! he might
be trusted with untold gold ! "

" Woman," said Jem, " I wouldn't like to hurt you in your
trouble ; but ha\Ti't you no shame at all ? Don't you know what
a bit of truth is, that even now you should look in my face, and
tell me such a wicked lie ? "

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 45

" I ilou't, Jem — I dou't," vociferated the woman. " lie 'a aa
innocent rus the babe unboi'n."

" Why, .so he is, as far jls he knows what 's right and wliat 'a
wrong. He has innocence : that is, the innocence you 've taught
him. Teach a child the way he should go," cried Jem, in a tone
of some bitterness, " and you 've taught him the way to Newgate.
The Lord have mercy on you ! What a sweet babby he waa,
when six ye;u- ;uid a half ago you took him from this room, — and
what is he now I Well, well, I won't pour water on a drowned
mouse," said Jem, the woman crjing more vehemently at his
relnike, "but how you can look in that cliild's face, and ai-terwaida
Jo' k up at heaven, I don't know."

" Tliere 's no good, not a ha'poith in all this preaching. All we
want to know is this. Can you help ua to get the young 'un cue
o' trouble." This reproof anii intermgation wei*e put in a hoarse,
sawing voice by a man of about five-;ind-thirty, who had made
his appeanuice shortly after St. GUes's mother. He was dressed
in a coat of Newgate cut. His hat was knowingly shuited
over one eyebrow, his Inuids were in his jx)ckets, and at short
intei-vals lie sucked the st;dk of a primrose that shone forth
in strong relief from the black whiskei-a and week's beai-d sur-
rounding it.

"And who are you ?" asked Jem, in a tone not very encou-
raging of a gentle answer.

" That 's a good un, not to know me. My name 's Blast — Tom
Blast ; not ashamed of my name," said the owner, still champing
the primrose.

" No, T dare say not," answered Bright Jem. " Oh, I know
you now. I 've seen you with the boy a singing balhvds."

" I should tliink so. Ajid what on it ] No disgrace in that,
eh ? I look ujjou myself as respectable as any of your folks
as suig at your fine jjlay-house. What do we all pipe for but
money 1 Only there 's this ditt'erence ; they gets pounds — and
I gets h:ilf-pence. A singer for money 's a singer for money, — •
whether he stands upon mud or a cai'pet. But all 's one for that.
Wliat 's to be done for the boy ] I tell his mother here not to
■worry about it — 'twont be moi'e than a month or two at Bride-
well, for he 's never been nabbed afore : but it 's no use a talking
to women, you know ; she wont make her life happy, no how
So we 've come to you."

" And what can I do ] " asked Jem — " I 'm not judge and jury,
am I ? "

" Why, you know Capstick, the mufiin-man. Well, he 'a a
householder, and can put in a good word for the boy with the
beak. 1 suppose you know what a beak is ] " said Thomas Blast,

46 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

■w ith a satirical twi.st of the lip. " Not too fine a gentleman to
know tiiat ? "

" Why, what does Caj^tick know of little St. Giles ? " aaked
Jem.

" Oh, Jem," said the woman, " ycstenlay he .stood his friend.
He's a strange cretur, that (.'apstick ; and often dots a jioor soal
a good turn, as if he 'd eat him np all the while. "\Vell,y<stei-<lay
arternoon, what does he do Init give my precions child — my
innocent bal)e — two dozen mtifTin.s, a l>aaket and a Itoll."

" I see," cried Jem, with glistening eyes, " set hbu up in trade.
G<'<1 bless that muthn-man !"

"That's what he meant. Jem ; hut it wasn't to be — it wasn't
to l>e," crie<l the woman with a sigh.

"No — it w.am't," corroborated ^fr. Blast. "-You s<>e the
y.iung un — .all .igog as he w.as — brought the muffins to the lane.
"NVeli, we hadn't had two dinners, I can toll you, yesterday ; so
•we sells the basket and the bell for sixpenn'orth of butter, .aiid
diii'nt we go to work at the muffins." And Mr. lilast seemingly
sjioke with a most satisfacton* recollection of the bantjuet.

"And if they'd have pisoned all of you, served you right."
cried Jem, with a look of disg\ist. " You icill kill that child —
you won't give him a chance — ^\-ou will kill him body and soul."

" Lrii, Jem! how cm you go on in that way I " cried the
m >ther, and began to weep anew. "He's the ai)ple of ray eye,
is th.it dear child."

" None the better for that by the look of 'em," said Jem.
"Howsomever, I'll go to Mr. Capstick. Mind, I don't w.ant
neither of you at my heels ; what I '11 d<j — I '11 do by myself,"
ajid without another word. Bright Jem took his cap, and uncere-
moniously jiassing his \-isitoi-s, quitted the room. His wife,
looking coldly at the new comers, intimateil a silent wish that
they would follow him. The look was lost upon Mr. Bhust, for
he immediately seated himself; and seizing the poker, with ejisieat
familiarity beat about the embers. Mrs. Aniseed was a heroic
woman. Nobody who looTced at her, whilst her visitor nidelv
disturbed her coals, could fail to perceive the struggle that went
on within her. There are housewves whose very heartstrin"H
seem connected with their pokers ; and ^Irs. Aniseed was ot
them. Hence, whilst her visitor beat about the grate, it was at
once a hard and delicate task for her not to spring ujion him,
and wrest the poker from his hand. She knew it not, but at that
moment the gentle spirit of Bright Jem w.as working in her ;
subduing her aroused passion with a sense of hospitality.

" A sharp spring this, for poor people, isn't it, Mrs. Aniseed ? "
observed Mr. Blast. " It seems (jiute the tail of a hard winter.

ST. GILES ^ND ST. JAMES. 47

doesn't it { " Mrs. Aniseed tried to smile a smile — slie only
shivered it. " "Well. I must turn out, I 'spose ; though I havii't
nothing to do till niglit — then I tliink I shall trj' another murder:
it 's a km'' while since wu ve had one."

" A matter of two months," said the mother of St. Giles, " and
that turned out no great things."

"Try a murder," said Mrs. Aniseed, with some apprehension,
" what do you raeiui ? "

"Oh, there'll be no hlood spilt," answered Mr. r.l.i.st, "only a
l>it of Grub-street, that's all. Lut I don't know what's eonie to
tlie people. They don't snap Jis they used to do. Why, there's
that Horrible and Particular Account of a Bear that was fed
ujum Young Children in Westminster : I 've known the time
when I've sold fifty of 'em afore I'd bh)wn my horn a dozen
times. Then there was that story of the L.-i<ly of Fortin that
had left Twins in the Cradle, and run oil" ^\^th her Ituslcuid's
Coachui.iii — that was a suix» cruwn for a night's wui-k. Uiily a
week ago it didn't bring me a groat. I don't know how it is ;
people get sharper and sharjier, as they get wickeder and
wickeder."

"And you don't think it no harm, then," said Mrs. AnLseetl,
" to make bread of such lies ? "

" What does it signify, Mrs. Aniseed, what your bread 's made
on, 80 as it 's a gcwxl colour, and j)lenty of it I L<ird bless vuu !
if you was to take away all the lies that go to make bread in this
town, y.iu 'd bring a good many peck loaves down to crund>s,
you Would. What's the ditt'erence atween me and some folks in
some newspai)ei-s ? Why this : I sells my lies m3'.self, and they
sell "em by other people. But I say, Mi-s. Aniseed, it is colil,
isn't it ? "

Mrs. Aniseed immediately jumped at the subtle purpose of tlie
question ; and only replied — " It is."

" A dri^p o' something would'nt be bad such a mornin as this,
would it ? " askeil the imab;ished guest.

" La ! Tom," cried St. Giles's mother, in a half-tone of
astonishment and depi-ecation.

'• I can't say," said Mrs. Aniseed : " but it might be for them
as like it. I should suppose, though, that this woman — if she 's
got aini.hing of a mother's heart in her — is thinking of some-
thing else, a good deal more precious than drink."

" You may say that," said the woman, lifting her apron to her
unwet eye.

" And, there 's a good soul, do — do when you get the dear child
home again — do keep him out of the streets ; and dont let him
go about singing of ballads, and — "

48 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

" That 's all mighty fine, Mrs. Aniseed," said Mr. Blast, wIh)
foiled ill his drink, became suddenly indei>endent in hia language,
— " all mighty fine : but, after all, I sliuuld think singing ballada
a little mure genteel than bawling fur coaches, and makuig diily
money out of fogs, and pitch and oakum. A ballad-sijiger may
hold hi.s head up with a liukman any day — ami so yuu may tell
Jem, when you see him. Come along," and !Mr. Bhist twitched
the woman by the ann — " come along : there 's notliiug to be got
here l)ut preaching — and that will come in time to all of us."

" Don't mind what he says," whispered St. Giles's mother to
Mrs. Aniseed, " he 'a a good cretur, and means nothing. And
oh, Mrs. Aniseed, do all you can with ^Ir. Capstick for my inno-
cent babe, and I sha'n't say my prayers without blessing you."
With tliis the unwelcome visitors depiu-ted.

We must now follow Bright Jem to the house of the muffin-
mau. Jem had already told his errand to Mr. Ca})stick ; who,
with eAideut sorrow and thsappointment at his heai-t, is endea-
vouring to look hke a man not at all sui-prised by the story related
to him. Oh dear no ! he had quite expected it. " As for what 1
ihil, Mi: Aniseed " — said Capstick — '' 1 did it with my eyes open.
I knew the httle vagabond was a lost wretch — I could read that
in his face ; and then the mullius were somewhat stale muffins — ■
80 dont think I was tricked. No : I looked upon it as some-
thing le.SvS than a forlorn hope, and I won't flatter myself ; but
you see I was not mistaken. Nevertheless, Mr. Aniseed, say
nothing of the matter to my wife. She said — not knowing ray
thouglits on the business — she said I was a fool for what I ilid :
80 don't let her know what 's happened. When women find out
they 're right, it makes 'em conceited. The little ruffian ! " crieil
Capstick with bitterness — "to go stealing when the mullins might
have made a man of liim."

"Still, Mr. Capstick," urged Jem, "there's something to be
said for the poor child. His mother and tlie bad uns in Hug Lane
wouldn't let him have a chance. For when St. Giles ran home —
wliat a place to call home ! — they seized upon the muffins?, and
turning the bell and baaket into butter, swallowed 'em without
so much as winking."

"^Miserable little boy ! " exclaimed the softened Capstick, — and
then he gi'oaned, " Wicked wTetches ! "

" That 's true again," said Jem : "' and yet hunger hai'dly
knows right from wrong, !Mr. Capstick."

Capstick made no answer to this, but looking in Jem's face,
drew a long breath.

" And about the boy 1 " said Jem, " he 's but a chick, is he, to
go to gaol ? "

ST. GILES. AND ST. JAMES. 49

" It 's no use — it 's all no use, Mr. Aniseed ; we 're only throw-
ing- away heaven's time vipon the matter ; for if the little rascal
was hiinged at once — to be sure, he is a little young for that—
»ie>'ertheless I was about to say," — and here the muffin-man,
losing the thread of his thoughts, twitched his cap from his head,
and passed it from right hand to left, and from left to right, as
though lie thouglit in siich exercise to come plump again upon the
escaped itlea — " I have it," at length he cried. " I was about to
say, as I Ve an idle hour on hand, I '11 walk with you to Lord
St. James, and we '11 talk to him about the matter."

Now Bright Jem believed this of himself; that in a good cause
he would not he&itAte — at lea.st not much — to speak to his
Lin jesty, thouglj in his royal robes and with his royal crowTi upon
Ills head. Nevertheless, the ease, the perfect self-possession, with
which Capstick suggested a call upon the Marquess of St. James
obtained for him a sudden respect from tlie linkman. To be
sui-e, as we have before indicated, there was something strange
about Capstick. His neiglibours had clothed him \s'ith a sort
of mystery ; hence, on second thouglits, Bright Jem believed it
po.ssible that Lu happier days the muliiu-mau might have tidked
to marques.«es.

"Yes," said Capstick, taking off his apron, "we'll see what
can be done with his lordship. I '11 just whip on my coat of
iiuflience, and — hush ! — my wife," and Mi-s. Capstick stirred in
the back pju'lour. " Not a word where we 're going. Not that I
care a straw ; only she 'd say I was neglecting the shop for a pack
of vagabonds : and perhaps she 's right, though I wouldu 't own it.
Never own a woman 's right ; do it once, and on the very conceit
of it, she '11 be always wrong for the rest of her life." With this
apophthegm, the muffin-maker quitted the shop, and immediately
his wife entered it,

" Glad to see your sister looking so well, Mr. Aniseed," said
Mrs. Capstick, somewhat slily.

" Oh ! what, you mean Kitty ? ^Tiy, she looks as well as she
can, and that isn't much, poor soul," said Jem.

" She was here yesterday, and bought some muffins. A dark
gentleman was with her," said Mrs. Capstick.

" You mean the black footman," observed Jem, drojjping at
once to the cold, hard truth.

" Well," and Mrs. Capstick giggled, as though communicating
a great moral discover}', " well, there 's no accounting for taste, is
there, jMr. Aniseed ? "

"No," said Jem, "it was never meant to be accounted for, I
suppose ; else there 's a lot of us would have a good deal to answer
about. Taste, in some things, I suppose, was given us to do what

Vol. I. ' B

£0 ST. GILES A^^) ST. JAMES.

we like with ; but, Mrs. Capstick, now and then we do sartamly
ill-use the privilege."

" Lor, Mr. Capstick ! where are you going so fine ?" asked hia
spouse of the muflin-uiaker, as he presented himself in his best
coat, and swathed in a very voluminous neckcloth. ** Going to
court ? "

" You see," said Capstick, " a man — a wTetch, a perjurer, is to-
day put in the pillory."

" And what's that to you, Mr. Cap.>tiek ?" askerl his wife.

" Wliy, Mary Anne, as a niurul man — and, tlierefore, as a man
who respects his oath, I feel it my duty to go and enjoy my egg."
With this excuse — worthy of a Timon — did the mutiin-maker take
Ids way towards the mansion of Lord St. James. " It 's a hai'd
thing," said Capstick on the road, " a hiad thing, that you can't
always tell a wife the tnitli."

" I iUways tell it to my old woman," observed bright Jom.

" You 're a fortunate man, sir," said Capstick. " All women
can't bear it : it 's too strong for 'em. Now, Mrs. Capstick is an
admirable ]>ers(>n — a treasure of a wife — never know wliat it is to
want a button to my shirt, never — still, I am now and then
obliged to sacrifice trath on the altar of conjugal peace. It makes
my lieart bleed to do it, Mr. Aniseed : biit sometimes it is done."

Bright Jem nodded as a man will no<l who thinks he catches a
meaning, but is not too sure of it. " And what will you say ? *
asked Jem, after a moment's pause — " what will you say to his
lordship, if he '11 see you 1 "

j\lr. Cajwtick cast a cold, self-complacent eye upon the link-
man, and replied — " I shall trust to my inspiration." Jem softly
whi.^tled — unconscious of the act. Mr. Capstick heard, what he
deemed a severe comment, and majestically continued: "Mv.
Aniseed, you may not imagine it — but I have a great eye for gin-
gerbread."

'' Xo doubt on it, Mr. Capstick," said Jem, " ic 's a part of your
business."

" You don't understand me," replied the mufiin-maker with a
compassionate smile. " I mean, my good man, the gingerbread
that makes up so much of this world. Bless your heart ; I pride
myself upon my eye, that looks at once through all the gilding —
all the tawdry, glittering Dutch metal — that covers the cake, and
goes at once to the flour and water."

" I don't see what you mean, by no means," said Jem ; " that
is, not quite.".

" Look here, sir," said Capstick, with the air of a man who had
made himself up for an oration. " What is that pile of bridt
before us ? "

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 51

"Why that yow know as ■well as me," answered Jem ; "it's
St. Jamess Palace."

" And there lives his gracious Majesty, George the Thu-d.
Now, I dare say, JVIr. Aniseed, it 's very difficult for you to look
upon his Majesty in wliat I shall beg leave to call a state of
nature ? "

" What ! like an hijuu ? " asked Jem. " Well, I must say, I
can hardly fancy it."

" Of course not. AMien you heai* of a king, he comes upon
you in velvet and fur, and with a crown upuu his liead — ami
diamonds blazing upon him — and God knows how many rows of
lox'ds about him — and then all the houseliold guards — ;ind the
state coach — and the state trumpets, and the thundering guns,
and the ringing bells — all come upon your mind as a piece and
pai'cel of him, making a king something tremendous to consider —
something that you cjm only think of with a kind of fright. Is
it not so i " asked the mullin-maker.

Jem merely answered — " Go on, Mr. Capstick."

" Now I feel nothing of the sort, I know the world, and despise
it," said themuihn-niaker.

" I "11 hike yom* word for anj'thing but that," cried Jem. " But
go on."

" I tell you, sir, I hate the world," repeated Capstick, proud of
what he thought his misanthropy : " and of sweet use has such
hatred been to me."

Bi'ight Jem cast an incredulous leer at the muffin-man. " I
never heard of the sweetness of hatred afore. I shoidd as soon
looked for honey in a wasp's nest."

" Ha ! Jem, you know nothuig ; else you 'd know how a con-
tempt for the world sharpens a man's wits, and improves his eye-
sight. Bless you ! there are a thousand cracks and flaws and
fly-spots ujion everything about us, that we shoidd never see
^vithout it,'" said Capstick.

" Well, thank God ! I 'm in no need of such spectacles," said
Bright Jem.

" And for that very reason, Jem," said the muffin-maker, " you
ai'e made an every-day ^^ctim of — for that reason your very soul
goes down upon its knees to things that it 's my esjjecial comfort
to despise. You haven't the Avit, the judgment, to separate a man
from all his worldly advantages, and look at him, as I may say,
in his very nakedness — a mere man. Now Jem, that is the powaf
I esj)ecially pride myself upon. Hence," continued the muffia
maker, and he brought himself up fronting the palace, and
extended his right arm towaids it — " hence I can take an emperor
from his crowd of nobles — his troops —his palace wails — his royai

B 2

52 ST. GILES AND ST. JAME3.

robes, — and set him before me just as God made ]iim. As I 'd
take a cocoa-uut, aiid tear away the husk, and crack the shell,
and pare the iuner lind, aiid come at once upon the naked kernel,
— so, Mr. Aniseed, can I take, — aye the Great Mogul, — and set
him in his shivering flesh before me."

"And yuii think the knack to do this does you good ?" modestly
inquired iiright Jem.

" It 'a my solace, my comfort, my strength," answered the
mwfiin-makcr. " And this knack, its you have it, is what I call
seeing through the gold upon the gingerbread. Now, isn't it
dremlful to think of the thousandsupon thousands who every day
go down upon their knees to it, believing thegildt-d pitste so much
solid metal ? Ila, Hr. Aniseed ! we tiiik a good thai about the
miserable heathen : the j>oor wretches who make idols of croco-
diles and monkies, — but Lord bless us ! only to think in this
famous city of Ixmdon of the thousands of Christians, as they
call themselves, who after all are idolaters of gilt gingerbrea<l ! "

'* Poor souls ! " said Jem, in the fulness of his charity, " they
don't know any btttiT. lUit you haven't answered what I a.sked ;
and that s thi.s. ^Vll:lt will vou say to Lis lordship if he '11 see
you ? "

" Sjiv to him ? I shall talk reason to him. BIe,ss you ! I shall
go straight at the matter. When some folks go to s]>eak to rich
and mighty lords, they fluster, and stammer, as if they' couldn't
make themselves believe that they only look upon a man made
like themselves ; no, they somehow mix him up with his lands
and liis castles, and his lu-ajis of money, — and the thought 's too
big for 'em to bear. But I will conclude as I began, Mr. Aniseed.
Therefore I say I have a great eye for gilt gingerbread."

This ])hilosophical discoui-se brought the talkers to their desti-
nation. Jem stoo])ed before the kitchen-windows, jjrying curiously
through them. " What seek you there, Jem ? " asked Capstick.

" I was thinking," answered Jem, " if I could only see Kitty,
we might go in through the kitchen."

Mr. Capstick made no answer, — but looking a lofty reproof at
Jem, he took two .'strides to the door, and seizing the knocker,
stiiick it with an asseiiion of awakened dignity. '• Through the
hall, Mr. Aniseed ; through the hall ; no back-stairs inlluence for
me." As he made this proud declaration, the door wa.s o])ened ;
and to the a^stouishmcut of the porter, the muthn-raaker asked
the porter, as coolly as though he was cheapening pippins at an
apple-staU — " C;xn we see the ^Marquess ? "

The porter had evidently a turn for humour : he was not one
of those jauitoi'S who, seated in their leathern chaii'S, resent
every knock at the door as a violation of their peace and com-

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 53

fort. Tlierefore, curling the comers of his mouth, he asked in u
tone of comic remonstrance, — " Now what do you want with the
iVf ai'tjuess ? "

" That tlie Mjxrquess shall be benefited by knowing," answered
C'ajistick. " Tliere is my name ; " and the muffin-maker, with
increjising dignity, handed his shop-cvird to the porter.

" It 's no use," sai<l the jK>rter, sliakiug his liead at the card,—
"not a bit of use. We dont eat muffins here."

At this moment, Cesar Gum, the African footman, appeared
in the hall, mid with gieatejit cordiality welcomed Briiiht Jeixi,
" Come to see Kitty ? — she delight to see you — come do-wn
tairs."

" Will you t;ike this to the Marquess ? * and twitcliing Ids card
from the porter's fingers, Cajjstick gave it to Ce.sar. The bhuk
felt every disjxwitiou to oblige the friend of Kitty's brother, but
raised his hamls and shook his licad with a hoixjless sliake.
** Stop," said Capstick. He took the card, and wrote some wurds
on the back of it. He then returned it to the porter.

"Oh!" cried the porter, when he liad read the mystic
syllables. " Cesai-, I 'spose you must take it," and Cesar departed
ou the errand.

CHAPTER VI.

Now, we hope that we have sufficiently interested the reader,
to make him wish to know the magic woreLs which, operate ig
on the quickened sense of a nobleman's porter, caused him
suddenly to jjut a marquess and a muffin-maker in communicat'.oo.
What Open St^ame could it be, that written by a St. Giles,
should be worthy of the attention of St. James ] Great is the
power of lettei"s ! WJnrl^\'inds have been let loose — fevers
quenched, and Death himself made to cb-op his uplifted dart — by
the subtle maciic of some brief lex scriyda, some abraaidabra that
held m the fiuid some wondrous spirits, always to be found Uke
motes in the sunlieams, in a magicians ink-bottle. !Mighty is the
power of words ! Wondrous theii' agency — their volatility.
Otherwise how could Pythagoras, "writing words in bean-juice
here upon the earth, have had the self-same syllables printed
upon the moon ? Wliat a great human grief it Ls that this secret
should have been lost ! Otherwise what glorious means of pub-
lication would the moon have otfered ! Let us imagine the news
of the day for the whole world written by certain scribes on the

54 ST. GILES AXD ST. JAME3.

next night's moon — when she shone ! What .1 blessed boon to
the telescof>e-iuaker3 ! How we should at once jump at all
foreign news I How would the big-hearted men of America
thereuu publisli their price-current of slaves — the new rate of
the pecunia viva, the living penny in God's likeness — as the
market varied ! And Fnince, to<i, would sometimes with bloody
jx>n write glory there, obscui-iug fur a time the light of heaven,
with the madness of man. And Poland, pale with agony, yet
des])orat*ly calm, would write — " Patience, and wait the hour."
And the scril»es of St. Petersburgh would j)laeard " God and
the Emperor" — blasj»hemous conjunction I — And the old Pope
Would have his scrawl — and Indian princes, and h.alf jilueked
nalK>bs — .and Chinamen — and Laplanders — and the Great Turk —
an<l —

No — ^no ! Tliank heaven ! the secret of Pj-thagoras — if indeed
he ever had it, if he told not a m.agnificent flam — is lost ; other-
wise, what a poor scribbled moon it would Ije ; its face wiinkkd
an<l scarred by thousands of quills — tattooed with wh.it was once
news — ]irintcd with j)layhou3e bills and testiraouials gracefully
vouchsafed to com-cuttera ] No. Thank God ! Pythagonos
safely de.ad, there is no man left to scrawl his pot-hooks ou the
moon. Her light — like too oft the light of ti-uth — is not darkened
by quills.

Anil after this broom.stick flight to the moon, descend we to
the card of Capstick, muffin-maker. The words he wrote were
simply these — "A native of Liquorish, with a vote for the
borough."

Now, it is one of the graceful fictions of the English consti-
tution — and m.any of its fictions no doubt pass for its Wst
beauties, in the like manner that the fiction of false hair, false
colour, false teeth, passes sometimes for the best loveliness of a
tinkered face, — it is one of these ficticais that the English peer
never meddles with the making of a member of the House of
Commons. Not he. Let the country make its lower Hou.se of
senators as it best may, the English peer will have no hand in
the matter. He would as soon, in his daily walks, think of lifting
a load upon a porter's back, as of helping to lift a commoner into
his seat. "We say, this is a fiction of the constitution ; and
beautiful in its influence upon the human mind, is fiction. Now,
the Marquess of St. James had in his fathers hfetime repre-
sented the borough of Liquorish. He was returned by at least a
hundred and fifty voters as independent as their very limited
number permitted them to be. The calumny of politics had said
that the house of St. James carried the borough of Liquoiish in
He pocket, as easily as a man might in the same place carry iv

ST. GILES. AND ST. JAMES. 5S

rotten api)le or a rotten egg. Let the I'eader believe only as much
of this a.s his charity will piTmit.

Now it oddly enuuj^di h:iiij>eiied tliat, at the time when Cajwtick
soufjht to ai>pfoach tlie Mai-quess, parliament was near its disso-
lution. The wii.kcd old hag wils all but breathing her last, yet —
case-hardened old sinner! — she expressed no contrition, showed
no touch of conscience for her ]»a.st life of iniquity; for her wrongs
she had committed ujxin the weak and poor ; for the nightly rob-
beries upon tliem who toiled for the e-speei;U luxury of those who,
like the tenants of a cheese, lived and crawled upon unearned
pensions ; she repented not of the blood she had shed in the
wickedness of war ; never called about her soft-hearted, te-arful,
most orthodox bishojis, to assuage the agony of her remorse,
and to cause her to make a clean breast of all her hidden
iiiirpiity. No. Parliament was about to expire — ^about to follow
Ik-r sinful i>redecessoi-s (what horrid epitaphs has history written
upon some of them !) and she heard no voice of conscience ; all
filie heard was the chink of guineas pui*sed by bribery for her
successor.

Even the Marquess's porter felt the coming of tlie new election.
His fideUty to his master and his patriotism to merry England
had l>eeu touched by a rejmrt that the Ivjrough of Liquorish was
about to be invaded by some revolutionary spirit, resolved to
snatch it ii-om the time-honoured grasp of the house o( St. James,
a«d, at any cost, to wash it of the stain of bribery. Somebody
luid dared to s;iy that he would sit for the independent borough
of Liquorish though every voter should have a gold watch, and
evej-y voter's wife a silver tea-pot and diamond ear-rings. This
intelligence was enough to make all true lovera of their country
look about them. Therefore did the porter consider Mr. Capstick.
although a muffin-man, a person of some importance to the
Marquess. Capstick was a voter for the borough of liquorish —
that was bought and sold like any medlar — and consequently, to
the mind of the pc«-ter, one of the essential parts of the British
constitution : therefore, the porter was by no means astounded
when Cesar returned with a message that Mr. Capstick was to
follow him.

The mulfin-maJ-cer passed along, in no way dazzled or astonished
by the magnificence about him. He had made his mind up to
be surprised at nothing. Arabian splendours — it was his belief
— would have failed to disturb the philosophic serenity of his
^oul. He had determined, according to his own theory, to extract
ihe man from the Marquess — to come, as he would say, direct at
humanity divested of all its worldly furniture. Bright Jem
meekly followed the misanthi-ope, treading the floor with gentlest

55 ST. GILES AND SF. JAMES.

1re;»d ; and won(]ering at the freak of fortune that even foi a
moment had enal>le<l him, a tenant of Shoil's Ganlens, to enter
such an abode. Blight Jem could not help feeling this, and at
tlie same time feeUng a sort of shame at the unexpected weak-
ness. He had believed himself proof to the influence of grandeur,
— noverthek'ss, he could not help it ; he "was sontewhat abashed,
a little flurried at the splendum* aroiHi<l him. He was nut asLameJ
of his poverty ; yet he somehow felt that it hat! iio business
to intnide itself in such a paradise.

In a few minutes, the muthn-maker and Jem fomid themselves
In a magnitieent library. Seated at a table was a short, elderly
little man, dressed in black. His face wjis round as an apple.
He had small, sharp, grey eyes, which for a few mutueuts he
levelled stetnlily at Capstick and Jem, and then suddenly sliifled
them in a way tliat declared all the innermost "and dearest
thoughts of the muiiin-maker toW, in that glance, read and duly
registered. " Pray be seated," siiitl the geiiticuian ; and C'apstick
heavily di'opped liimself into a velvet chair. Bright Jem, on the
contrary, settletl u\nn\ the st-at lightly as a buttertly vhmiu a dama.'^k
ro.«*e: and like the buttertly, it seemed doubtful with him.Helf,
whether every moment he would not flutter otf again. Ca|)Btick
at once cojichuled that he was in the jn-esence of the ^larque-ss.
Jem knew better, ha\'iug seen the nobleuuin ; but thoviglit poiy^iilily
it might be some earl or duke, a finend or relation of the family.
However, both of them augured well of their mission, fii>m the
ea.sy, half-:orilial miuiner of the illu.strious gentleimm in black.
His words, too, were low and soft, as though breathed by a flute.
He seemed the persouitication of gentleness and politeness.
Nevertheless, reader, he waa not of the peerage ; being, indeeil,
nothing mure than Mr. Jonathan Folder, librarian — and at times
confidential agent — to the Maniuess of St. James. He had just
received the orders of his lonl.-ihip to give audience on his Mialf,
to wliat might be an im|x>rtant deputation from the borough of
Liquorisli ; hence, Mr. Folder, alive to the patriotic interest of his
employer and friend — as, occasionally, he would venture to call
the Mai'quess. — was smiling and benignant.

"Mr. Cajistick — I presume >/ou are Mr. Capfttick )" — and Mr.
Folder with his usual s:igacity, bowed to the muttin-maker — " we
are glad to see you. This house is always open to the exceUeut
and patriotic voters of Liqiioiish. Thei-e never was a time, Mr.
Capstick, when it more behoved the friends of the ConstitutioD
to have their eyes about them. The British Con.stitution — "

" There is noconstitutionlikeit,"oljservedtheumrtin-niakoc drily.

" That 's an old truth, Mr. Capstick," siiid Mr. Folder, " and,
like all old truths, all the better for its age."

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. -'7

"No constitution like it," repeated the muffiti-maker. "I
don't know how many times it liasn't been destroyed since I fii-st
knew it — and still it 's all alive. The British Constitution, my
lord, sometimes seems to me like an eel ; you may flay it
and cliop it ^o bits ; yet for all that, the pieces will twist and
wrigrrle agahi."

" It is one of its proud attributes, Mr. Capstick," said Folder,
— doubtless he had not heard himself addressed as my lord —
" one of tlie (^lories of the Constitution, that it is elastic — pecu-
liarly elastic."

" And that 's, I suppose, my lord," — surely Mr. Folder was a
little deaf, — " that 's why it gets mauled about so much. Just as
boys don't mind what tricks they play upon cats — because, poor
devils, somebody, to spite 'em, has said they 've got nine lives.
But, I bog your pardon, this is my friend — Mr. James Aniseed,
— better known as Eriglit Jem," and Capstick introduced the
linkman.

Mr. Folder slightly rose from his chair, and graciously bowed
to Jem ; who, touched by the courtesy, mse bolt ujiright ; and
then, after a moment "s hesitation, he took half-a-dozen strides
towards Mr. Folder, and — ere that gentleman wjis aware of the
de.'^ign — slinok him heartily by the hand. Then, Jem, smiling
and a little llushed, returned to his chair. Again taking liis .seat,
he looked aVxnit him with a brightened, happy face, for Mr. Folder
— the })roV)able nobleman — had returned the Unkman's grasp
with a most conlial pressure.

" And, Mr. Aniseed," said Folder, " I presume you have also a
voice in the constitution ; j'ou have a vote for — ''

" Not a morsel, my lord," answered Jem. " I hav'u't a voice
in anything ; all I know about the constitution is that it means
taxes ; for you see, my lord, I 've only one room and that 's a little
un — anil so, you see, my lord, I 've no right to nothing." Whil.st
Jem pursued this declaration, Mr. Folder, doubtless all uncon-
sciously, nibbed his right hand with his handkerchief. The
member might, possibly, have caught some taiut from the shake
of a low man without a vote.

" Nevertheless, Mr. Capstick, we are happy to see you," said
Folder, with a strong emphasis upon the pronotin. " Public
morality — I mean the morality of the other party — is getting
lower and lower. In fact, I should say, the world — that is, you
know what part of the world I mean — is becoming worse and ^
worse, baser and baser."

" There is no doubt of it, my lord," answered Capstick, — " for
if your lordshiij — "

Capstick had become too emphatic. It was therefore necessary

58 ST. GILES AND ST. JAME3.

tliat Folder should correct him. "I am not his lordship. No, I
.•III! not," he reix?ated, not unobservant of the arched eyebrows of
vIk; iimftiii-makcr : " I am de])uted by his lordship to receive you,
prej>ari'il to listen to your wishes, or to the wishes of any of the
respectable constituents of the borough of Liquorish. We are not
un;iware, Mr. Capstick, of the movements of the enemy. But we
nhall Ik; provided against them. They, doubtless, will be prepared
to tamper with the independence of the electors, but a.s I have
said," and Folder let his words fall slowly as thou;4h they were so
r.iany ^jem.s, *' as I have said, there we can beat them on their
own dirty grounds."

" There is no doubt whatever of it," said Capstick, " none at
all. And then in these mattei-s, there's nothing like-competition,
— nothing whatever. Fur my jiart, I must say, 1 like to see it —
it does me good : an election, such an election as we have in
Liquorish, is a noble sight for a man who, like myself, was V)orn
to sneer at the world. At such a time, I feel myself e.xalted."

" No doubt — no doubt," said Mr. Folder.

" Then I feel my worth, ever}' petmy of it, in what is called the
social scale. For instance, now, I ojk'u the shop of my conscience,
with the pri<le of a tradesman wh<> knows he "s got something in
his window that people vutst buy. I liave a hiuidsome piece oi
I>L'rjurv to dispose of "

'• Mr. Capstick ! Perjury ! " cried Fohler, a little shocked.

" "Why, you see, sir," said Capstick, " for most things, there 's
two names — a holi<lay name, and a working-<lav name."

"That 's tnie," said Jem — and then he added, with a bow to
Folder, " saving your ])resence, sir : quite true."

" Yes, I 'm a voter with a perjur}' jewel to sell," said Capstick,
"and, therefore, isn't it delightful to me, as a man who hates
the woi-lil, to have tine gentlemen, honourable gc!itlemen, — yes,
titled gentlemen, comuig about me and chaffering with me for
that little jewel — that, when they 've bought it of me, they may
sell it again at a thumping protit ? The Marquess isn't that sort
of man "

" I should hope not. Mr. Capstick," said Folder, with a smile
that seemed to add — impossible.

" Certainly not. But isn't it, I say, pleasant to a man-hater
like me, to see this sort of dealing — to know that, however mean,
and wicked, and rascally, the voter is who sells his jewel — he is
taught the meanness, encouraged in the wickedness, and more
than countenanced in the rascality, by the high and lofty fellow
with the money-bag ? Oh ! in the school of corruption, ar'n't there
Bome nice high-nob ushers 1 "

** Never mind that, jNIt. Capstick," said Bright Jem, who began

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 59

to fear for the success of their mission, if the miiffin-raaker thus
coutinucd to vindicate his misanthropy. " Never mind that. We
aiu't make a sore any better l>y jmttinrr a plaster of bad words
to it : never iflinil tliat ; but, ^ir. Capstiek," said Jem, eiu'uestly,
" let 's mind somethhig else."

"Then I am to undei-stand," said ^Fr. Ftdder, who, in his
philosophy, had been somewhat entertained by the philippics
of the muffin-maker, — " 1 am to understand, that your present
business in no way relates to anj-thiug connected with the
borouffh ? "

" Not at present," said Capstiek, " only I hope that his lordship
won't forget I have a voice. Because "

At this moment, the door flew open, and a child — a beautiful
creature — gaudioUed into the room. It w;»s yoimg St. James.
The very cherub, as Kitty Muggs would have called him, robbed
by the iiii(]uit(jus. the hopeless St. Giles. Truly he wa^j a lovely
thing. His fair, fresh young face, informed with the innocence,
pui-ity, and happiness of childhood, spoke at once to the heart of
the beholder. AVhat guilelessness wa-s in liLs lai'ge blue eyes —
what sweetness at his mouth — what a fjxir, white expanse of brow
— adorned with clustering curls of palest gold ! His words and
laughter came bubbling from the heail, making the sweetest
mu.sic of the earth ; the voice of h;i]>j)y childhood ! A sound that
sometimes calls us from the hard dealing, the tumult, and the
weariness of the world, and touches us with tender tlioughts,
allitd to tender teai-s.

" What a beautiful cretvir ! " whispered Jem to the muffin-
maker. " He 's been kept out of the mud of the world, hasn't
he ? I say ; it would be a hard job to suppose that blooming
little fellow — with rags on his back, matches in his hand, and
nothin' in his belly, eh ? Quite as hard as to think young St. Giles
was him, eh ? And yet it might ha' been, mightn't it ? "

"Here is the future member for Liquorish," said Mr. Folder
the cliild having run up to him, and jumped upon his knees.
'• Here, sir, is your future representative."

" Well, if he keeps his looks," said Jem, aside to Capstiek,
" 3'ou won't have nothing to complain of."

" Of com-se, the borough wUl be kept warm for the young gen-
tleman," said the muffin-man. " He may count upon my vote —
yes, I may say, he may depend upon it. In the meantime, sir,
I come upon a little business in which that young gentleman is
remotely concerned."

" You don't mean the shameful robbery last night ? " said Mr.
Folder. ' A frightfid case of juvenile depravity ! Another proof
that the world 's getting woi-se and worse."

CO ST. GILES AND ST. J.\MES.

" Xo doubt of it," said Capstick ; " worse and worse ; it 'a
getting 80 bad, it must soon be time to bum it up."

"The poor little boy who did it. sir," said Bright Jem, very
deferentially, '" didn't know any better."

" Know no better ! Impossible ! Why, how old is he ? "
asked Mr. FoMer.

" Jist gone seven, sir, not more ;" answered Jem.

" And here s this dear child not yet seven ! And do you mean
to toll mc that ^« doesn't know better ? Do you nu-aii in your
ignorance to insinuate that this young gentleman woul<l do such
a thing — eJi ? " demanded Folder of the abiushed linkmau.

" Bless his deiir, good eyes, no " — s;ud Jem, with some emotion
— "sartinly not. But then he 's l>een taught Wtter. Ever since
lie could speak — and I dare say almost afore — every night and
day he was taken ui)on somelKjdy's kuees, aud teached to say his
]>rayers — and what w;us good and wh;it was V>ad — and besides
tliat, to have all that wjis quiet aud hapj)yauil comfurtable about
liim — and kind words and kind looks that are almost better than
bread aud meat to childreu — for th.-y make 'em kind and gentle
too — now, the poor little boy that stole that young gentleman's
hat—"

" I don't want the hat " — cried the child, for he h.id heard the
story of the wicked boy at the playhouse — " I don't want it — he
luay have it if he likes — I told papa so."

'' Bless you, for a sweet little dear," said Jem, brushing his
eyes.

" Tlie truth is, sir, I came here," said Cajwtick, " I came as a
voter for the independent Iwrough of Liquorish — to intercede with
the magnauiiiiity of the Marqui-ss for the poor little wretch — the
unhappy baby, for he 's no more — now locked up for ftlony.*'

•* What 's the use I " asked Mr. Folder, dancing the scion of
St. J:uues upon his knee, — "what 's the use of doing anything for
such creatures ? It 's only throwing pity aw.ny. The boy is sure
to be hanged some time — depend u[)i>n it, wiieu boys begin to
steal, they can't leave it ofF — it 's inipossibl'! — it 's against nature
to expect it. I always give 'em up from the first — an<l, di?j)eni'
upon it, it 's the shortest way in the end : it saves a good deal of
useless trouble, and I may say false humanity. As for what
chililrcn are taught, aud what they 're not taught — why I think
we make more noise about it than the argument 's wortli. You
see, Mr. Capstick, there is an old proverb : what 's bred in the
bone, you know — "

"Why, sir, saviug your presence, if wickedness goes down fron»
father to son, like colour — the only way I see to make the world
better is to lay hold of all the bad people, and put 'em out of it

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 61

Rt once ; so that for the future," concluded Jem, " we should
breed notliing but c[oodness."

*• Pr;iy, my good mau." a^sked Mr. Folder, " are you the father
of the thief"? "

" No, sir, I 'ju not. 1 wish I was, with all my heart and soul,"
cried Jem with auimatiun.

" Humph, you 've an odd taste for a fatlier," shortly observed
Mr. Folder.

" "NVliat I moan, sir, is this," said Jem, " I 've the conceit in me
to think that then the boy wouldn't have been a thief at all. He "d
then been better taught, and teaching 's ever}'tlinig. I 'd have
sent him to school, and the devil hasn't such an enemy nowhere
as a gooil schoulmiuster.* Even now I sliould like to try my hand
upon him, if I could have him all to myself, away from the wick-
edn',ss he was hatched in."

** I dare say you mean very well, my man, no doubt of it,"
said Mr. Folder. " Still, I think if the boy had a little taste of the
jail,-"

" A little ta.ste," gi-oaned Jem, " if he has ever so little, he 'a
pisoned for life ; I know that, I 've seen it afore."

" And so, sir," resumed Capstick, " I am come a.s a petitioner,
and ;ls a voter for the borough of Liquorish, to ask his lordship's
compa.-ision for this wretched child."

" Well, I 'm sure, Mr. Capstick, I '11 see what 's to be done,
I 'm sure I will. Now will you," — ;md ifr. Folder addressed him-
self smilingly to the child, — " will you ask pap;i, for your sake, to
forgive the naughty boy that ran away with your hat ? "

"Oh, yes, that I will," answered the child eagerly. "You
k;iow I don't care about the hat, I 've plenty of hats. I '11 nin to
papa now," and the child jumped from Folder's knee, and bounded
from the room.

" There, ray man," said Folder, with a smile of triumph to
Bright Jem, "there you see the spontaneous work of a good
nature."

" With coed teaching," said Jem. " I kuovr'd the little cretur
that 's now locked up — I know'd him when he was a baV)by, and
if he 'd only had fair play he 'd ha' done the same thing."'

" Let us hope he '11 improve if he 's forgiven," said Mr. Folder

* I will not s.ay a village schoolmaster is a more important person ia
the state than he who is pecnliarly entrusted with the education of the
Printo of Wale?, though 1 think he is a far more important personage
than the hirihest state ojjicer in the Kiuc/'s household. The material he
has to deal willi is man, and I think it would be rather rash to venture to
limit liis range or capacities. — Lord Morpeth at the York Diocesan Nationa I
Fdttcation Societij. [All honour to such nohilitj- !]

C2 ST. GILES AXD ST. JA:^IES.

" I will, however, go to his lordi^hip, and know his fate." With
thi.s. Folder quitted the a])artnient on his benevolent mission.

•* What a caj)ital thought it was of you, Mr. Capstick, to come
here ; it had never entered my head," said Jem.

" Nothinjj like approaching the fountain source," said Capstick,
serenely. " Besides, I know an eleetion is near at hand ; and sia
an election approaches, you can't thiidv how it takes the stiffness
out of some people. There 's no accounting for it, I suppose, but
80 it is."

"A great many books here, Mr. Capstick," said Jem, looking
reverentially at the loaded shelves ; "I wonder if his lordship 'a
read 'em all ! "

" You see," answered the scoffing muffin-maker^ " it 's not so
necessary to read a libi-ary ; the great matter 's to get it. "With
a goo<l many folks heajts of biHjks are nothing more than heai>sof
acqu.-iintance, that they promise themselves to look in ujx)n
some I lay."

'' Well," said Jem, his eyes glistening, " I never see books all
in this fashion, without thinkinc'that the man as has 'em is a kind
of happy oonjunir, that can talk when he likes with all sorts of
good spirits, and never think a flea-bite of half the rubbish in the
world about hinj."

Jem had scarcely uttered this hoj»eful sentence, when young
St. James ran in, quickly followed by Mr. Folder. " Yes, yes,"
crieil the child, all happiness, " papa says I must forgive him, as
we ought alwa>-s to forgive one another ; and you 're to tell him
from me that he 's to be a good boy :uid never do so again."

" Bless your sweet hcai-t ! " cried Bright Jem, and the tears
sprang to his eyes. The muffin-maker siiid nothing, but coughed
and bowed.

"There, I think, Mr. Capstick," said Folder in a low voice,
"there, I think, is a future treasure for the borough. I trust
you '11 not let this little stoiy be lost on the good folks of Liquorish.
Nobody will appear against the culprit, and therefore take him,
and if you can, among you, make a bright man of him. Good
morning, Mr. Capstick — good morning," and Folder bowed the
visitoi-s from the room. Bright Jem paused at the door, and look-
inq' back at the child, cinetl, " God bless you every day of your
life."

Jem and the mutfin-maker were about to quit the house, when
they were accosted by Cesar Gum in the hall. In a confidential
wliisper he said — ^ Come and take some turkey and Avine for
lunch : pi-irae Madeary — den we can go to jail for tief: dreailful
ting, taking oder people's goods — come and hab some wine."
And then in a still lower tone — " Give you bottle for youselH"

» ST. GILES" AND ST. JAMES. 63

To this invitation, Capstick made no answer ; but having looked
up and down at the black, strode to the door. Bright Jem
nodded, uttered a brief good morning, and followed his companion
into the strc/tt, leaving Ces;ir CUim, who had wholly forgotten
Jem's previous indignation at the peculated gunpowder, in asto-
nishment at hi.s rejt'cted liosj Vitality.

" We '11 now go to B<jw-street," said Capstick ; and f;ist as they
could walk, they took their way tn that abode of justice. They
arrived there only a few minutes before the arraignment of young
St. Giles at the bar ; where he stood, iu his owii conceit, a
miniature Turpin.

"Where are the witnesses — who makes the charge?" There
were no witnesses. Again and again liis woi-ship put the ques-
tion. And then he .said, " No one is here who knows anything
of the matter. The prisoner umst be discharged. Boy, don't let
me see you here ag;un." Young St. Giles put his thumb and
finger to his hair, jerked a bow, and iu a few moments was free,
aye, freer than the air of Hog-lane.

Jem and Capstick followed him into the street. The muffin-
maker seizing him, roai'ed — " You Uttle rascal ! What do you
say for your lucky escape ] "

*'Say ! " answered young St. Giles — " Wliy, I know'd it was all
gammon — I kiiow'd they could prove nothiu' agin me."

CHAPTER YII.

As it is our hope, in the coui-se of this small histoiy, to chronicle
many great achievements of our hero of the gutter, St. Giles,
we shall not follow him year by year through the humble yet
industrious course, in which, to his own satisfaction and strengthen-
ing conceit, he became profoundly knowing ; subtly learned in
every way of petty peculation ; whether he plundered the orange-
, baskets of Covent Garden market, or whether, with finest skill,
he twitched the tempting handkerchief fi'om the pocket of the
lounger. Nor was this, liis lowly career, undignified by suffering.
No : for ere he was twelve yeare old, he had tasted the hospitality
of Bridewell ; where, in truth, he had been inducted into the
knowledge of far dearer mj'steries than he had ever hoped to
learn. In I'.ridewell, his young and ardent soul had expanded
with the thoughts of future fame, won by highway pistol, or
burglar's jemmy. And there, too, would he listen to fairy tales
of coiuing : would dieam of easy, lasting wealth, acquired by

C4 ST. GILES AXD ST. JAilES.

copper guineas. As for the lash bestowed upon hira, the paiu of
that (lid but burn into liis niiml lii.s high resolves. He would
tlie more fiercely revenge the .suti'ering upon everybody called
honest. He would steal with all his heart and all his soul ; he
wjus lujrn and bred to steal; he came into the world to do it, and
lie would notably fulfil his mission. Such was the strengthened
belief of young St. Giles, when, at fourteen, and for the second
time, he came back to the world across the threshold of Bridewell.
Such w;is his creeil : the only creed his world had taught him.
Nevertheless, our hero did not vaunt this belief, save among
those of his own Newgate persuasion. On the conti-ary, he
assumed the character of a tradesman, that under his conmiercial
asp<'ct he might the more securely jdundcr the innocents who
dealt with him. True it is, he had not the security of a shop ;
he could not, like his patron the deakr in marine stores, despoil
across a counter; but he carried a bjusket ; ami whiLst, to the
unsiLspecting eye, he seemed oidy the Arcadian vendor of chick-
weed, gnjundsi'l, and turf for singing-birds — for tlie caged minstrels
of th».))oor — he w;is, in every thought, a rubber.

It w:is a tine monxiug early in spring, and Plumtree-street
resounded with the sharp tradesman cry of young St. Giles.
Pausing at a door-step, and looking up to the second-floor win-
dows, he pitched his commercial note with a peculiiu' significance,
as though giving notice of his whereabout to an exijected cu.s-
tomer. " Chickweed for singing-birds," cried St. Giles, in a shrill,
prolonged voice, as though he would send the glad tidings up to
tiie garret casement, where hopped and fluttered some solitary
linnet, some lonely goldfinch, that feeling the breath of spring,
albeit through pri.son bai-s, sang a song of hope and cheerfulness.
"Chickweed for singing-birds," cried St. Giles, with increasing
volume and impatience. Tlieu again he looked up at the window,
ami then muttered "The old uu can't be dead, con she 1" Aa he
t]\us sjieculated the window was raised, and a woman looked
down into the street. " Is it you, my poor boy ? " she cried ;
" stop a minute :" and instantly disappeared. " Tliought the old
uu couldn't be dead," said St. Giles, self-commiming ; auvl then he
began to hum a tune and shuffle a dancing-step upon the pave-
ment. The door was opened by a girl, who, with no very cordial
looks, muttered, — " Mi-s. Simmer — well, she 's a droll cretur, she
is ! — Mrs. Simmer says you 're to come up. You can leave your
basket here, can't you ? "

•' In coiu-se, my beauty," said St. Giles, " 'cause, you see,
there 's only these two bunches left ; and them I can carry in my
hand without breaking my back." With this, St. Giles, rapidly
placing his basket against the wall, gave a saucy wink to the

ST, GILES AND ST. JAMES. 65

ee-rvant, and bouudetl like a kid up stairs. In a moment he was
M'ith Ills j)atrc>ne«.-<. !Mrs. Sinmier.

" My poor cliikl, I tliouglit you was lost," said the dame iu the
kindest voice, " Wliat inakes you so late ? "

" Why, do you know, mum, I can't tell what 's come to the
chickwued : it doesn't f;row no how, now. If I wasn't at five in
the morning iii Ilanipstead fiekls, a hunting iu every edge, and
haven't got above three penn'orth. Chickweed, mum, as Tom
Blast says, seems a perishin' from the face of the earth, and only
to spite poor pet>ple as lives by it. I don't know how much I
couldn't ha' sold this mornin' ; but I says to myself — no, there's
^Ii-s. Sinuner's blessed little linnet, and her darliu' gooldfinch
as draws his own water, — they sha'n't go without, whosomever
does."

" Poor dear child ! good little boy," said Mrs. Simmer, looking
with softened looks upon the wily trader.

" And to hear how all the bii-ds did seem to call to me fi\>m
tlieir cages — I 'm blessed if they dithi't, mum, as I come along
— but no, says I to 'em, it 's no use, my little coekies, no use to be
gammouin' me — this here chickweed 's for Mi-s. Simmer's Bob
and Tit, and for nobody else whatsomever." And after this
fishion was the simplicity of two-score and ten talked to and
ilupod by precocious fourteen.

But dear Mrs. Simmer seemed to be one of those good old
jioople who strangely enough carry their hearts in their heads.
Slie i»ad not been above a fortnight in London at the time of this
interview wiih St. Giles, whom she had met in the street, and
whose pathetic tale of destitution, delivered with the cunning of
an actor, had carried away her sympathies. St. Giles, however,
had another claim upon her. He was, she said, such a pretty
boy. Dear soul ! she could no more read a human face than she
coultl read Saiiscrit. She only saw the bright, glittering eyes of
St. Giles, and not the fox that looked from them ; she praised
liis eyes ;uid face, as she might have praised a handsome hieroglyjjh,
wholl}' unconscious of its subtle meaning. A great master has
Riid, " there is something in true beauty that vulgiir souls cannot
admire." And sure we are, there is something ui the tniest
rascdity, that simple benevolent souls cannot detect. They have
no eye for the worst counterfeit countenance ; have no eai' for a
false voice, let it ring ever so brassily. Now, dear IMi-s. Simmer
was one of these : hence was she at fifty but a babe, an innocent,
in the hands of young St. Giles.

" Now, my poor child" — she said, "take some tea. I've kei)t
it for you, with some toast ;" and Mrs. Simmer took a smoking
jug and a plate piled with toast from either hob, and placed them
VOL. L i< 9

€9 ST. GILES AND ST. JA5IES.

on the table, before her guest. " T.-vke as much as yon can, my
vhiM. .-iinl tlieii you shall tell ine all yuur story as yuu pruuiiaed.
Poor huub ! Blesa you, eat — it does my heart ffo<xI to see you ;"
and Mrs. Simmer, foliling her hands, looked with almost uiatemai
tenderness uiwn St. Giles, who acknowled',dng the welcome with
a knowing nod, proceeded vigorously with his meal. Mrs.
Simnu-r thought she never saw so handsome a creature ; what
St. Giles thought of Mrs. Simmer, we will not say. " And so
you've no father nor mother, my dear boy ?" after some time
asked Mrs. Simmer.

" Not one on 'em," answered St. Giles, rapidly moving his
buttered chin. " Not one on 'em."

"The Lord help you!" cried Mrs. Simmer: "and no uncle,
no a\mt, no"

" No nothin', mum," said St. Giles ; and he gulped bis tea.
"All on 'em died, mum, when I was a babby."

" Poor dear child ! Bless my hcait ! And how have you been
brought up ? "

" Brought up, mum" — and St. Giles grinned and scratched his
head — "you said V>rought up, mum ? Don't know, mum."

" And where do you live, now, my poor boy ? " and Mrs.
Simmer melted with every question.

" Don't live nowhere, reglar, mum. Poor boys, like me, why
we live — as Tom Blast says — like the rata, where we can. Then
o' nights, rauni, 1 sometimes sleeps in the market among the
baskets. Sometimes, though, don't they come with a stick, and
cut us out ! I b'lieve you ! " and St. Giles seemed to spe;ik with
a lively recollection of such inci<lonts. " Cuts the werry breath
out o' you," he then significantly added.

" Cruel creatures ! Gracious little lamb ! And I 'm afraid
you meet with bad boys there, eh ? Wicked boys, that may soms
day tempt you to do something wrong ? Eh ? " asked simple
Mrs. Suumer.

"Believe yon," said St. Giles, with well-acted gravity. "Lots
on 'em w.mted me to go picking pockets."

" Heaven forbid ! " cried ilrs. Simmer, and the tears came to
her eyes.

" That 's what I said, mum ; no, says I, no, I shall stick to
ehiokweed if I starves for it — I 'm not a-going to be hanged to
plea.>^e nobody : no, mum."

" Tliat such a precious flower should be thrown away ! " crie^l
Mrs. Simmer to herself ; and then to St. Giles : " You 're a good
boy ; I "m sure you 're a good boy. And tell me ; I hope you go
to church ? "

" Oh, T should like it so ! " cried St. Giles : " but you see, mum,
it 's not to be done.* ^

ST. GILES A^D ST. JAMES. 67

" How so, my boy ? " asked Mrs. Simmer.

"Look here, iiiuiii," ami St. Gile,^, with the cooLiess ot a phi-
losopher, drew his feet up ahiiost level with the table, and, with
his forefinger, pointed to his ten niiiddy toes, that showed them-
selves through the parted shoe-leather. " Parson wouldn't have
'eiii, by no means. I did once tiy to go to church ; I did begin
to feel so wicked. "Well, mum, if the Ix'adle di'lu't come up, mum,
anil nearly cut me Ln two, mum."

"How wicked — how barbarous!" said the ingenuous Mrs.
Simmer.

" And only for my bad shoes, and the oles in my coat ; but
that 's how they serves poor boys, muin. I don't think it's kind,
mum ; do you, mum ? " And St. Giles tried to look at once
ijiiured and innocent.

Mi"s. Simmer wiped her eyes, making an effort to be calm. She
then sjiid, " I 've been thinking, if I could get you a place in a
gentleman's house."

" Wouldn't that be prime ? " cried St. Giles : and as he spoke,
there rang through the house a loud and hurnod knock at the
street-door. Mi-s. Simmer, without a word, jumpeil to her feet,
and ran to the window.

" "\N'ell, I declare ! if it isn't that blessed cliild ! if it isn't his
lordship ! " she cried.

Young St. Giles, at the word lordship, slid from his chair, and
looked slyly about him. "Was it possible that a lord could be
coming into that room ? Could he imagine such a thing as to
Fee a real lord in such a place ? Ere St. Giles had done
wondering, the room-door was flung open, and in ran young St.
James. St. Giles seemed to shrink into himself at the splendid
ai>pe;irauce of the new-comor. He wore a bright scarlet coat,
thickly ornamented with gold buttons : and a black beaver hat
with a large, heavy feather of the same colour, brought out in
strong contrast his flushed and happy face. For the moment,
yoimg St. Giles felt himself overpowered, abashed by the magni-
ficent outside of the little stranger. He sidled into a comer of
the room, and looked at that scarlet coat as though it had been
something dropt from the heavens. "Well, nurse," cried St.
James, with a loud, ringing laugh, " I told you I 'd come and
see you, and here I am. I went out riding with Mr. Folder.
Well, he stopt to talk to somebody, and so I just gave him the
slip, put Jessy into such a gallop, and was here in a minute.
I say, can't that boy," and St. James pointed his riding-whip
towai-ds St. Giles — " can't that boy hold Jessy, instead of the
girl 1 "

" To be sure, my lord — to be sure," cried Mrs. Simmer.

» 2

6S ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

" Sartiiily, my lord— dii-ectly, my lord — I knt^ws Ijow t<j hold
o«.se8, my lonl," siiid St. Giles, iu a flutter.

" Ju.st walk her uj) and down a little, will you, for she 'a hot,"
Raid St. Jame.s, with an early knowleil.;e of hoi-se-fle.sh.

" Yes, my lord — to be sure, my 'ord — walk her up and down,
mv lord :" and St. Giles flew down the staii-s, ami relieved the
girl of her eharge. Young St. Jame.s w;us then left to have his
gossip with Mrs. Simmer ; from which gossip a sti-anger might
have learned that the goofl woman had, for yeiu-s. Wen in the
service of the family of St. Jame.s ; that she had bceu the
favourite nuiue of his young lordship ; and that for the first time
iu her life she liad come to Lomlon from the country, where,
made comfortable by a |K,'nsion gnintwl to her b}- the marchioness,
after a short sojourn in the metrojHjlis, it was her j)urj)ose to
return. She had been to the house in the square, where young
St. James ha<l made his chivalrous promi.se to visit her ; yea, at
all h;izards, to seek riumtree-.street, out of pure love, and a little
frolic, to his old nurse. " Oh, I shall be at home now before Mr.
Folder," said yoking St. James, in aiuswer to the feai-s of Mrs.
Siuuuer, alarmed at the esoajje of the young gentleman from hia
tutor. However, we must leave them and descend to the pave-
ment to St. Giles.

Whh an air of becoming gravity, the boy led the pony uj) and
down befoi-e the door, hia eyes riveted uixin the be:ist ; certainly
a creature of extreme beauty. She waa jet black, of ex<|uisite
delicacy of outline ; and her arched neck, quivering nostril, and
tiery eye, told something fur the spirit and horsemanship of the
Iwy who rode her. Up and down St. Giles walked ; and now
looking at the animal, now thinking of the Imw lord, it ap|)eared
to him that all the treasures of the world were concentrated in
that jxsny ; that St. James was a sort of earthly angel ; a being
of altogether another kind to the boys St. Giles had ordiuai-ily
met with. There was something so magnificent about the pony
aud its rider, that only to have had his lordship to speak to him,
that only to hold the bridle of his steed, seemed in the confused
bi-ain of St. Giles to redeem him from somewhat of his miseiy and
lowliness. He could not but think the better of him.self for all
time to come. He had spoken to a lord — had held his horse !
Could any of his gutter compjuiions boa.st such gi-eatuess ? These
thoughts were busying the mind of St. Giles, when he heard
himself addressed by a famili;iT voice. ""Wliat! my flower?"
was the greeting ; and St. Giles, turning, beheld his friend and
tutor, Tom Blast. St. Giles, in his la.st retirement to Bridewell,
had had the advantage of Tom's tuition ; and, to speak tnily, the
teacher and pupil were worthy of each other. Tom was a

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. (39

Bcoundrel of most extensive experience ; and had the happy fa"t
of so simplifying his knowledge, that he made it available to the
meanest underst.-mtling. St. Gile.s, however, had no need of any
such condescension : he could jumj) at a meaning, good or bad,
lialf-way. Hence, the teacher and the taught respected each
other for their mutuiU excellence. In fact, Tom Blast looked
upon Young 8t. Giles, as his Newgate son ; and St. Giles — in
default of another — considered Tom }us the best of fathers.

" What have you got here ? " asked Tom, liis eye sparkling all
over the pony.

"Got a OSS to hold," sjiid St. Giles, with an inquiiing look at
Tom. Then he added, sinking his voice — " it belongs to a lord :
sich a little chap, ;md yet a loriL"

" Well, she 's a beauty," said BLost : " make her w;dk a little
f:ister."

" She is a beauty," cried St. Giles, boldly venturing an opinion,
and quickening the animal's pace.

" Wliat a sweet trot ! " said Blast, "so light and so fi-ee ! Wliy
she wouldn't bi-eak a egg-shell, would she \ "

" I should think not," answered St. Giles, a little flattered that
his opinion was solicited.

" Come up ! " cried Blast, urging the beast into a quicker pace.
** C<ime along, sweet-liios ! "

'• St<jp, Tom ; stop ! " said the prudent St. Giles, when he had
arrived in Bedford-square. " Blest if we don't tuni back, if they
won't think we 're a going to steal her ; and that wouldn't do, no
how, would it, Tom ? " asked the boy, and his eye encountered
Tom's thoughtful look.

" Why, — no," answered Tom with some deliberation. " No ;
it wouldn't — turn her round agin ; and walk her gently, Giles ;
gently, pretty cretur." And as St. Giles complied, Tom turned
too, walking with meditative eye that now glanced at the Iwy and
now at the pony. Ambitious thoughts busied the brain of the
poor, timid tliief^ Tom Blast ; and he pondered on the means
whereby he could reap the profits of a stolen horse, still assuring
to himself exemption from the tragic penalty. For many years
Tom had from time to time eaten stolen bread ; nevertheless, he
had lived, as it were, upon the crumbs, the broken morsels of
crime. He had never had the courage to dare Tyburn that he
might dine, but he satisfied himself with the pickings of petty
larceny. No : he never promised to earn for himself either bio-
gi-aphy or portrait in the Newgat« Calemlar. Hence, he was a
little perplexed at the temptation that would mtrude itself
upon him as he glanced at Lord St. James's satin-coated pony.
Fortune seemed willing to make him a handsome present of

70 ST. GILES AXD ST. JAMES.

horse-flesh, if he had only the valour to accept it. No ; he would
not be tempted : he had resolved to die a natural death, and there-
fore he resolutely dismissed the demon that would destroy him.
Nevertheless, he thought it possible tliat poUcy might achieve what
courage failed to attempt. He might accomplish all by a stroke
of wit, profiting in security by the danger of another. St. Giles
might be made the robber, and Tom Blast, in happiest safety,
pocket the proceeds. Thus ruminating, Tom again reached
^frs. Simmer's door.

" Not wanted yet," said St. Giles, looking fi-om the door to the
window. " We '11 give her another trot, eh ? " And at the word
the pony was turned towanls Be<lford-square.

"Gently," said Blast, "gently. Why don't you have a ride
upon her 1 The young lord wouldn't know notliing of it. And
what if he did ? He couldn't take the ride out of you again.
Only not .to big, else she 's the very pictur — yes the very moral of
Dick Tui-j>m's Bess," said Blast, looking critically, admiringly, at
Jessy. " Get uj), and don't be a young fool," he added ; and then
St. Giles — he hardly knew how it was accomplished — found him-
self in the saddle. " There, that 's something like life, isn't it ? "
s;iid the tempter suddenly, sjieaking from the whole breadth of
the pavement, and eveiy other minute looking cautiously behind
him the while he mendwl his pace, and St. Giles jerked the pony
into a trot. " That '» something like li\'iug for, eh 1 and I should
like to know why you shouldn't have it just a^ soon as any little
lord whatsomever ? "

" Ha ! wouldn't that be prime, Tom ?" cried St. Giles, his eyeo
spai-kling, and face glowing. " Wouldn't it be prime ]"

" It 's nothing more than what you ought to have ; why you
ride as well as if you was boni upon her back — give her her head a
little more — now down this way," sharply added Blast ; and then
rapidly turning to the right, he ran on, St. Giles trotting hard
after him. Arrived at the east side of Russell-square, Tom
suddenly halted. "Now, St. GUes," said he, "are you man
enough to make your fortin ? "

" I should think so," said Gi^es, in high spirits with his feat of
horsemanship.

" Now listen to a friend, Giles — a friend as never yet deceived
you," said Blast with sudden gi-avity. " Throw away this bit of
luck, and you may never get another. Take the pony and sell
it." St. Giles stared. " Why not, you fool ! you may as well "
— ci-ied Blast — " you 've stole it you know."

" Stole it ! " cried St. Giles.

" It 's all the same ; there 's nobody as would believe otherwise
— so 111 stand your friend, and get you the money for tli«j

ST. GILES 'AND ST. JAMES. 71

bargain. Ha ! I see — you hav'n'fc no pluck in you — not a bit,"
said the taunting friend.

" Ain't I, thougli 1 jist you see," cried young St. Giles, deter-
mined to do afiytliing.

" Well, then, as you 've got yourself into a bit of trouble, I '11
stand by you. Now, you listen ; just dash as hard as you can
through the fields, and then turn to the right — and so round and
round, until — you know tne way — untU you drop down upon
Smith field. Then make for Long Lane ; and then just afore you
get to tlie Blue Posts — get off and lead the pony up and down as
if you was holding her for somebody — and then in a crack I 'm
with you. Now, look sly, and your fortiu's made. Young
Turpin for ever ! Off with you ! " And so saying, the Tyburn
monitor slapt the pony smartly with his broad hand, and the
mettlesome creature boimded foith, young St. Giles witli difficulty
keeping the saddle Aw'ay went the pony up the Long Fields
and awa}' towards Islington ! The words " young Turpin " still
rang in the eai-s of St. Giles, as lie cantered along. He felt that
he had already done something worthy the exalted name bestowed
upon him ; ajid as his blood mounted with the exercise, he ima-
gined future triumphs that would make him glorious. The
robbery of the horse was, for the time, altogether forgotten in
the increased importance that had fallen upon him. He dreamt
not of the punishment attending the theft ; he only thought of
the hatful of guineas that the stolen property would produce him.
And then, as he rode, how pettj' and contemptible did his former
pickings and stealings appear to him ; he almost felt ashamed of
himself, comparing his past petty larcenies with this his crowning
achievement. From the moment he had taken leave of boyhood.
He had suddenly become a man, by the grace of daring felony.
Then, he thought, how should he ever be able to spend the
money ? Would he not have a scarlet coat with gold lace to it, —
ay, much finer than the little lord's ? And would he not go to
the play everj'- night, and have his hot supper afterwards 1 And
would he not flourish money in a hundred ways that should make
all his old companions — the little dirty, paltry thieves of Hog
Lane — look up to him with devotion and astonishment ?

Still young St. Giles ambled along, and still the world seemed
changed to hinu All things about him bore a brighter hue ; all
things sounded vnth a sweeter music ; his brain seemed on wings,
and his lightened heart danced in his bosom. And — poor wretch
— tliis ecstacy of ignorance arose from evil, from a crime whose
fatal effects, certain as death, would follow him. StiU the very
houses, to his fe,ncy, took a new and pleasant aspect ; wherever
he looked he saw a new face of happiness — whatever he heard

72 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

'ame toned with a new note of harmony. He saw not the
lilackeneil stones of Newgjite — h<-ard not the freezing accents of
the death-tlooming judge. Miserable, foolish wretch !

Yet how often do men — in the ripeness of worldly wisdom — •
iwitiite the folly, share the ignoi-anoe of young St. Giles ! Elated
l>y the commission of some protitable wi-ong, seeming secret, too,
as profitable — how often to them does Fortune seem to put on a
new and shining face, when at the very time she grasps the laah,
or drugs the bitter bowl that slwill revenge the wickedness. For
a brief time does successful evil put a new tint of outside beauty
upon all the world ; and happy knavei-y rejoices in the cunning
that makes the world to him so beautiful. What a plodding,
leadcn-eyed Axil is mere honesty ; what an oaf, an ass, compared
to him who squares his code of morals by his seeming interest !
And then full surely time advances, and the world, that looked
so fresh and smiling, is hollow-cheeked and gliastly — its beauty
wiped away, even as a harlot's paint. Successful knavery, dizzied
with its luck, sees suddenly delicious s<'enes — a jxiradise of
worldly joy and life-long rest — then, waking to the truth, beholds
around it burning, bai-ren sand. If the mature jxlgrinis of the
worlil are sometimes so deceived, why not the boy St. Giles ?

Still the young, yes, and happy, felon trotted on, until he
entered Smithfield. He then walked the pony slowly uj) Ijong
Lane, and soon as he espied the Blue Posts, faithful to his oi-ders,
he dismounted, looking anxiously ai'ound him for his friend an<i
instructor, Tom Ehust. A quarter of an hour passeil, and still he
csime not. And then, and for the fii-st time, he looked at the
stolen goods with lowering eyes, and his heart felt leaden. What
was he to do with the pony without Tom ? Nobody would buy
it of him. And then a deeper and a deeper shadow fell upon all
things ; and, biting his lips, young St. Giles, with eyes — quick as
rats' — looked about and about him. What an ugly bi-ute the
pony seemed to him ! Yes ; he knew what he would do : be
would jump upon the pony, gallop back to Plumtree-street, and
swear he had only been for a ride. Anything to be well clear of
the pony. With this thought St. Giles had his foot in the stirrup,
when he was tapped upon the shoulder by a man plainly and com-
fortably dressed in a dark-gi-ey suit, wearing a light flaxen wig in
tight cui'ls, sunnounted by a lai'ge beaver hat, sci-upulously sleek .
He had a broad, fat face, with a continual smile, laid like lacker
upon it. And, when he spoke, he spoke very gently and very
softly, as with lips of butter.

" My dear little boy," said the stranger, patting St. Giles afiec-
tionately on the back, " where have you been so long 1 "

St. GUes looked — he could not help it — very suspiciously at the

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 73

stranger ; then scratching his head, he observed, " Don't know
you, sii'."

'■ I dare say not ; how should you, my dear ? But you will
know lue, and for a friend. I've waited for you these ten
minutes."

St. Giles said nothing : nevertheless his thoujrhts were never
more active. He by no means liked the appearance of his new
friend ; he felt afraid of him. He would Hing himself into the
saddle, and gallop off. As he determined upon this, the stranger,
m the gentlest manner, twitched the briiUe from his hand, and
gently said, " My Uttle dear, it 's all right."'

"All right!" cried St. Giles; and somehow he felt that
his stolen pony was about to be stolen from him — " what 's all
right ? "

" You came from Plumtree-street." St. Giles winced. " Now
3'ou know you did ; don't tell a lie, my little dear ; for don't you
know what come.s of little boys who tell lies ? I have seen your
friend, and paid him ; it 's all right ; but as you 're such a nice
little boy, here 's a guinea for youreelf." St. Giles's heart rose
•somewhat at the guinea. "You're to go into the house, and
wait for Z^Ir. Bhist." St. Giles's eyes twijikled at the name :
of course, as the stranger averred, it must be all right. " Stop,
don't change the guinea ; here 's a shilling too, my little dear.
Now, go in — I don't want to be tlianked — only let me see you go
in, that you mayn't come to any harm in the street." St. Giles?,
taking a last look at the pony, entered the Blue Posts. The
stranger and the pony went — wlio shall say whither ?

St. Giles meekly seated himself in a corner of the hostelry,
ordering for his refection two pennyworth of ale, and bread and
cheese. And when he had somewhat solaced his inwaixl boy,
he began to wonder when Tom Blast would come. Hour after
hour passed, and still St. Giles remained alone. Again and again
he looked at the clock — again and again at the guinea. Never
before had he possessed such wealth : juid the contemplation of
his riches in a great measure abated his anxiety for the jurival of
Tom ; even thoucrh he thousrht of him as the bearer of other
guineas, the purchase-money of the pony. Still, thei-e was the
charm, the fascination of ready gold to comfort St. Giles ; and
the glitter of the money held him like the eye of a snake.
His only perplexity was how he could best spend the guinea.
He was deep in these thoughts when, the room having tilled,
his attention was awakened by a man who, talking very loudly
— and with his clenched fist beating the table the while— about
what he called tlie abstract beauty of honesty, gradually hushed
all speakers into reverent listeners. The man was about th«

74 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

middle-time of life, drest somewhat like a grazier. lie seemed
prematurely bald, which que.stionable defect gave to his head an
outside look of wisilom, possibly not warranted by the contents.
He liad one of those large clear faces, often called open, because
probably there is nothing positive in them. He was earnest and
voluble in his speech, as though his arguments welled up from
his lieart, and would out.

"You have said, sir," he cried, "that honesty is the be.st
policy. You have been plea-sed to call that a golden maxim ?"

" I have," answered a huge, dull-looking man, in a butcher's
coat. " I have," he repeated ; sucking his pipe, and winking his
Bmall eyes.

"Sir," cried the bald-headed orator, " I call it the-maxim of a
rogue and a rascal."

" Hallo ! Hallo ! " cried some, and " Prove it — prove it,"
shouted others.

" Prove it ! Wliy it 's as plain as the door of Newgate. Now,
li^'ten, gentlemen, if you jilease. Honesty is the best policy,
that "h what I have to tackle. Very well What is honesty ?
I ask you that. Why, I suppose, it 's not to pick a man's pocket
— it's not to steal his purse, or his coat, or his sheep, or his
horse?" Young St. Giles turned his eyes from the speaker.
" It 's not to put oflF bad money, or to give short measure, or light
weight ? "

"Stick to the pint," cried a man with an apron, apparently a
small shopkeejwr.

" I am sticking to it," resumed the orator. " Now, I tell you
again that that maxim isn't the maxim of a good man, but of a
rascal ; of a fellow that wants to be rewarded for not stealing —
for not pa.ssing off bad money — for not giving short measure.
He says, no says he, I '11 be honest, not because I love honesty
for itself, but because it 's all to my advantage to be honest. No,
gentlemen. Make honesty not the best policy, and then show me
the man that loves it. Tliat 's my man — that 's the true heart,
gentlemen. But to follow honesty becau.se it 's the best policy — ■
why, I repeat it, it 's nothing more than the calculation of a sneak-
up — of a fellow that hasn't the courage to be a rogue. No : give
me honesty naked as truth ; that 's the honesty I love best. I
don't want to be bribed for being honest ! Eh 1 " and he gazed
triumphantly around him.

" I want you," said a man, putting his head in at the door, and
looking with strange significance at the speaker.

" Damn it ! " cried the orator, and immediately obeyed the
Bummons.

Oh, abstract honesty! bleed for thy worshipper; for in leas

ST. GILES AXD ST. JAMES. 75

thau tliree minutes was lie handcuffed at the door on a charge of
etreet robbeiy.

To return to young St. Giles, an attentive, though unenlightened
listener to tlie lecturer upon honesty. St. Giles had heard of
lionesty ; had some dim notion of its mejuiing. It was a some-
thing especially made for people who had all things comfortable
about them : so much he knew of honesty : but for honesty in the
abstract, — in that he was as ignorant, ay, as even some of his
betters.

The hours passed, and still Tom Blast came not. Evening
approached — night shut in — midnight came, and St. Giles, with a
heavy heart, though lightened somewhat by his guinea, turned
into the street. He couhl not go home — no ; at least, for a time,
Hog Lane must be to him a forV)idden Paradise. No matter.
Had he not a guinea — a wiiole guinea — to himself? The thought,
even in the midnight street, fell like a sunbeam upon him ; he
s])rang from the pavement with a shout, reckless with his wealth,
lie would make a night of it — yes, he would have all things
glorious ! And with this hilarious wilfulness, he took to his
heels, and was speedily housed for the night within the very
shadow of the walls of Newgate.

CHAFTER Vin.

For more than a week did St. Giles live upon his guinea.
Tnie it is, that for the first day or two he dined and supped in
the Apollo of an eastern cook-shop ; besides taking his luncheon
of fried fish in the Minories, for the which delicacy, the Hebrews
tliereabout dwelling enjoy a just renown. But these days of
Carnival past, St. Giles economised, with a fine knowledge of the
resources of the metropolis. Twopence awarded to him the
sweets of sleep beneath a roof ; and a shilling saw him safely
through the day. However, let not the reader imagine that St.
Ciiles — Uke many a great genius — was made dull and inactive by
the golden reward of his ability ; a circumstance to be so often
deplored in the case of great authors, great painters, and espe-
cially of great philosophers ; wherefore, it is questionable, if the
world would not really gain more by them if it never rewarded
them at alL St. Giles was not one of these. No : he still kept
his eyes wide open at the doings of life ; still hived, in that odd,
world-t-wasted little brain of his. all sorts of knowledge for the
future day. He especially employed part of his time, hanging

76 ST. GILKS AXD ST. JAMKS^

about the haunts of Tom Blast ; but, strange to say, tliat interest-
ing person never slioweil himself in any of Jiis wonted places of
ease and recreation. Atrain ami again did St. Giles trawl Lou"-
Lane — again slink and spy into every liaiuit, in the fond and
foolish hope of once more meeting with the soft-spoken man who,
at the ruinous price of one guinea one shilling, had puichiised a
pony of incomparable Arab blood. St. Giles, with all his friend-
ship, all his gratitude for Tom, could not but feel that he had
been tricked, bamboozled by his tutor ; and the nearer and nearer
lie approached to his bust shilling, the more intense was his indig-
nation — ^the more insatiable his appetite of revenge.

It was the ninth day of St. Giles's absence from his niatcnial
liome, and the pilgrim of London stood before a house of humble
entertainment in Cow Cross. The time was noon ; and St. Giles,
feel'mg the la-st threepence in his pocket — turning them over, one
by one — wjis endeavouring to arbitrate between jjuddingand bed.
If he bought a cut of pudding — and through the vei-y window-
]<ane he seemed to nose its odour — he hafl not wherewithal to buy
a lodging. What of that ? Ix)ndon had many doorways — hos-
pitable stone-steps — for nothing ; and pudding must be paid for.
Still he hesitated ; when the cook-shop man removed thejnidding
from the window. This removal immediately decided St. Giles,
lie rushed into the shop, and laid ilown his la.st worldly stake
upon the counter. " Threepenn'orth o' puddin', and a good three-
penn'orth," said St. Giles. With a look of half-reproof and half-
contempt the tradesman silently executed the order ; and in a
few moments, St. Giles stood upon the king's highway, devovu-ing
with great relish his last threepence. Whil-st thus genially em-
ployed, he heard a far-oft" voice roar through the muggj' air : his
heart beat, and he ate almost to choking, as he listened to these
familiar words: — "^4 most True and Particular Account of the
Horrible Circumstance of a Bear that has been Fed upon Five
Young Children in a Cellar in Westminster/" It was the voice
of Bhist ; and St. Giles swallowed his pudding, hurriedly used
the back of his hand for a napkin, and following the sound of
the crier, was in a trice in Peter-street, and one of the mob that
circled the marvel-monger of Hog-Lane. Nevertheless, though
Tom roai-ed with an energj' that very strongly declared his omti
faith in the horror that lie sought to vend for only one half-
penny, his auditors kicked credulity or coppers for the well-woix
enormity. Nobody purchased. Not even a timorous, sym-
pathising servant-maid advanced through the crowd to make the
mystery her own. Tom felt it. His standing in the world as a
tradesman was fast crumbling from beneath his feet. St. Giles
was hurr^-ing up to his old and early fi-iend, when, at a short

ST. GILES AXD ST. >AME3, 77

(listance, he beheld his former patroa, Capstick, the rauffiii-niaker,
and Bright Jem. They looked, as he thought, somewhat curiously
at his friend Tom, and then seemed to take counsel of one another.
Under these «ii-cumstances, St. Giles thought that to accost Tom
■would be to call unnecessary attention to himself. He, therefore,
remained, shrunk down among the mob that every moment be-
came less and less. What, too, made it most discouraging to
Mr. Blast were the scofl'a and loud laughter with which certain
new-comers would listen to the descrijjtiun of the horror sought
to be circulated, and then hurry off. " That cock won't fight
now ! " cried one. " A httle late in the day for that. Get some-
thing new," cried another. " Gammon ! " shouted a thu-d.

Nevertheless, be of good heart, Tom Bla.st ; take consolation
from this. You suffer in gi-eat society ; you smk in most worship-
ful companionship. Very reverend, grave, authoritative persona
— men of the bench, even of the jnilpit — who, for centuries, sold
to their exceeduig pi-ofit, " Most True and Particular Accounts "
of a horrid bear of some sort — whether of royal or feudal privi-
lege — of witclicraft — of popery — of sham rebelhon — nay, fifty
beais and bugbeai-s, all of horrid, ghastly nature, — they, too, in
their turns, have outlived the profitable lie. And even in these
latter days, when some Tom Blast in higher places, — nay, in the
highest — sounds his tin horn of bigotry, and would trade upon
.some bear apocryphal, he is a^isured in the hke sense, although
iu gentler phrjise, that such cock will by no means fight — that the
<lay has passed for so fooUsh, vain a storj- — that, finally, his bear
is no bear at all, but briefly, yet inteusel}*, gammon. Has not
history her catch-pennies, even as the archives of Seven Dials 1

Mr. Blast was somewhat of a philosopher. He could have
borne the laughter and scoffing of the crowd, if any of them
had bought his wai-e ; but his philosophy was not of that tran-
scendental kind to endui-e outrage, uuLiitigated by any sort of
coin, even the smallest, current in the rcahu. He therefore, with a
sotto voce expression of the deepest contempt for his heai-ers, broke
from the crowd, passing on, and then — his leg's evidently walking
in a passion — turning, he strode still onwards until he entered
Cow Lane. Here, St. Giles, hanging at his sku-ts, came up
w-ith him.

" "Well, if it isn't a sight for bad eyes to see you ! " said the
unabashed Tom. " But don't let 's talk in the street." And
Tom made for an opposite public-house, one of his customary
places of call, unknown to St. Giles. Stalking through the pas-
sage, followed by his young fi-iend, he made his way into a small.,
dark, low room. " I thought there 'd be nobody here," said
Tom ; and then in a tone of great tenderness and anxiety-, looking

78 ST. GILES AXD ST. JAMES.

Htraight in the eyes of St. Giles, he a.sked, " Well, and where have
vou been 1 They 're mad about vou in the Lane. Where have you
been ? "

" Why, I 've been lookuig for you," said St. Giles, moodily
nodding his head. " You must have know'd that."

"And that 's, I suppose, why we didn't hajjpen to meet," re-
pUed Tom ; possibly recollecting that his chief care had been to
keep out of the boy's way. " Why, what 's the matter ? you
look plaguy sarcy ! What are you looking so V)lack at, you
young devil I " cried Tom, with sudden ferocity ; but St. Giles
felt his injuries, and wa.<i not to be browbeaten.

" Wliy, I 'm a looking at you, — and not much to look at
neither," shouted St. Giles, with answering vigour.- " You 're
not a goin' to frighten me, I can tell you. ^V^ly didn't you come
as you promised you would ? You 're a good im, you are ! "

" Now, what does ail the boy ? " said Tom, coaxingly ; though
evidently ill at ease : for hia fingers worked ; and he bit hia
lip as he gazed on the boy, who, with sullen, defying air, returned
Lis stare.

" Why, this ails me. Didn't you tell me to take that pony to
Long Lane-^and then didn't you tell me to wait for you ? "

" I know it, Giles ; I know it ; but you see, as I went along, T
thought agui over the matter. I thought, you see, it might lead
you into tn)\d)le, if I come ; so I thought I 'd stay away, and ^
you 'd bring t lie pony home agin, and then, mayhap, after a little
breeze, there 'd be an end of the matter. That 's it, Giles," said
cautious Mr. Blast.

" Then, why did you send the man as give me a guinea, and
took the pony away ? Him as said, too, that he 'd made it all right
with you, and "

Here St. Giles was inteniipted in his volubility by Mr. Blast ;
who perfoi'med — and an admirable performance it was — a look of
immense astonishment, at the same time whistling very vehe-
mently. At length, mastering his wonder, he cried — " Why,
Giles ! you 've never sold the pony ? "

" No. I never sold it — ^but you did ; the gemman told me so.
You sold it ; and after that "

Mr. Blast could scarcely contain himself, so big, so swelling
was his compassion for the injured boy. " Oh, Giles," he cried —
" poor little fellow ! You 're done, Giles ; you 're done."

"And who's done me? Why, you have," screamed the
youngster in a pai-oxysm of passion. All childhood vanished
from his face ; so suddenly was it convulsed with rage. He
stood, for a moment, breathless with anger ; and forgetful in
his fury of the bulk and strength of his former teacher, lie

ST. GILES AND ST. J.\MES, 79

clenched his little fist, and grmding his teeth, advanced towards
Blast, who, for a moment, recoiled from the small assailant.
Then, recovering himself, he laid his hands upon his knees, and
"wHth an etforfc to be calm, contemptuous, said, " And this, you
little vannint, is your thanks to me ; to me, you scorpin, as has
been better than a father to you ! To me, who 's taught you
ballad-chanting, and everything as is decent you know ; to me, as
has laid awake in my bed thmkiu' what I could do for you in the
morn in' ; to me, who 's always looked on you as a rasher of my
own flesh ! And you '11 shake them little maw leys at me ! " The
picture of ingratitude was almost too much for ^Mr. Blast. He
was nearly melted in his own tenderness.

" None o' that — that won't do for me, no how," cried St. Giles.
" You made me steal the pony — you sold it, and now — "

The charge was too much for the indignant virtue of Mr. Blast.
With an exclamation of disgust, he aimed a blow at his accuser,
that but for his agility, woukl have laid him senseless on the
floor. Bobbing his head and doubling himself up with wonderful
ehvsticity, St. Giles escaped the meditated punishment, and the
next moment saw him fastened on Tom ; clasping him round the
waist, and kicking with all his might and malice at his bene-
factor's shins. Tom, mad with pain ajid vexation, sought to fling
the urchin off" ; but he held to his prey like a stoat. For some
moments the boy heroically suffei-ed the worst punishment that
las master in iniquity could inflict, returning it with unequal
powers. At length, Blast unclasping the urchin's hold, seized
him in his arms, and threw him violently otf. The boy fell,
stunned, against the wainscot. The infuriate savage, his passiou
raging, was about to deal a blow — it would have been the last —
upon the prostrate boy, when Capstick, Bright Jem, and a couple
of ofiicers burst into the room. Blast immediately divined their
business, and with masterly coolness observed, pointing to St. Giles
l}Tng in the corner a senseless heap — " There 's your young oss-
stealer for you ; and a nice job I 've had to nibble him. A varmint
of a pole-cat as he is ! "

" The yoimg im and the old un, too," said one of the officers.
"Why this is better luck than we bai-gained for."

Jem lifted the boy between his knees ; he was still pale and
senseless. "Mr. Capstick," said Jem, "for God's sake, some
water ! " Then turning an indignant look upon Blast, he added,
" Why, what a paving-stone you must have for a heart, to use a
poor child like this."

" A chUd ! " cried Blast, " a young devil ! "

"And if he is," said Jem, " who 's made liim one ? Mmder !
why it '?. the worst of miirders ; to take and kUl all the good in a

80 ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMES.

child's soul, anJ then to tiiug him into the world to do hia woi-st,
and answer for 't."

"There, there, never mind, Jem," cried Capstick, who waa
turuiiiL,' himself roimd, and shiiffliuf,' about, vi.siMy atfected by the
nii.scrable couditiuu of the oluUl, vet stru<r''liii'' to maintain lii.s
outward misanthropy. " All wretches ; all alike, worthless
animals ! " And then he roared at the waiter a.s he entered —
" Why don't you bring some water — some brandy — anything,
everything for this poor creature — this miserable — helpless —
forloni — unhai)])y little boy?" Again Capstick turned his f;ice
in a comer, and viulcutly blew his no.se, and coughed, and vowed
he never had such a cold in all his life.

" There, there," said one of the officers, as Jem bathed the
boy's face, " he '11 come round again, never fear."

Jem groaned, aiul shook his head. " Yes, he will come round,"
he said. " If it wasn't that blood would Ije on somebody's head,
it, would l)e a good thing, if he never did. Lord! Lord! " cried
Jem, " to think that this is the babliy's face I once knew ! "

" Pooh — pooh ! — nonsense," said Cajwtick ; " we 've nothing to
do with that ; nothing at all. The ends of justice — the emis of
justice, Ml'. Aniseed," — and again the luuffin-maker coughed ; ho
h:ul such a cold.

However, whilst Jem — \^-ith his heart running at his eyes — is
solacing young St. Giles, we will, as briefly as we may, inform the
rf>ader of the cause that has brought the muflin-maker and the
link-man to Smithtield.

Ever since the conclusion of our sixth chapter — which the
urbanity of the reader will consider to be no less than six years
ago^fortune smiled upon Capstick. True it is, she often smiles
uiM>n the strangest lumps of men — is oft a very Titania enanicjured
with an a.ss"s hea<J — nevertheless, she showed good judgment in
the favoui-s she bestowed upon the muffin-maker. So fortune
made interest with her good sister fame to play a flourish on her
trumpet in praise of Capstick's muffins ; that in time rejoiced
many hearths without the circle of St. Giles's. Li a word, Capstick
soon built an enduring reputation upon muffins ; and therefore
had a better chance of his name going buttered dovra to posterity
than has the name of every monarch duly buttered in birth-day
ode. "Well, the calls ujwn Capstick's oven were so increasing,
t'liat his wife suggested he should forthwith start a hoi-se and
very genteel cart. She, good woman ! had no eye to a Simday
drive — the vanity never entered her head ; all she thought of
was business : which she had no wish whatever to adulterato
with even a drop of pleasure. Mr. Capstick was somewhat
twitted •ft-ith himself that such proposal emanated from his wife:

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 81

it -w^as so good, so reasonable, it onglit to have been bis own.
However, he would say, the woman had cauglit something like
judgment by living with him. At once, then, Mr. Capstick con-
sented to tlie vehicle ; and that purcliased a bargain, he took his
way — in pestilent hour for him — to Smithtield, to buy a horse.
Now, Mr. Capstick knew no more of the points of a horse than of
a unicorn. As, however, he had little faith in human nature,
and none whatever when mi.xed up with horse-tlesh, he said to
himself that he might as well be cheated at tirst hand as at
sec-ond ; therefore, went he alone to buy a steed. Arrived in the
market, full soon was he singled out by a benevolent, yet withal
discerning dealer, who could see in a twinkling the very sort
of thing that would suit him. " A nice little cretur that would eat
nothing, and go fifty miles a day upon it." In brief, the worthy
man sold to the muffin-maker, sold to him for an old song —
to be sure, he could afibrd to let it go thus cheap — the black pony
which only two days before Kdd been the valued possession of Lord
St. James. For four-and-twenty hours only did the muthn-mau
rejoice in his purchase ; for on his very first attempt to degrade
the high-blooded animal to a cail — it was quite as fit to draw
St. Paul's — the creature, although its flowing tale and mane
had been ruthlessly docked and cropj^ed — wjis identified by Cesar
Gum, on his way with a sisterly message to Shoil's Gardens.
Never before had Mr. Capstick knowTi the full value of a good
character. His story of the transaction was received as truth ;
and though he lost the ten pounds — the value of the old song —
^e had given for the animal, he maintained his untarnished repu-
tation. Of course, St. Giles was soon known as the horse-stealer.
It also came out, that Mr. Thomas Blast had been seen in very
earnest conversation with the boy, as he led the pony. Every
seai'ch was made for Tom ; and as, with a modesty not usual to
him, he seemed wholly to have withdrawn himself from his
native parish, curiosity to learn his whereabout was the fmlher
quickened. Mr. Capstick felt his judgment, his pocket, too, some-
what involved in the transaction. He felt that he stood fair and
upright in the eye of the world, nevertheless it would be to him
a pecuUar satisfaction could he detect Mr. Thomas Blast, or the
benevolent, simple-spoken tradesman who — for the price of an old
song — had sold the pony. With this wish thumping at his heart,
Capstick ever}' day visited Smithfield and its neighbourhood ;
taking with him Bi'ight Jem, whom he had accustomed himself to
think an honest, worthy fellow, and his particular friend ; that is.
so far as the misanthropy of the muffin-maker would acknowledge
the possible existence of such a treasure. It was strange, however
that Capstick, in his thoughts of revenge, had no tlioueV.l of

a
vol.. L

?2 ST. GILES AXD ST. JAMKS.

young St. Gill's. No : all the vehemence of hia wrath was rou8"d
against the boy's tutor.

We have now, we trust, suffipii-ntly e.xi>lained the course of
accidents tliat l)n>ught tlie mufti ii-niaker ami Jem to Porter
Btrect. .in<l so niaile them hctri-i-s of the unprofitable oratory o.
Tuiu BL-urt. I'Van'ul that they miglit \>e recognised by hiiu, they
employed a thinl jwirty to watch him to his haunt, whil»t they
p.-<'urt'd thi' att< inlani'»j of otTiciTs. Hence, th< v saw not 8t. (jilcs,
wild, as Wf have b< t"i>ro oliservol, kept him-^^lf close among the
mob. They were the more astonished to fiutl the ill-used boy in
the same room with his sohoolinaster.

•'There, now — he's all right," ciie<l one of the otScera, as
St. Gile« — restored by the efforts of Bright Jemt— l<x)ke<l alx>ut
him. However, no sooner w.-us he conscious of the presence of
t 'apstick and his fjist friend Jem, than his face glowe<l like a
co;il. He hung down his head, luid burst interiug — no taught t-tfort of sorrow — but the boy's
li«'art Sffmed toudud, mfltv«l, and he w»"j>t and writhe<l ctm-
vuiaively. A rt-coilfction f>f the giMMhu*ss — tbf dLsregiinlcl kind-
nesM of the men before him — thrilled through his 8(^)ul, and
though he knew it not, lie ftlt the yeaniings of a l>-tt»'r natun-.
'i'here was anguish — penitence — in the sobs that seeuK-d to tear
his vitals.

" Tliank Gixl for that ! " '»rie«l Jem ; and the poor fellow wept,
too. '• I like to h.-ar that, — eh, ^! " ' ' t-^tick ? "

Mr. Cajwtick f-lt an <Kld qii' in his throat, and could

say nothing. He therefore again tiirew himself upon his pocket-
liandkt'ichiof. Tlien, conscious that he had a gri-at duty to j)er-
tv>nu for the emU of ju.stice — a fact that, when otlierNvi.se puz/.led,
he had more tlian once insisted ujKjn — he tun»e<l to the officers,
and pointing his thumb towards Blast, olieier>-ed with peculiar
loftiness, '' You will be goo<l enough to liandcuff that man."

" HiUidcutr me ! " cried Mr. Blast. "Thev'll do it at their
peril."

'•Ha! my good man — I l)Og your pardon — you desperate
Bcoundrel !" said Cajtetick with withering urUanity, "they're
accustomed to do a great deal at their peril ; thanks to such
rascals as you. HandcutT him ! "

" They dam't do it — they dam't do li," shouted the struggling
Blast ; and in a moment afterwards his wiists were locked in
iron. " I '11 make you pay for this — never mind ; it's no matter
to me — but I '11 make you pay for this," he said ; and then, like
a Tyburn »>hilosopher, Tom became suddenly reconciled to his
lunnaclc-fl.

We will not dwell upon the details of the examination of tlie

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 8S

prisoners. It will be sufficient for the reader to know that, after
certain preliminaries, a sitting :drlennan committed St. Giles ;uid
Ilia tutor for hoi-se-stejding. liuth scholar and master awaited
their trial iu ^J'ewgate.

It w.'is not until after the culj)rit'8 first ex.imination, th.it
Capstick felt the full annoyance of his position. When Jem
Would sh;dce his head, and l(x»k *lum|iish on the matter, Capstick
would t;dk loud, and beg him to think of the ends of justice ;
but wiun the boy w.is committed on the capital charge, the
mullin-iuaker's public spirit wliolly foi-sook him. Evidence had
brought the accusation quite home to the boy ; liowever leg:d
proof might fail to criminate his teiujiter. " TIk-v Ml never —
never think of much hurting the boy — a child, you know — a mere
child ? " said Capstick to Jem, aa they left Guildhall together.

"Humph! I don't know what you c.nll hurting, Mr. Cai>-
stick," siiid Jem, moodily. " But 1 shouldn't think hanging
nothin'."

Capstick tuminl j\ale as flour, and lie could Bcarcely articulate
the words — " Imp<>.s.sible — ridiculous — they couldn't do it."

" Ha ! " cried Jem, " when hanging 's the thing, you don't
know what they can do. Well, I 'd rather ha' been in l)ed, with
a broken limb, than had a finger in this matter. I sliall have
that poor child always about me : 1 know I sluill. When he 's
killed and gone, I shidl never take my pipe without seeing his
face in the lire. And then my]>oor old wom;in ! She that still 's
so fond of him — poor orphan thing ! for his mother's woi-se than
lost to him — she '11 lead me a nice life — that is, though she wont
8;iy au)'thiiig outright, she '11 always be a crying about him.
We 've done a nice thing, Mr. Capstick, to make our lives pleas;mt
as long as they hist ! "

•' Pooh, pooh — folly, Jem ; all folly. I suppose property muse
be protected. I suppose you won't deny that, eh ? " asked
Capstick.

'• I deny nothing," answered Jem hopelessly ; and then he
groaned " God help us ! WTiy didnt he die in the frost and
snow t Why did I warm him, when a babby, at my own fii-e,
only to help to hang him aitenvanis i "

"■ Hang him ! Nonsense ! I tell you, Jem, you 're a fool — an
old, butter-hearted fool — and you know nothing. Here have you
lived all your life with the woi-st of people about you — not but
what folks at the verj' best are great rascals, every one of 'em —
but here you have been up to your eai-s in villainy — and yet you
look upon everybody about you as innocent as shepherds and
shepherdesses in white china. I 'm ashamed of you, Jem ; be a
man, and think of the world as its rascality deserves. For, Lord i

G 2

Si ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

wliat a lump of roguery it is ! How that the blessed sun should
ever condesoeud to smile upon such a lot of wretches aa we are,
I can't tell ! "

" No more can I," answered Jem : " but since the sun, as you
say, does demean himself to show a good face to us, I think it 'a
a^s little as we can do to try to <lo the same to one another."

Capstick. taken somewhat aV»ack, looked suddenly round upon
Jem ; and then, feeling himself wholly unaV)le to controvert this
opinion, lie simply said, " Jem, you 're a fool."

A week jiji-hsl-iI, and the trial of St. Cliles u])])roached. It was
s'range to Mr. C'ap.stick that so many of liLs customers wouhl
a«k him about his health. " Why, what can ail the people ? " he
would say. " I was never lietter — never in all my life. I eat
like a pig, and sleep like a dormouse ; can luiy man do better
than that ? " But Mr. Captick was not well. The bij^ed pig
matle poor meals ; the human dormouse had restless nights ; and
when dreaming, dreamt horrid nsions of death and Newgate.

It wanted some ten days of the trial, when Bright Jem pre-
sented himself at Caj^tick's hou.se. " Yo\i see," said Jem,
'' they 're getting some money in the T^ane so that they may have
a lawyer fur ]K>or St. (jiles. "VVtll, they're a bad lot, I dare say ;
uut you should only know what some of the poor souls have
done."

"And what have they done ? " asked Capstick, with what he
meant for a sneer.

" Why, some as had two blankets have sold one on 'em ; some
with two gowns have jvawned one o' them. It would make you
bless youi-scif, Mr. Capstick, to see besides what things they've
made twojienccs and threepences of — kettles, sarcepans, an}-thing.
It 's wonderful to see how they tlo stifk by one another."

"Crime, Mr. Ani-seed, crime is a bnxzen cord — and ceilainly
does hold rogues together," said Capstick.

" You may say what you like," said Jem, " but whenever I 've
looked up that horrid Lane, and seen men and women like devils,
ajid children — poor creturs — like devils' little ones, — I never could
have thought that in that dismal place there was after all a sort
of good, that the very best of us wouldn't be any worse for having
more of it."

" Verj' like ; veiy like," said Capstick. " And I am to under-
stand, that the peojvle want to fee a Liw^-er ? "

" That 's it." replied Jem. " Tliere "s a Mr. Tangle, somewhere
in Clifford's Inn ; he 's a sharp un. They say he 'd get a chap
out o' Newgate ; get him out through a flaw no bigger than a
key-hole. Weli, I 've been thinking — not that I can do much —
btit I 've been tlunking, that as we helped to get the boy into

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. f>5

Newgate, if we was to give what money we could to help to get
him out."

"And so defeat the ends of justice?" cried Capstick, and ho
frowned severely.

" Oh, I dare Siiy it 's wrong," said Jem ; " nevertheless, if wa
could only get the boy safe off, he might be a good un after all.
Didn't you hear how he cried ? Oh, there 's heart in him yet,
I 'm .sure there is. Well, then, you see — "

'" I see perfectly," said Cap.stick, " you 've come to ask me to
8ubsoril>e to the fund for the lawyer ? "

" Well, that 's jest it," assented Jem.

" Forgetful of my .'^erious responsibility as a witness — forgetful
of the ends of justice — forgetful of what I owe to society —
forgetful—"

" Fui-getful," cried Jem, with animation, " of everj-thing except
of saving a child from the jnilluws."

■' Mr. Aniseed," said CajKtick very decidedly, " I am sorry to
refu.se yim anything, but you must not let your feelings blind you :
Vou mean well, but vou have vet to learn that the best meauiii"
men are those who often do the most miscliief. In a word, sir,
I can have nothing to say to this business."

Bright Jem made no answer, but with a moody nod was about
to leave the slioj>, when the muttiu-maker called to him. " I
think you saiil this attorney's name was Wrangle i "

•* Tangle," said Jem, shortly.

"Tangle, Lyon's Inn?" s:ud Capstick,

" Clifford's- Inn," cried Jem, a little sulkily, and then he darted
from the sliop.

It is most true that Mr. Tangle deserved the high reputation
bestowed upon him by Jem. His office in Clifford's-Inn ^s•as
considered a private outlet from Newgate. Many and many a
time, when the fatal halter seemed inentable, had Tangle, by some
deft de\iee, turned the running into a slip-knot, and the hang-
man been defrauded by the quibbler. Many a gentleman had
Mr. Tangle restored to the road, none at all the worse for durance.
Many a highwayman, on his solitary midnight watch, might think
with gratitude of the master-spiiit of CUffoi-d's-Inn.

It was the evening of the day on which Bright Jem solicited
Capstick, and Mr. Tangle sat in the solitude of his chambers.
He was sunk in profound study ; possibly, pondering how to tind
or make a tlaw : how to give to the line of right a zig-zag, pro-
fitable bend for some consulting client shut in Newgate stones.
His clerk was out : therefore, his knocker being struck, he rose
himself and opened the door. A tall, bulky man, wrapped in a
gieat-coat, a hat slouched over his face, tied by a handkerchief

86 ST. aiLRS AND ST. JAMES.

that almost covered his features, stalked into the room. Mr,
Tangle was not at all surprised : not at all. So n\anv o<lil people
— so strangely appointed — every sessions called upon hira.

" You are Mr. Tanf,'le," said a voice that most a.s!^ure<lly
belonrjed to Capstick, the mulHn-maker. Mr. Tangle boweil.
" You are interesteil in the case of a boy, one St. Giles ? "

" I have been con.sulte<l," said Tangle in his dry way. " A
bad ca.<50 ; confi*s.se<lly, a bad case ; still, something may be ilone.
Y<»u know 'till a man's hanged, there's always huj>e ; that is, if
there 's always "

"Money" Mr. Tangle smih-d and no«Med. Mr. Capstick
took a small leathoni l)ag fi^mi his jxuket, from whit-h he counted
out ten guineas. " I am not a rich man, Mr. Tangle," said
Cajistick.

" I am sorry for it," said Tangle (and evidently with a feeling
of sincerity) : "othenvise the ten might have been fifty."

" But do what you can for that wretched boy^-only save him
from hanging, and tlicrc 's twenty more."

"Thirty jMjund.s," said Tangle; "it's doing it — if indeed it's
to be done at all — verj- cheap ; too cheap. Nevertheless, as you're
not a ri<di man. T '11 not ivfu.se money. Wl»at name ? "

" Never mind that," said Capstick. " I think I've given you
enough to show that I 'm in earnest. Now, only save the child,
and as Gotl 's in heaven you shall have the other twenty."

" We 11 see what can be done," said Tangle, showing Capstick
to the door — " I have htipes ; great hopes."

And the trial came on, and St. Giles and Thomas Blast were
arraigned for stealing a pony of the value of fifty pounds, the
property of the Manjuess of St. James. Nothing could be clearer
than the o^dence again.st the boy, as delivered by young St.
James, Mrs. Simmer, and her servant. But legal proof was
wanting against Blast. True, he had been seen talking to St.
Giles, as the boy led tlie pony ; but nothing more. There was
no doubt that the man who had taken the animal from St. Giles
in Ix)ng Lane was an accomplice of Blast's, but he was not to be
found — there was no proof. TVTiereupon, Thomas Blast was
ac>^uitted j and young St. Giles found " Guilty, — Death."

ST. GILE3 AND ST. JAMES. 8?

CHAPTEE IX

* Guilty, — Death ! "

What familiar syllables were these in the good old tiiaos — the
time of our history ! In those hajjpier days, how many goods and
chattels, live stock and dead, wi-re i»rotecte(.l, watched by Death !
Death was made by law the guardian of all thuigs. Prime agent,
great cunsei-vatur of social right — grim keeper of the world's
movea,bles. Death, a sh('i)herd, avenged the wrongs o^ stoleu
mutton ; Death stood behind every counter, protector of chajjnian's
stock; Death wa.s the iLiv and night guard of the highway
traveller against the highway thief ; Death watched o.v ano a^-a ;
the goose on the common, the hen on the roost. Even ;U the altar,
Death took his cautious staiul, that Hymen might not be scoffed,
defrauded by wicked bigamist. De minimit curabtit Mors. Tun»
where he would, the rogue's j)ath was dug with graves. Nev^i-
theless, the world grew no better ; made no visible return to
that happy state, ere hemp w;us made a sovereign remedy for wrong.
And so by degrees Death k»st somewhat of his reputation with the
great ones of the world ; and by degrees many things were taken
out of his charge. It was found that sheep were stolen, tradea-
raeu's goods lifted, pockets picked, hen-roosts forced — and maids
wickedly married by men already bound, — it was seen that these
abominations continued and mcreiised, aye, in the very face of the
great ghastly bugbear Death, and so his watch and wai-d were
made a lighter task ; he was gi-adually relieved of many of his
social duties ; the world, to the astonishment of some folks, still
spinning on its axis, though the life of immortal man was not, as in
the good old times, oti'ered to stolen colt, to the king's gracious face
unlawfully stamped in counterfeit metal, to a hundred other
sins all made moital by the wisdom of untaught humanity.
Truly, justice, turning back the leaves of the gaol calendar,
might sit awhile in sackcloth and ashes, penitent for pai>t trans-
gressions — past wrongs committed in her moral blindness ! The
sword of Justice ! An awful weapon trul}' : a weapon, working
out the will of highest Pro\idence ; a solemn instrument which
man solemnly acknowledges. This has been, and may be. Yet,
thinking of the world's mistakes ; of the cniel blunders worked
by law on man, the sword of justice — of so-called Christian justice
lobed axid emiined— may sometimes seem to the eye of grieved

8S ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

humanity as terrible as the blood-dripping tomabawk of the wild
yevengeful savage. The sword of justice ! May not the time
come — it will come, as surely as the sun of for-off years — when
justice shall lay clown her swonl ? when with Ix-ttcr wisdom, she
slijill vindicate her aM-ful mission to mankind, yet shed no drop
of blood?

Let us return to St. Giles ; to the boy in his fifteenth year,
s])awned upon the world and reared by daily wrong and igno-
rance, a morsel for the hangman : now, a condemned thief, pal-
sied and aghast with terror, upon the very threshold of the world;
to be flung therefrom, an utfering to the majesty of offended law.
(irim majesty — ghastly [Nfoloch ! ^^tatcly wickedness, with robes
•lyed in the blood of .'^inning ignorance ! A majesty, that the
pnncii)Io of all erll nuiy too often smile uixtn as its working genius
here on earth. A majesty as cold and pulseless as the idol whose
wooden nostiils know not the s;K*rific»^8 its dnrkened woi-shippcrs
prepaj'e it. Hut St. Giles wiH m>w know there is a government
— a knot of the wise awl goo(>, whase hai-monious souls comliine<)
make up the music of the .^ate ; the moral meloilv tlvkt softenii
and ret^-nes the nigged, dull-earetl ma.ss. He will iy)w know this;
the hangman will teach it him. A sharp, short lesson ; the first
and last pi-cpared him by a paternal state.

" Guilty— death ! " Such was the verdict. Tora Blast
breathe«l heavily, and a faint smile flickered at his lips ;is he felt
assured of his escape. Still he durst not turn his eye towards his
boy-victim in the dock. GV>nscience was at the felon's heart; and
seared, withered as it Mas, it felt the sudden horn»r t>f renaorse-.
His features grew pale, then dai-k ; were ior a moment convulsed';
then instantly — elaring no lonk at St. Giles — ^he disaj>p«^aix'd from
the dock. The boy stared about him with a fooli.sh gaze ; and
then began to sdb. There was no terror — uo anguish in bis face.
It was the grief of a boy doomed to a whipping, not the gibbet :
ajid it was such sorrow — such seeming childish ignorance of the
impending horror — that to those who looked upon him made his
condition more temUe. And then again it seen>etl in>possible
that the sentence so sonorously uttercxl, should be carried out.
Could it be that such an array of judges, sut~h wisdoui, such
learning, such grave and reverend experience, should be oj>jx>sed to
a niiserable child, of no more self-account ability than a dog ]
Appalling odd.s ! Could it be thought that the scene w;is a fright-
ful reality of daily, breathing life ? Was it not a grim faix-e —
a hideous, foolish mockery ? Could the wise hearts of men, fathers
of well-taught, well-tendeil, happy children, doom that child to
death ? That miserable item of human ignorance, that awfui
reproach to those who made laws to protect property, but left thfe

ST. GILES -AND ST. JAMES. 89

outcast poor a heedless prey to their own unbridled instincts ?
Nevei'thelesa, the law would hang St. Giles ; and grave, respect-
!il)le church-^'oiug men, in the very cosiness of their ignorance,
wuuld clasp tkeir hands, iiud raise their eyes, and pity and wonder
at the wickedness of the new generation !

A turnkey in the dock took St. Giles by the hand, and in a
moment the boy had disappeared. " Good God ! " cried a voice,
convulsed with giief. "Silence in the court ! " exclaimed the
crier ; and immediately another \\Tetch took his place at the bar,
and tlie terrible course of law continued. It was Capstick, who.se
exclamation had called doNvu the otSci;U rebuke ; it was really
Capstick, although even the wife of his bosom might have paused
ore she acknowledged him ; so suddenly and frigiitfully had tlie
brief business of the trial wruught a ciiange in liim. His llesh
seemed jaundiced, and his black eyes, violently dilated, rolled
restlessly about. His face aj)peared of a sudden sliai-pened like
tlie face of a sick man ; and his arm shook, palsied, as with his
nails he grasped the arm of Bright Jem. " Let us go," said Jem,
chokingly, " we can do no good here ; " and Caj^stick, staring
stupidly about him, suH'ered himself to be led from the court. In
a few moments they stood in the Old Bailey. It was a lovely
spruig night. The breath of ^ii\.y, even in the Old Bailey, came
sweet and odorous, carrj^ing freshness to the heart and brain.
The moon shone with brightest, pm-est lustre : all the stars of
heaven seemed \'isible ; all lookuig down in theu" bright tender-
ness, as though they looked upon a kindred sphere of purity and
light, and loved it. Capstick gazed at the maguiticence, and the
tears thick and fast fell from him. Then in a subdued, a com-
forting voice, he siud, " No, Jem, no ; it 's a wickedness to think
it ; there 's a God in heaven, and they can't do it."

" Hadn't we better see Tangle, the lawyer ? " asked Jem.
" He hasn't done much, to be sure ; still he may yet do some-
thing. I didn't see him nowhere in the court — saw nobody but
his clerk."

"Yes, we'll see him — we'll see him," said Capstick. "He's
a scoundrel ; but then he 's titter for the world. For the truth
is, Jem, we'i'e all scoundrels." Jem made no answer to this
charitable creed. " All scovmdrels : and I 'm about the poorest,
mecUiest, shabbiest villain of the lot. And yet you '11 see how
I shall carry it olF. They '11 hang this wretched boy — oh, never
doubt it, Jem ! they're bad enough for anji^hing — they '11 hang
him. And I shall still go on sleek and smooth in the world ;
making muffins and laying by the pennies ; pa}'ing rent and
taxes ; owing no man a shilling, and so easily and pleasantly
earning a good name, and being mightily triunped up for doing it.

»0 ST. niLES AND ST. JAMES.

I shaJI j[»o on beinp callo<I a respectaMe man ; and I sliall grin
and araile at the lie, and sliow a satin cheek to tlie world, as if
the lie was tme as prosjiel tnith. And tln'n I shall die and be
buried with feathei-s: and Mi-h. Capstick will put a stone over me
— I know her pride, Jem ; I know she '11 do it — a stone with a
Ixjunrinjf flam upon it ; all lii's — lies to the l;ist. Oh. Jem," crit<l
Cajwtick, pro.aninply, " if the devil ever takes churchyard walks,
how he must chuckle and nib hia brimstone hands, when he reads
some of the tombstones ! Eh T How he must hold his sides at
the ' lovinjj husbands,' ' affectionate fathers,' 'faithfifl friends,' and
'pious Christians,' that he sees ailvertisi^l thore ! For he knows
l>etter, Jem ; eh T lie knows better," crie«l the muftin-maker with
iiifreasin!:; bitterness.

" Well," said .Tein, " I can't 8.iy ; w-ho can ? But I should hope
the devil knows nothinp at all about the matter. Howsomever,
l>e thnt as it may, he his nothing to do with the business that 's
broui,'ht u.s out to-night."

" I wish he hadn't, Jem, — I wLsh he hadn't," cried Capstick,
with 6tifle«l emotion. " liut here, walking as we are, down thi.s
blesst'd Fleet -street —oh, lonl ! doesn't it seem strajijje after what
we 've just left, to see the sight abotit us ? — walking here, do you
think the denl isn't {x>inting his finger at me, and saying with a
grin to oni> of ) ■ i, 'There goes the respectable muffin-maker

that '9 Hold a i ixl for ten jwimds.' "

" How can you talk in that way ? " said Jem : " the devil '9 the
father of lies, and only koops tip his chara^'ter if he says so."

"Not a bit ; it's the ilevil that .speaks tnith of our lies ; that
turns us inside out, and shames »anctifie<l faces with the black
hearts that were iinder 'em. I say, I have sold the boy — put the
rope ab<iut his neck. AjuI for what ? for ten pounds. What a
fine fallow I thought my.self when I stirred in the matter ! What
a lump of Wrtue — what a wonderful bit of public spirit I thought
I wa.-<, when, day after d.ay, I neglefted my muffins and the
jvirtiior of my hearthstime, to go thief-catching. An<l I believed
I was doing a fine thing — and so, you know I did, I crowed and
cackled .a])out the ends of justice. All a sham — all a brave
flashy cloak to hide a niscal dirtiness. It was the thoughts of
the ten gtiineas, Jem, the ten guineas, that called all the poi.son
out of my heart, and has ma<le me hang a wretched, untaught
begrrar-boy. Yes, I 'm a pretty respectable scoundrel — a fine
public-spirited miscreant, I am."

Bright Jem, used to the muffin-maker's humour, made no
further answer to this self-reproach ; but again urge<^l the neces-
sity of consulting Tangle. " It can't be done to-night — but we '11
at him the first thing to-morrow." said Capstick.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. M

" To-morrow 's Sunday," said Jem.

" What of that 1 " asked Capstick. " People come into the
world on Sundaya, so it can't be unlawful to help to save 'em from
guiii;,' out of it — look there, Jem," and Capstick pointed to a
carriage rolling nipidly past.

" That 's the ^larqucfa's — come from the trial. Iliere 's younc:
St. James in it ; well, he's going to better comfoH than a stone
cell. Ilowsomever, he 's a fine fellow — a kind, good heart is iu
that little chap, I 'm sure of it. How nicely he give las evidence,
difln't he ? And how kindly he seemed to look at St. Giles in the
dock ; RH much as to say, ' Pcxir fellow, I wish I could get you out
V that ! ' [le '11 make a tnie man, that boy will," saiil Jem ; and
then he mournfully added, " and so would poor St. Giles. Ha ! if
when Su.san brought him home out o' the snow, if he and young
St. Janus had been made to ehange berths, eh ? There 'd have
been a dilferent account of both of 'em, I should tlunk. And yet
you see how the poor's treate<l ; just an if they come into the
world with wickedness upon 'em ; a kiml of human natur vennin
— things bom to do all sorts of mischief, and then to be hung up
for doing it."

" We '11 go to Tangle to-morrow — early tomorrow." said Cajv
<»tick ; who, Vniried in his comi>unctious grief, had given no ear to
the reflections of Jem. "Good night; early to-morrow." And
the mufKn-maker suddenly broke from his companion, and strided
home — a misenible home to him, whose acute senbibilily re-
proaiched him as imworthy of the household comforts about him.
He looke<l ujvin the p.-u't he had taken with intense remorse.
The would-be misanthrope loathed himself for what he deemed
his selfishness of heart — his cruelty towards wretchedness and
ignonmce. Within a few steps of his door, he paused to call up
— with all the jx^wer he had — a look of serenity, of decent com-
jKisure. Somehow, he felt uneasy at the thoughts of meeting his
vrife. At length he prepared him.self, and, with a tolerably suc-
cessful face of ti-anquillity, cros.sed his threshold. He exchanged
but one look with his wife ; it was enough : it was plain she knew
the fate of St. Giles. How should it be otherwise ? A score of
neighboui-s, customers, had thronged the shop with the mortal
intelligence ; and some ventured to hope that Mr. Capstick
wouldn't sleep the worse for his day's work — others begged to a.sk
if the muffin-maker thought the hanging of a poor child would
bring a blessing on him — and some hinted an opinion that those
who were so sharp after e\il-doers had commonly not the cleanest
consciences themselves. These interrogatives and inuendos had
to be severally answered and warded by the muffin-maker's wife,
who, to give her due credit, was not slow at any kind of rejily.

92 ST. GILES AND ST. JAME.5.

and was truly a ven' respectaMe niii<(res.s "of fence." Never-
theless, the t'Xt'rcise would luut a toiuj)er never pnme to ooldiie.»<9,
and in the jiresent instance raised to boiling heat, by what she
deemed the malice of her riei<,dd>our8. Antl yet, it would liave
made Cai*<tick's cunjiigjil htait glad again, liad he heard how
eloquently, how magiiiticently hij» acts were defended by hia wife :
for Nfrs. Cai>stirk most volulily and vehemently K'ggetl to as-sure
her mighlxiurs, "that there w;ws not a man in the )>an.sh tit to
wipe her husband's shoes," — " that he wa« only wrung in being
too honest," — " that a better soul, or kinder-hearted creature,
never walke<l," — and that, in short, in the dcpih of her charity,
she "only wi.shed that those who 8{»oke a wonl against him had
half such a hus>iand : the neighbourh<xxl would be all the quieter
for it, that 's wh:it she knew, if they had." All this did honour
to Mi's. Capstick, and would doubtless have 8olace<l the wounded
bosom of lier lord, could he only have known it ; but 'bin. Cap-
stick had too much humility to vaunt her owai virtut»a, therefore
she breathed no word of the matter to her well-defendtHl hu.sband.
Not that, the shop l)eing closeil, and the wedded coujde seated at
the fireside, Mrs. Cajistick wjis silent ; certainly not ; fur, whilst
the mutfin-maker tried to solace himself with a \>\\»i, hia wife thus
declared hei-si>lf : —

"Well, Mr. Capstick, now I hope you're satisfied? I hope
you 've made a nice day's work of it ! A pretty iiamo yt)U ve
got in the parish ! There '11 be no living here — J '11 not live here,
I can tell you. All the world will p<3int at you, and say, ' There
goes the man that hanged that wretched little child ! '"

Capstick suddenly took the jiij* from his mouth, and 8tare<l at
his wife. It was strange : he had himself said something of the
kind to Bright Jem. lie then renewe«i his smoking, speaking
no syllable in answer to his s}>ouse ; and yet el(X]Uently replying
to her philii)pics by ]x>oh-]Kjohuig the smoke from him, now in
short, hasty, irascible pulls, and now in a hea\'y volume of
vapour. Tliere was a maiesty in hLs manner that seemed to
quietly defy the assaults of his better moiety. There seemed, too,
to be no getting at him for the clouds in which he industriously
involved himself

" And I should Uke to know what your satisfaction will be for
what you 've done ! Why, you '11 never have another happy
moment ; you can't have ! That poor child will always be before
your eyes. And, then, what a beautiful business you '11 lose ; for
nobody will deal with you. Ha ! nice airs the Gibbses will give
themselves, now." (The Gibbses, be it known, were new-come
muffin-makers, struggling in hopeless rivalry' with the muffins of
Cap.stick.) " Everjbxly will go to them : I "m sure I don't think

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 93

'twill be any use our opening the shop on Monday. And all about
ten guineas ! Ha, they '11 be a dear ten guineas to you — better
liave lost 'em ten tiine.s ov*m-. And so younir a cliild — only four-
teen ! To hmig him ! Don't you think, Mr. Cai)stick, his ghost
will follow you 1 "

Caj)sti(.k nia<le no luiswer ; but his eye, turned ominously upon
his wife, began to glow like a coal, and he jiufl'ed at the smoke
like a man labouring with himself. Beautiful philosophy ! Full
soon the muttin-maker's eye shone with its old tranquil light,
and again he smoked cahnly — desjK-rately calmly. Still Mra.
Capstick continut'd the puni.shnient of her tongue; but Capstick
liad conquered himself, and still replied not. At length in the
verj' heat and fulkst ])itth of her oi'iiijilaint, Capstick rose, and
softly laying down his pil)e, sjiid, " ^lary Anne, I 'm going to
bed." Poor Capstick ! He came home with his heart Ueuding ;
and a little teuderniss, a little conjugal symjiathy, would have
been a value to him ; but — as jjcople say of greater mattei-s — it
was not to be.

Capstick rose early ; and, speedily jomed by Bright Jem, both
took their way to Mr. Tangle's private mansion, Ii<'d Lion Stpiare.
It was sc;u"ccly nine o'clock, when the mutlin-maker knocked at
the lawyer's door. It was quite impossible that Mr. Tangle should
be seen. " Hut the business," cried Capstick to the man-sei'vant
— a hybrid between a groom and a footman — " the business is
upon lifo and death."

" Bless you," said the man, " that makes no difference what-
ever. We de<\l so much in life and death, that we think notliiug
of it. It 's like plums to a gi'ocer, you know. Mr. Tangle never
can be seen of a Sunday before half-past ten ; a quarter to eleven
he goes, of coui-se, to church. The Sabbath, he always says,
should be a day of rest." And Tangle — it was his only self-
iudulgence — illustrated this principle by Ipng late in bed eveiy
Sunday morning to read his papers. Nevertheless, with smoothly
shaven face, and with an all-unworldly look, he was, ere the
church-bell ceased, enshi-ined in the family pew. There was he,
>vith his wife, decoi-ously garnished with half-a-dozen children,
sons and daughtei-s, patterns of Sabbath piety ; of seventh-day
Christi;mity. " Alter six days' hard work, what a comfort it
was," he would say, " to enjoy church of a Sunday ! " And
Tangle, after his fashion, did enjoy it : he enjoyed the respect-
ability which church-going thi'ew about him ; he enjoyed his
worldly ease and supeiiority, as manifested in his ovm cosily-
fui'nished pew. Looking upon the pauper worshippei-s on the
benches, and then contemplating the comforts of his own nook,
he felt veiy pi-oud of his Chiistiauity. And in this way did Mr.

dt ST. OILKS AND ST. JAMES.

Titnifle attond church. It was a decent form due to society, and
especially to hiuiaelf. lie went to church a>! he went to liis office
— as a mat tor of buidncss ; though lie would have Wen uiightily
sliocked had such a motive been attributed to hiui.

" I '11 conje at half-i)ast ten," s;iiil Capstick, " for I must see
him." The 8er\'ant looked stolidly at the muffin-maker, an<i,
without a word, closed the door. " He can then tell \uj," said
Capstick to Jem, " wlien he can see us Lu the aflenioon. Aud
now, Jem, we can only stroll about till the time comes." And so
they walked on silently ; for both felt oppressed with the y)€lief
tliat their errand to the lawA'er would be fruitless ; yet both were
det*'nnined to try every me.uis, however hopeless. Tliey walked
and sauntered, ami the cliuroh-bcUs rang out, summoning Chris-
tian congregations to common worship. " There 'a something
beaiitiful in the church-W-Us, don't you think so, Jem ?" asked
Cajislick, in a sulxlued Ujne. " Beautiful and hopeful ; — they
t:ilk to high and low, rich and poor in the same voice ; there 's a
sound in 'em that .should scare j)ride, and en\y, and mcamiess of
all Sorts from the heart of man ; that should make him look
ujx>n the world with kind, forgiving eyes ; that sliould make the
earth itself seem to him, at leaat for a time, a holy place. Yes,
Jem ; there 's a whole sennou in the very sound of the church-
bells, if we have only the ears to rightly understand it. There 6
a preacher iu every belfry, Jem. that cries, * Poor, wear)', stru^;-
glLng, fighting creatures — jxior liuman things ! take rest, be quiet.
Forget your vanities, your follies ; your week-day craft, your
lieart-buniings ! And you, ye human vessels, gilt and painted ;
believe the iron tongue that t^^'lls ye, that, for all your gilding, all
your coloui"s, ye are of tlie same Adam's earth with the beggar at
your gates. Come away, come, cries tlie cluirch-bell, and learn
to be humble ; leai-nuig that, however daubed and stained, and
stuck about with jewels, you are but grave clay I Come, Dives,
come ; and be taught that all your glory, as you wear it, is not
li.Uf so beautiful in the eye of Heaven as the sores of uncomi)lain
ii;g Lazai-us! And ye p<x»r creatures, li\-id and faint — stinted
and crushed by the pride and hardness of the world, — come.
Come, cries the bell, with the voice of an angel, come and learn
what is laid up for ye. And learning, take heart, and walk among
the wicketlnesses, the cruelties of the world, calmly as Daniel
walked among the lions.' " Here Capstick, flushed and excited,
•wrought beyond himself, suddenly jrnused. Jem stared, astonished,
but said no word. And then, Capstick, with calmer manner,
said, " Jem, is there a finer sight than a stream of human creatures
passing from a Christian church ? "

" Why," said Jem, " that 's as a man may consider with him-

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 9£

•elf. It may be, as you say, a very fine sight — and it may be
vliat I call a very sad and melancholy show, indeed."

" Sad and niclanoholy ! " criod Capstick ; " yuu '11 have a hara
ta.xk to provethat."

" Perlia|>8 so, only let me do it after my o-vru fiishion." Cap-
stick nodded asmiit. " Bless you ! I 've thoiiLjht of it many a time
when 1 've seen a church emptying itself into the street. Look
here, now. I '11 suppose there's a crowtl of people — a whole mob of
'em goinj,' down the church-steps. And at the church-iloor, there
is I don't know how many rowls of Chribtian cairiages, with
priffins painted on the i>anels, and swords, and daggei-s, and battle-
axes, that, as well as I can remember, Jesus doesn't recommend
nowhere: and there's the coachmen, half-asleep, and trying to look
religious; and there's f(.KJtnjen following some ju id ciurying the
Holy Bible after their misusses, just as to-morrow they'll cju-iy a
s]iani'l, — and th.it 's what they call t/ieir huniility. Well, that's
a pleasant sight, isn't it I And then for them who're not ash.imed
to carry their own big prayer-books, with the gold leaves twinkling
ill the sun, as if they took jiains to tell the world they 'd been to
cliurch, — well, how many of them have been there in earnest ?
How many of them go there with no thought whatsoever, only
that it 's Sunday, — church-going day ? And so they jnit on what
tliey think religion that day, just as I put on a cle;ui shirt. Bless
y.u ! soinetinies I 've stood and watched the crowd, smd I've said
to myself, ' Well, I should like to know how many of you will
I' member you 're Christians till next week ? How many of you
g" to-morrow morning to your offict.«, and counting-houses, and
stand behind your counters, and, all in the way of business, — all
lo scramble up the coin — forget you 're miserable sinners, while
every other thing you do may make you more miserable, only
you never feel it, so long as it makes you more rich ? And so
there 's a Sunday conscience like a Sunday coat ; and folks who 'd
get on in the world, put the coat and the conscience carefully by,
and only wear "em once a week. Well, to think how many such folks
go to woi-ship, — why, then I must say it, Master Capstick, to stand
inside a church and watch a congregation coming out, however
you may stai-e, may lie — I can't help, after my fashion, thinking
so — a melancholy sight indeed. Lord love you, when we see what f
some people do all the week, — people who 're staunch at church,
remember — I can't help thinking, there 's a good many poor souls
who 're only Christians at morning and arternoon service."

Capstick looked earnestly at Jem and said, " My dear fellow,
it 's all veiT well between you and me to say this ; but don't say
it to the world ; don't, Jem, if you wouldn't be himted, harried,
stoned to death, like a mad do^. Folks won't be 1 urned inside

96 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

out after this fashion, without revenging the treatment with all
sorts of bad names. Very pure folks won't be held up to the
light and shown to be very dirty bottles, without pajnng back
hai'd abuse for the impertinence. Jem, whatever coat a man may
wear, never see a hole in it. Though it may be full of holes as a
net, never see 'em ; but take your hat oft" to the coat, as if it was
the best bit of broad-cloth in the world, without a flaw or a thread
dropt, and with the finest bits of gold lace upon it. In tliis worM,
Jem, woe to the man with an eye for holes! He's a beast, n
wretch, au evil-speidcer, an uuchaiitable thinker, a pest to be jiut
do\vn. And Jem, when the respectable In^pocrites make common
cause with one another, the Lord help the poor devil they give
chase to ! "

" I always speak my mind," said Jem.

" It 's an extravagance that has ruined many a man," said the
muffin-maker. " But enough of tliis, Jem ; it 's just the time to
catch Tangle before he goes out." A few moments brought thenj
to the lawyer's door. Ere, however, the muftin-maker could touch
the knocker, the door opened, and Mr. Tangle, his wife, his two
sons and two daughtei-s presented themselves, all, the females
especially, bemg dressed for cliurch. Yes ; dressed for church ;
cai'efully, elaborately arrayed and ornamented, to sustain the
severest criticism that, diunng the hours of devotion, might be
passed upon them by sister sinners.

" Mr. Tangle," said Capstick, " I won't keep you a minute : but
when can I call on "

" Nothing secular to-day, sir," said Tangle, and he waved both
his hands.

" But, Mr. Tangle, there 's life and death, sir," — cried Capstick,
but Tangle interrupted him.

" AMiat 's life and death, sir ? What are they, sir, that we
should do anything secular to-day ? "

" But, Mr. Tangle, it 's the fate of that poor wretched boy ; and
there isn't a minute to lose," urged the muflin-maker.

" I shall be very glad to see you in the way of business, to-
morrow," replied Tangle, labouring to appear very placid ; " but
I beg of you, my good man, not to disturb the current of my
thoughts — of my Sabbath feelings — with anything secular to-day.
To me the world is dead on Sundays."

" But won't you do good on Sundays 1 " cried Capstick. — " Your
religion doesn't forbid that, I suppose ? "

" My good man, let me have none of your free-thinking libaldry
here. This is my door-step, and don't defile my threshold -nith
your profanity. I have given you my answer. Nothing secular
to-day." Saying this with increased vehemence, Mr. Tangle wiia

ST. GILES AXD ST. JAMES. 97

bustling from the door after his family — who, looking woncieritig
looks at Oapstick and Jem, had walked statelily on,-— when a
carriage rapidly turned the square, and in a moment stopped at
Tangle's door' Instantly, Mr. Tangle brought himself up ; and
cast, certainly, a look of secular curiosity towards the cai'riage-
wiudows. In an instant, young Lord St. James alighted, and waa
followed by his tutor — worn somewhat since we hist met him —
]\Ir. Folder. Mr. Tangle immediately recognised the young noble-
man, and although it was Sunday, advanced towards him with
pains-taking respect. " Your wife told us you were come here,
Mr. Capstick," said his lordship to the muffin-maker.

" Pray, sii", cau we consult you upon a business that is some-
what urgent ? " said Folder to the attorney.

" Certainly, sir ; an}'thing for his lordship. Excuse me one
moment ; " and Tangle, with imwonted agility, skipped after his
wife and family. They must go to church without him. A lord,
a young lord, had called upon him — that sweet young gentleman
in the sky-blue coat and lace-colhu* — and, the business was immi-
nent. He, the husband and father, would join them as soon as
he could. With many backward, admiring looks at the lovely
little nobleman, did Mr. Tangle's family proceed on their way to
churcli, whilst Tangle — the groaning victim to secular aft'airs —
ushered young St. James and Mr. Folder into his mansion. " We
can do nothing Avithout you," said St. James to Capstick and
Bright Jem ; who thereupon gladly followed, the attorney mar-
velling at the familiarity of the boy nobleman.
' " What can I have the honour to do for his lordship ? " asked
Ml". Tangle, with a smile dirt cheap at six and eight-pence.

" We should not have troubled you to-day," said St. James,
*' only you see "

" Don't name it, my deal* young lord ! " exclaimed Tangle.

"Only," chimed in Mr. Folder, "they talk about hangdng on
Wednesday'."

" Very true," said Tangle ; " I believe the affair comes off on
Wednesday. A great pity, sir I Quite a child, sir ; and with
good parts — very good parts. Nevertheless, sir, the crime of
horse-stealing increases hourly ; and without some example is
made, some strong example is made "

" Why, they hanged four for horse-stealing last sessions," said
Capstick.

Tangle looked round with astonishment at the interruption, and
then observed — " That only proves they don't hang enough."

" ]My opinion, Mr. Tangle ; quite my opinion. We want,
stronger laws, sir ; much stronger. If we wei-e to hang tor
ever-vtliing, there 'd be an end of crime altogether. It 's because

o
VOL. I.

98 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

we oiily punish by halves — now hanging one, and now another —
tliat we have such a continual growth of vice. We ought to pull
up crime by tlie roots ; now our present pruning system raakea
it flourish the stronger. However, his young lordship doesn't
think 80. He has all the generosity of youth, and insists that
St. Giles shall not l>e hangeil."

" God ble.<;3 him ! " cried Capstick.

" Amen ! " said Bright Jem.

" I must reqiiest tliat we have no interruption," said Tangle,
looking loftily at the two offenders. " Perhaps, sir," and the
lawyer tamed to Folder, " perhaps, you will state your case."

" Just a word in private," said Folder ; and Tangle immediately
led him int(^ a small adjoining room, and closed the .door. "You
see, Mr. Tangle," said Folder, " I consider this to be a very
foolish, weak business ; but the young gentleman is a spoilt
child, and s}>oilt children will have their way. In one word, his
lordship must Ix* humouretl, and therefore St. Giles — though it
v.-ould be much better for him to be put at once quietly out of
further mischief — must not be hanged. The Marquess has iiis own
notions on the matter ; pmiKT notions, too, tliey are, Mr. TangU- ;
notions that do honour to him as a legislator, and would, 1 verily
believe, let the law take its course. But, poor man ! what can
he do?"

" Do what he likes, can't he ? " asked Tangle.

" By no means. You see, it is with the boy as it was with the
boy Themistocles," said Mr. Folder,

" Kcally ] " oliscrved Tangle.

"One of Plutarch's own parallels. The boy niles the Mar-
chioness, and tlie Marchioness niles "

" I undei-stand," said Tangle : " rules the Mai-quess. It will
hapj>en so."

" And tlierefore, the sum and end of it all is, the horse-stealer
must be saved. Bless you ! his young lordship has tlireatened to
foil sick and die, if St. Giles is hanged ; and has so frightened his
poor mother, who again has made the Marquess so anxious, that —
the fact is, we 've come to you."

" It 's a great pity that I flidn't know all this before, llie
case, my dear sir, was a nothing — a veiy trumpery case, indeed ;
but then, to a man of my extensive practice, it was really not
worth attending to. Otherwise, and to have obliged the Mar-
quess, I could have made sure of an alibi. It 's a great pity that
so noble a family should be so troubled, and by such riff-raif ! "
said Tangle.

" It is, sir ; it is," said Folder — " you can feel for us. Now,
there 's no doubt that, in so trifling a matter, the Marquess haa

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. P9

more than sufficient interest to save a thief or two ; nevertheless,
I have suggested that a petition should be got up by the boy's
friends — if the wicked creature has any friends — and that so the
Marquess — yrfli understand ? "

"Perfectly," replied Tangle : what would he not understand in
such a case ? " There is notliing more easy than a petition.
How many signatures \v'ould you like to it ? Any number — though
fifty will be as good as five hundred."

" Do you think the jury would sign ? " asked Mr. Folder. " Not
that it 's of any consequence ; only for the look of the thing."

" The foreman, I know, would not," said Tangle, " He lost a
colt himself three years ago, and isn't yet settled to the injury.
Nevertheless, we can get up a very tidy sort of petition ; and with
the Marquess's interest — well ! that young St. Giles is a lucky
little scoundrel ! he '11 make his fortune at Botany Bay."

" And now, Mr. Tangle, that we understand one another, we 'U
join, if you please, his lordsliip. — Well, my lord," said Folder,
returnmg, " I have talked the matter over \s-ith Mi\ Tangle, and,
though he gives very little hope "

" There 's all the hope in the world," said Capstick, " for his
lordship says he '11 take the petition hunself to the Minister, who's
his father's friend, and, if I may advise the Mai-chiouess, his
mother "

" My good man," obsei'ved Mr. Folder, " we in no way need
your ad\4ee in the matter. Hold your tongue."

" Shouldn't mind at all obliging you, sir, in any other way,"
' said the uuniffled Capstick ; " but, as his young lordship here, as
he t€lls me, has been to my shop and all to see me about the
matter, I think my tongue 's quite at his service."

" To be sure it is, Capstick," said young St. James, " go on,
Mr. Folder says they 'd better hang St. Giles ; and papa says so
too ; but they sha'n't do it for all that. Why, I should nevei
have the heart to mount a horse again."

" A noble little chap ! " whispered Bright Jem to Capstick.

" And so, as I told you, Capstick, I went to your house, as you
know all about the boy, and the boy's friend, to see about a petition ;
for that 's the way, they tell me "

" Give yourself no further trouble," said Tangle, " the petition
shall be prepared, my lord. I'll do it myself, this very day,
though the affair is secidar. Nevertheless, to oblige your lord-
ship "

" Your 're a good feUow," said young St, James, patronising
the lawyer ; and, all preliminaries being settled, the conference
concluded.

fi 2

100 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

CHAPTER X.

AwD young St. Giles lay in Newgate, sinking, withering under
sentence of death. After a time, he never cried, or chiiuoured ;
he shed no tear, breathed no syllable ofde.spair; but, stunned,
stupitied, seemed as if idiotcy was growing on him. The ordinary
— a good, zealous man — endeavoured, by soothing, hopeful words,
to lead the prisoner, as the jail phrase h;is it, to a sense of his
condition. Never had St. <.Jile.s received such teaching ! Con-
demned to die, he for the tirst time lieard of the aboundinjr love
of Christianity — of the goodness and alVection due from man to
ni.an. The storj' seemed odd tu him ; strange, very strange ; yet
he supix)sed it was all tiTie. Nevertheless — he could not dismLss
the thought, it jiuzzled him. Why had he never been taught all
this before ? And why sliuuld he be puuislied, hanged for doing
WTong ; when the godd, rich, fine people, who all of them loved
their neighboui-a like themselves, had never taught him what wa.9
right 1 Was it possible that Christianity was such a beautiful
thing — and being so, was it ])ossible that good, earnest, kind-
h'-'aited Christians would kill him ?

St. Giles had scarcely eight-and-forty hours to live. It was
almost Monday noon, when the ordinarj' — having attended the
other prisouei-s — entered the cell of the boy thief. He had been
separated, by the desire of the minister, from his miserable com-
]);mioas, that their evil example of hardihood — their reckless
bravado — might not wholly destroy the hope of growng truth
withm liim. A turnkey attended St. Giles, readuig to him. And
now the boy would raise his sullen eyes upon the man, as he
read of promises of grace and happiness eternal : and now his
heart would heave as though he was struggling with an agony
that seemed to suffocate him — and now a scornful, unbehe\ing
smile would play about his mouth — and he would laugh with
defying bitteniess. And then he would leer in the face of the
reader, as though he read some fairy tale, some pretty stor\-,
to amuse and gull him. Poor wretch I Let the men who guide
the world — the large-brained politicians, who tinker the social
scheme, making themselves the masters and guardians of their
fellow-men — let them look into this Newgate dungeon ; let them
contemplate this blighted human bud ; this child felon, never
iaught the path of right, and now to be hanged for his most

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. Ifl

sinful icrnorance. What a wretched, sulleu outcast ! What a
darkened, loathsome thing ! And now comes the clergjinan —
the otate <liviiie, lie it remembered — to tell him that he is tre;isiired
with an imnfortal soul ; that — with mercy shed upon him — he
will in a few hours be a creature of glory before the throne of
Ood ! Oh, politicians ! Oh, nders of the world ! Oh, law-
making mastoi-s and ta.skers of the conmion million, may not this
cast-dtf wretch, this human nuisance, be your accuser at the bar
of Heaven ? Egregious folly ! Imjwssible ! What — stai-s an<l
garters impeached by rags and tattere ! St. James denounced by
St. Giles ! Impudent and ridiculous ! Yet here, we say, comes
the reverend priest — the Cliristian preacher, with healing, honied
words, whose Book — your Book — with angelic utterance, says no
less. Let us hear the clergjnnan and his forlorn puj)il.

"Well, my poor boy," sjiid the ordinary, with an affectionate
voice and moistening eyes : "well, ray child, and how is it with
you ? Come, you are better ; you look better ; you have been
listening to what your good friend Robert here hits been reading
to you. And we are all your friends, here. At least, we all want
to be. Don't you think so ? "

St. Giles slowly lifted his eyes towards the speaker. He then
sullenly answered, — " No, I don't."

*' But you ought to try to think so, my boy ; it 's wicked not to
try," said the orduiary, very tenderly.

" If you 're all my friends, why do you keep me here ? " said
St. Giles. " Friends I I never had no fiiends."

" You must not say that ; indeed, you must not. All our care
is to make you quiet and happy in this world, that you may Ive
happier in the world you 're going to. You understand me,
St. Gil£« ? My poor dear boy, you understand me ? llie world
you 're going to ? " The speaker, inured as he was to scenes of
blasphemy, of brute indifference, and remorseful agony, was
deeply touched by the forlorn condition of the boy ; who could
not, would not, understand a tenderness, the end of which was to
surrender him softened to the hangman. " You have thought,
my dear — I say, you have thoiight of the world" — and the minister
paused — " the world you are going to ? "

" What 's the use of thinking about it ? " asked St. Giles.
" I knows nothing of it."

" That, my boy, is because you are obstinate, and I am sorry to
say it, wicked, and so won't try to know about it. Otherwise, if
you would give all your heart and soul to prayer, "

" I tell you, sir, I never was learnt to pray," cried St. GUes.
moodily ; and what 's the use of prax'ing 1 "

" You would find it open your heai-t, St. Giles ; and though

102 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

you see nothing now, if you were only to pray long and tnily, you
would find the darkness go away from your eyes, and you 'd see
such bright and beautiful things about you, and you 'd feel as light
and happy as if you had wings at your back ; you woidd, indeed.
Then you 'd feel that all we are doing for you is for tlie best ;
then, my poor boy," said the ordinary with growing fei-vour,
"then you 'd feel what Christian love is."

"Eobert 's been reading to me about that," s;iid St. Gdes, "but
I can't make it out no-how. He says that Cln-istian love means
tiiat we shouldn't do to nobody what we woiddu't like nobody to
do to ourselves."

" A good boy," .said the ordinary, " that is the meaning, though
not the wt)rds. I 'm glad you 've so improved."

" And for all that, you tell me that I must think o' dj-ing —
think of another world and all that — think of going to Tyburn,
and, and " — here the boy fell hoarse ; his face turned ash-colour,
and reeling, he was about to fall, when the ordinary caught him
in his arm.s, and again placed him on a seat. " It 's nothin' —
nothin' at all," cried St, Giles, struggling with himself — " I 'm all
right ; I 'm game."

" Don't say that, child ; I can't hear you say that : I would
rather see you in tears and pain than trying to be game, as you
call it. That, ray boy, is only adding crime to wickedness. Come,
we were talking of Christian love," said the ordinary.

" I know nothin' about it," said St. Giles ; " all I know is thi.s,
— ^it isn't true ; it can't be tnie ''

" Tell me ; why not ? Come, let me hear all you 'd say," urged
the clergjinan tenderly.

" 'Cause if it means that nobody should do to nobody what
nobody would like to have done to themselves, why does anvbody
keep me locked up here ? "Why did the judge say I was to be —
you know, Mister ? "

" That was for doing wrong, my boy : that was for your first
want of Christian love. You were no Christian when you stole
the hoi-se," said the ordinary. " Had the horse been yours, you
would have felt wronged and injured had it been stolen from you ?
You see that, eh, my boy ? "

" Didn't think o' that," said St. Giles gloomily—" But I didn't
steal it : 'twas all along o' Tom Blast ; and now he 's got off ;
and I 'm here in the Jug. You don't call that justice, nohow, do
you ? But I don't care ; they may do what they like with me ;
I '11 be game."

" No, my dear boy, you must know better : you must, indeed—
you must give all your thoughts to prayer, and "

" It 's of no use, Mister ; I tell you I never was learnt to pray,

ST. GILES. AND ST. J.iilES. 103

and I dou't know how to go about it. More than tiat, I feel
Bomehow ashamed to do it. And beside*, for aJl your talk,
Mister, and you talk verj' kind to me, I must say, I can't feel
like a Christian, as you call it ; for I can't see why Christians
should want to hang me if Christians are such good people as you
talk about."

" But then, my poor boy," said the ordinary, " though young,
you must remember, you 're an old sinner. You 've done much
wickedness."

" I never done nothing but what I was taught ; and if j'ou say
— and Bob there 's been reading it to me — that tlie true Christian
forgives every body — well then, in coui-se, the judge and all the
nobs are no Chi-istians, else wouldn't they forgive me ? Wouldn't
they like it so, to teach me better, and not to kill me ? But I
don't mind ; I '11 be game ; see if I don't be game — precious ! "

The ordinar)', with a perplexed look, sighed deeply. The sad
condition of the boy, the horrid doatli awaiting him, the uaturiil
shrewdness with which he combated the arguments employed for
his conversion, affected the worthy clergj^mfui bejond all pitst
experience. " Miserable little wretch ! " he thought, " it will be
worst of murdera, if he dies thus." And then, again, he essayed
to soften the child felon, who seemed determined to stand at i.ssue
with his spiritual counsellor; to recede no step, but to the gallows
foot to defy him. It would be his ambition, his gloiy — if he
must die — to die game. He had heard the praises bestowed
upon such a death — had known the contemptuous jeex-ing flung
upon the repentant craven — and he would be the theme of eulogy
in Hog Lane — he would not be laughed, sneered at for " dying
dunghill." And this temper so grew and strengthened in St.
Giles, that, at length, the ordinary, wearied and hopeless, left
his forlorn charge, promising soon to return, and hoping, in his
own words, to find the prisoner "a kinder, better, and more
Christian boy."

" It 's no use your reading that stuff to me," said St. Giles, as
the turnkey was about to resume his book ; " I don't understand
nothin' of it ; and it 's too late to learn. But I say, can't you tell
us somethin' of Turpiu and Jack Sheppard, eh, — something
prime, to give us pluck ? "

" Come, come," answered the man, "it 's no use going on in this
way. You must be quiet and listen to me ; it 's all for your good,
I tell you : all for your good."

" My good ! Well, that 's pretty gammon, that is. I should like
to know what can be for my good if I 'm to be hanged ? Ha ! ha!
See if I don't kick my shoes off", that 's all." And St. Giles
»xiuld Tvot listen ; but sat on the stool, swinging his legs back-

104 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

wards and funvards, ;uid singing one of tlie melodies ki^own in Ho^'
I^uie — poor wretch ! it had been a cradle melody to him, —
whilst the turnkey vainly endeavoured to soothe and interest him.
At length the man discontinued his liopeless task ; and, in sheer
listlessness, leaning his back against the wall, full asleep. And now
St. Giles w;ia loft alone. And now, relieved of importunity, did
lie forego tlie bravado that had supported him, and solemnly think
of his approaching end ? Did he, with none other but the eye of
God in thatstoue cull upm him, did he shrink and wither beneath
the lofjk ; ami, on Injuded knees, with ojjened heart, and flowing,
repentant teai-s, did he pray for Heaven's compa-ssion — God's
sv.eet mercy ? No. Yet thouglits, deey», anxious thoughts were
brooding in his heart. His face grew older witli the meditation
that shadowed it. All his being se«med compressed, intensified
in one idea. Gloomily, yet with whetted eyes, he looked around
his eell ; and still darker and tlarker grew his face. Could he
break prison ? Such was the question — the foolish, idle, yet flat-
tering question that his soul put to itself. All liis recollections of
the gloiy of Turpin and Sheppard crowded ni>on him — and what
greater glory would it be for him if he could escaiie ! He, a boy
to do this ! He to be sung in ballads — to be talked of, huzzaed,
and held up for high example, long after he should be dead —
l>;LSsed for ever from the world ? The proud thought glowed within
iiini, made his heart heave, and his eyes sparkle. And then he
looked about his cell, and the utter hopelc.s.sne.ss of the thought
fell upon him, withering hLs heart. Yet again and again, although
to be crushed with new despair, he gazed about him, dreaming
of liberty without that wall of flint. And thus his waking hours
pa.«;sed ; and thus, in the visions of the night, Ids spii-it busied
itself ui hopeful viuiity.

The Tuesday raoming came, and again the clergyman visited
the prisonei-. The boy looked paler, thinner — no more. There
was no softness in his eyes, no appealing glance of hope : but a
tixed and stubborn look of inquiiy. " He didn't know nothing of
what the pareon had to say, and he didn't want to be bothered.
It was all gammon ! " These were the words of the boy felon,
then — such was the humanity of the law ; poor law ! what a long
nonage of discretion has it passed ! — then within a day's span of
the grave.

As the hour of death approached, the clergyman became more
assiduous, fervent, nay passionate in his appeals to the prisoner ;
who still strengthened himself in opposition to his pastor. " My
d*!ar boy, — my poor child — miserable, helpless creature ! — the
grave is open before you — ^the sky is opening above you ! — Die
without repentance, and you wUl pass into the gi"ave, and never

ST. GILES AND iT. JAMES. 105

—never know immoi-tal blessings ! Your soul will perish — perish
as I have told you — in fire, in tii-e eternal ! "

St. Giles swayed his head to and iVo, and with a sueer asked,
" AV'hat 's the tjood o" all this ] Haven't yuu told me so, Mister,
agin and agin f"

The ordinary groaned almost in despair, yet still renewed his
t;isk. " The heavens, I tell you, are oponing for you ; repent, my
cliild ; repent, poor boy, and you will be an immoital spii'it, wel-
comed by milUous of angels."

St. Giles looked with bitter inoreiluUty at his spiritual teacher.
" Well, if all that 's true," he said, " it isn't so hard to be hanged,
arter all. But I don't think the nobs love me so well, as to send
me to sich a place as that."

" Nay, my poor boy," sjiid the ordinary, " you will not, cannot,
uiidei-stand me, until you pray. Now, kneel, my dear child,
kneel, and let us pray together." Saying this, the ordinary fell
upon his knees; but St. Giles, folding his arms, so phuited him-
self as to take firmer root of the ground ; and so he stood with
moody, determined looks, whilst the clergyman poured forth a
passionate prayer that the heart of the young sinner might
be softened ; that it might be turned from stone into flesh, and
become a grateful sacrifice to the tlirone of God. And whilst
this prayer, in deep and solemn tones, rose from the prison-cell,
he for whom the jn-ayer was formed, seemed to grow harder,
more obdurate, with every syllable. Still, he refused to bend his
knee at the supplication of the clergyman, but stood eyeing him
with a mingled look of increduhty, defiance, and contempt.
'• God help you, poor lost lamb ! " cried the ordinary, as he
rose.

" Now, I hope we shall have no more o' that," was the only
answer of St. Giles.

The ordinary was about to quit the cell, when the door was
opened, and the governor of the jail, attended by the heat! turn-
key, entered. "My dear sir, I am glad to find you here," —
said the governor to the ordinary. " I have a pleasing duty to
perform ; a duty that I know it will delight jou to witness." The
ordin;uy glanced at a paper held by the governor ; his eyes
brightcLed ; and clasping his hands, he fervently uttered — •
" Thank God ! "

The governor then tm'ned to St. Giles, who suddenly looked
anxious and restle.ss. " Prisoner," he said, " it is my happiness
to inform you, that his gi-acious Majesty has been mercifully
pleased to spare your life. You wUl not sufler with the uufoitunato
men to-morrow. You understand me, boy " — for St. Giles looked
suddenly stupified — " you understand me, that the good king,

106 ST. GILES A^'D ST. JAMES.

whom you should ever pray for, has, in the hope that you will turn
from the Mdckedneas of your ways, determined to spare your life ?
You will be sent out of the country ; and time given you that, if
you properly use it, will make you a good and honest man."

St. Giles made no answer, but trembled violently from head to
foot. Then his face flushed red as flame, and covering it with his
hands, he fell upon his knees ; and the tears ran streaming
through his fingere. " Pray with me ; pray for me ! " he cried, in
broken voice, to the ordinary.

And the ordinary knelt, and rendered up " humble and hearty
thanks " for the mercy of the king.

We will not linger in the prison — St. Giles was destined for
Botany Bay. Mr. Capstick was delighted, in his own way, that
the ends of justice would be satisfied ; and whilst he rejoiced with
the triumph of justice, he did not forget the evil-doer ; for St.
Giles received a packet from the muffin-maker, containing sundry
little comforts for his voyage.

" We shall never see him again, Jem," said Mrs. Aniseed, as
she left Newgate weepmg; having taken her farewell of the young
transport. " He 's gone for ever from us."

" Not he," said Bright Jem ; " we shall see him again another
feller quite — a true man, yet ; I 'm sure of it."

CHAPTER XL

Some nine years had passed since young St. Giles — the fortu-
nate object of royal mercy — was sent from England a doomed
slave for life. For life ! Hope, so far as man can kill it in the
heart of his feUow, was dead to the convict. He had sinned
against the law, and its offended majesty — for such was and is
the phrase — denied to the off'ender the reward of better conduct.
Man, in the loftiness of his own pure thoughts, in the besetting
consciousness of his own immaculate worth, deems his criminal
brother incapable of future good, and therefore considers only the
best security of the machine ; how the bones and muscles, the
brute strength of the engine may be withheld from further mis-
chief Tt matters little to the guardian of the laws, to the maker
of statutes for tlie protection of property, what aggravated demon,
what pining, penitent spirit, yearning for better thoughts, may
dwell %\'ithin the felon, so that the chain at his leg be of sufficient
Weight and hindrance. How very recent is it, that many of the

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 107

good people of this world did not consider a part of their veiy
goodness to be in their belief of the incorrigibility of tlie felon !
It was to make too familiar an approach to their respectability to
suggest the probabihty of amendment in the doomed thief. It
was, in a maimer, to hold cheap their honesty, to suppose the
virtue attainable by the once wicked. Human arrogance is,
assuredly, never so pitiable as when, in the smug belief of its o\vu
election, it looks upon its fellow in this world as irrevocably lost.
But then, there is a sort of virtue that, not particularly shining
in itself, has need of vice to thi'ow it out ; just as the lights of
Rembrandt owe their lustre to the shadows about them. Con-
sidered after this hard fashion — and fuU well we know the sort
of worthy people who will shake their heads at our miserable
bittei'ness — yes, bitterness is the word — there is a kind of respect-
able man, who, although he may disallow the obligation, is some-
what indebted for his respectability to the proved rascal. The
convicted knave is the dark tint to his little speck of yellow white :
he is lustrous only by contrast. And after this short, uncharitable
essay on black and white, we resume our history ; lea\ang fur the
present the events of nine years unregistered — nine years from
the time that young St. Giles quitted Newgate for the genial
clime of Botany Bay.

It was a beautiful spring evening — "last of the spring, yet
fresh with aU its green." The peace of heaven seemed upon the
earth. An houi* and scene when the heart is softened and subdued
by the spirit of beauty ; when the whole visible world seems to us
an appointed abiding-place for truth and gentleness ; and it is
with hard reluctance we beheve that tp-anny, and woe, and
wickedness exist within it. One of the happy hours that, sweet
in the present, ai'e yet more deUcious in the past ; treasui-ed as
they are, as somewhat akin to the hours of the world's youth,
when the earth was trod by angels.

The broad, fat fields of Kent lay smUmg in the sim ; the trim
hedges, clothed in tender green ; tlie budding oaks, the guardian
giants of the soil ; the wayside cottage, with garden-strip brimming
wth flowers ; aU things wore a look of peace and promise. A
young gentleman, soberly habited, and well mounted, rode leisurely
along ; but, however beautiful the scene around him, it was jjlain,
from the brooding, melancholy expression of his features, that he
had no sympathy with the quietude and sweetness of external
nature ; but was self-concentrated, buried in deep thought. The
loosened rein lay on his hoi-se's neck, and the rider, apparently
unconscious of all around him, was borne listlessly along, until the
road opened into a patch of moor-land, when a second horseman,
at a shai'p trot, overtook the idle rider,

208 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

" A fine night, sir, for a lazy man," said the stranger, in a loud
and somewhat familiar tone.

" And why," answered the young gentleman, in a peeidiarly
soft and gentle voice, " why, sir, for a lazy man ? "

"Oh ! I mean there 's a sort of dreaminess in the air — a kind
of sleepuiess, if I may say it, about the night, that, to folks who
love to creep about the world with folded arms and half-shut eyes,
is the very time for 'em. You know, sir, there are such people,"
said the man, with a laugh.

" Possibly," replied the younger horseman ; who then, with a
reserved and dignified motion, urged his steed, as though desirous
to <|uit himself of his new companion. The sti-ans^fer, however,
was not a man to be bowed or looked away. A fleeting not to
perceive the intention of the youth, he mended kis pace, and,
quite at his ease, resiuned the conversation.

" You are well moimted, sir," he said, casting a learned look
at his companion's horse. " Strong, yet lightly built : I doubt
not on pressing service, now, she 'd carry double — I mean."
added the stranger, with an odd, familiar glance, " I mean with
a pillion."

" I can't say," was the calm, cold answer ; but the stranger
/leeded not the rebuff.

" Oh, yes ! " he cried ; " I would I might have the richest
heiress for the carrj'ing her on such horse flesh : did she weigh
twenty thousand weight, your mare would do it. An heiress, or
a fair lady who 'd slip her white wrists from a chain that galled
her." The young man looked suddenly in the speaker's face, as
though to detect some meaning there revealed ; but, careless and
unabashed, and as though idly giving utterance to idle thoughts,
the stranger continued. "There are such poor pming things, sir,
if a time knight knew where to find 'em : there are distressed
ladies, who, I doubt it not, would trust themselves to the back of
your m:u'e, even though, like the flj'ing horse I 've read of, she
took 'em to the moon. To be sure," said the elranger, with a
slight chuckle, "the moon, for what I know, would be the fittest
place for 'em. That 's a strange nook, sir, isn't it ? " and the
man pointed to a small, oddly-fashioned house, almost buried
among liigh and gloomy trees, about a bow-shot from the road.
" A queer place, and a queer master, if all be true of him." At
these words, the young man, with a confused look, stooped to pat
his horse's neck, sajing the meanwhile, "Indeed 1 — and what is
known of the master ? "

" Why, there ai'e twenty stories about him ; but of coui-se
some of 'em can't be time. However, what 's known for fact ia,
lie 's rich as the Indies, and, moreover, he 's got a young wife."

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 109

" Is that all ? " asked the young man, with affected carelessness.
*' Is it so rvtre a matter that a rich old man should buy himself a
young helpmate ? "

" Ilumph ! Helpmate 's a pretty word, sir ; a mighty pretty
word ; but the help that three -score gets from three-and-twenty,
eh ? No, sir ; money in this marketing world of ours may buy
much, but — flighty and frivolous and butterfly-like as the things
sometimes are — it can't always buy a woman's heart. However
this it cmi purchase ; it can buy a cage to put the poor thing in ;
it can buy eyes to watch her ; hands to guard her ; and so, old
Snipeton may keep his pet-lamb safe from London wolves — safe
as his parchments in his strong-box."

" You seem, sir," said the young man, with animated looks,
" you seem to know Mr. Snipeton."

" Why, sii-," answered the stranger, " I 'ra of London training,
Jjondon habits ; have, in my day — indeed who has not 1 — wanted
a few hundreds ; and is not Snipeton a man of benevolence — a
man of profound heart and deepest money-chest ? Is he not ever
ready to assist his fellow-creatures at an}'thing above sixty pur
cent, i Oh, you must know Snipeton," said the stranger, with a
familiar laugh. " Yes, yes ; you must know him."

" From what circumstance do you gather such belief ? " asked
• the yoimg man, a little haughtily.

" Why, you hve a London life — oh, yes, sir, there 's no country,
ha-n-thorn-look about you — you have London wants, and such
things will happen to the richest, the lordliest of us ; at times
the dice u-iU go wrong — the devil wi^ shufiiethe cards — and then,
, our honour — yes, that 's the fiend's name — our honour, willy-nilly
sends us to some such good man as Ebenezer Snipeton. Wliy,
he 's as well kno^wTi to the bloods of London as Bridewell 's known
to the 'prentices."

" And pray, sir," asked the young man, with some effort at
carelessness, "^ pray, do vou know the victim — I mean, the usurer's
wife I "

" I can't say that," answered the stranger. " And yet, I 've
seen her before she wore chains ; seen her when she lived with
the old man, her father. Ha, sir ! that was a bitter business."

" Pray, tell me," said the young man. " I know not wherefore
I should care about it, and yet there is an interest in what you
say that — I pray, teU me, sir."

" You see, her father was a worn-out, broken merchant. His
wife, as I have lieai'd, went wTong, and from that time his head
failed him — he arrew wild and reckless — losses came thick as hail
upon him, and then SniiTetou came to his assistance — jes, assist-
ance is what he called it — and bound him roimd and round with

no ST. GILES AN'D ST. JAME.S.

bills and bonds, and I know not what, and made hira all hia own.
Well, in good time, old Snii)eton l(toke<l ufxin the girl — it i-sn't a
new story though a sad and wicked one — and she became the
usurer'.s wife, to save her father from the usurer's fjuigs. Pity is
it that she did .so ; for the old man died only a few weeks after
the wedding th;it made his child — kind, aUcctionatu thing ! — a
slave for life. 'T would be a pretty world, sir, wouldn't it, but
fjr tricks like these, — and they, sonuhow, take the bloom off it,
don't they ? Eh, sir ? Good night, sir ;" and then the stranger
suddenly clapped spurs to his horse, and gallojied onward. Follow-
ing a bend of the roat^l, he was in a few minutes out of sight ; upon
which our eoliUiry traveller, evidently relieved of an irksome
companion, turne<l his steed, and slowly retraced his way. He
again relapsed into thought — ag:iin suffered hia horse, to wander
at its own will onward. Thus absorbed he had proceeded a short
distance when his eye fell ujx)n a miserable man, seated on a
mile-stone. He was in rags and almost bare-foot, and there was
the sliar|> sjurit of wjuit in liis features, that told a tale of many
.sufferings. Ue sj)oke nut — mmle no gesture of supjilication — but
looked with idle, glazing eye upon the earth. This object of
ilesolation — this jKjor tatterdemalion v^Tetch — suddenly smote our
traveller into consciousness ; and with a kind compassionate
voice, he accosted him. " My poor fellow, you seem in no pUght
for travel."

" B;ul enough, sir," said the man, " bad enough ; yet hardly as
bad as I wish it was."

" Indeed ! A strange wish ! ^Vliy, I take it, human strength
could scarcely l>ear a heavier load of wretchedness."

" I wish it couldn't bear it," 8;iid the man ; " I 'm tired of i^—
heart -tu*ed, and could lay down my life as willingly aa a pack,"

" Where do you come from ? " asked the stranger.

" Oh, sir ! a long way from here — a long way ; and why I
came I know not : I was a restless fool, and might have died
where I was."

" And where are your friends ? " questioned the traveller.

" Grod only knows," said the man, with a heavy groan ; " I
don't."

" Poor fellow ! but hope for better times," said the traveller ;
and at the same moment, throwing him a crown-piece, the youth
rode briskly on.

And thus uidcnown to one another did St. Giles and St. James
again meet. Again was St. Giles an outcast, hiding from the
law ; for he had escaped from his far-off place of bondage, and
yearning for England, for the lovely land in which he had no
rightful footstep, in whos*; abounding wealth he had not the

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. Ill

jnterest of a fartliing ; he had dared death and peril in many
shapes, and hunger and all variety of misery, to stand once more
\i\K>n his native soil. He knew that, if discovered, the hangman
would claim hioa as lawful prey ; he knew that he must hide and
slink through life in the mere hope of holding life's poor mockery ;
and yet, he had shpped his chains, had suffered the misery of a
thousand deaths, that he might once again behold an English sky,
once airain tread Eu'dish earth ! Poor wretch ! how soon did
hai-d reality disenchant him. How few the days he had pjisseil
in England, yet how many the terrors that had encompassed him !
The land that in his dreams of bondage had seemed to him a
Paradise ; the very men who in his hopeful visi(-)n3 had pi'omised
gentleness and protection ; all w;is change<l. The earth, lovely
and fruitful to happy eyes, to him seemed cursed ; and all men,
to his thought, looked at him with denouncing looks. With a
crushed heart, and in the veiy reckles.sness of despair, he would
airain have welcomed the chains he had broken. Again and
again too, could he have stretched himself upon the earth as upon
a bed, and rendered up his tired and hopeless spirit to his God.
And then fierce thoughts of vengeance on the world's injuBtiee
would possess him ; then he would deem himself as one sent upon
the earth, missioned for mischief ; a mere wretch of prey, to live
by wrong and violence. And thus, with the demon rising in his
breast, was he brooding, when St. James accosted him. But when
the young man, the child of fortune, soothed the poor outcast
with gentle words and timely relief, the sullen, desperate wretch
t became on the instant penitent and softened ; and his touched
heart felt there was goodness still in man, and beauty in the
world. The thoughts of life came back to him in healthful
strength ; for his jaded spii-it had drunk at the fountain of hope.
In the fervour of his gratitude, he felt not that, in a day or two at
most, the sim might see the misery of the past hour again upon
him. It was enough that he had the means of present comfort ;
that he could quench the fire of hunger ; that he could rest his
travel-worn body. With this glad a.ssurance he cjist about his
thoughts for a place of refuge. He knew not the road ; knew
not what offered as he advanced ; but he remembered that he had
passed a house a little more than a mile back, and retracing his
steps, he would there seek refuge for the night. Though his
heart was Ughtened, he walked with difficulty, and the evening
closed in rapidly about his path. It was a calm and beautiful
night, and the clear moon rose like a spirit in heaven. Suddenly
St. Giles was startled by the sound of horses' feet ; in an instant
the animal, bearing a rider whose outline was but for a moment
visible, at its fullest speed passed him ; a minute, and the soimd

112 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

of hoofs died in the distance. There was somethinj^ strange in
Buch Iiaste ; something that fell ui)<>ii St. Giles with a sen;5e of
evil done. For a time he paused, a-sking counsel of himself; and
then liis sinking vitals, his wDrn and wearied budy, elainied his
inst.ant exertion, and agiiin he pressed onward. In halt-an-hour
he arrivetl at the wished- fi>r house. Lights shone in the windows ;
there was dancing, and the voice of village harmony was loud
within. Wher.-fore, then, did St. Giles pau.se at the very
threshold ? Wherefore, then, did his knees feel weak, and his
very heart sink numbed and dea<l, as he saw the cheerful light,
and he;u-d huni.in voices clamouiing their happiness? Wherefore
should he n<>t join the nien-y -makers { Alas! was there not
convict written in liis haggard cheeks — felon branded on his
brow? Would lie not, with a Imwl of triumph, be set u|)uu by
liis fellow-men, and, like a wild be:Lst e.s<.-aped from a cage, be
carried back to jail 1 His brain swam with the thought, and lie
almost fell to the earth. '* Wliy, wliat 's the matter, mate ?" said
a countryman, noting St. Giles's hesitation. "' Why don't thee
step in ? There be plenty of room, if thee have the cash, tliough
it be crowded a i)lenty."

"Tiiank'ee; I was a going in," said St. Giles; ami with
sudden resolution he entt-red the house. Happily for him, he
thought, the place was thronged. A village-ball was held up-
stairs, and the house throbbed and rocked beneath the vigorous
feet of the dancers. The resources of the ueigldtourhood, how-
ever, had supplied one fiddle, and the musician, the village tailor,
touched by Phoebus, generously accommodated his instrument to
the distant keys and many variations of the singers. Shortly
after St. Giles entered, the ears of the company were engaged by
the patriotic strains of the bjirber of the hamlet, who, with \igour
and taste hajipily mingled, celebrated in good strong, homely
verse the magnanimity, courage, and glory of the Briti.sh Lion ;
an animal that has, in its day, had as many fine things written of
it as an opera-singer. And as the bai-ber sang, fifty throats
joined in chorus, declarator)' of the might of the aforesaid British
Lion, and evidently claiming a sort of pai-tnership in its greatness.
For the time, the British Lion was to them a very intimate
relation ; and they celebrated its glories as though they had a
family interest in them. And St. Giles himself — to his passing
astonishment — piped the praises of the British Lion ! The out-
cast vagabond, with fear pulling at his heart, had slid among the
company, trembling at every man's eye, as it fell upon him ; but
soon he had quaffed some ale, he had eaten invigorating bread
and cheese, and his heart, suffused and wanu, had cast away all
cowai'd thought, and in the fulness of its gratitude, in tlie very

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 113

RniTirise of its happiness, had chirped aloud to the honour of the
iiritish Lion ; albeit the said Lion, ;is a very prominent actor in
the amis of England — as the tj'jncal defender of our heai'ths anil
homes, our dearest morals, and sometimes our dearer property —
might very justifiably have re(|uired the returned convict for its
dinner. In very truth, St. Giles was the lawfiU prey of the
defrauded, cheated British Lion ; aud yet St. Giles, in the igno-
rance of his hapi)ines3, sang to the praises of the Lion as though
tlie royal be;ist had beeu to him his best friend. But then
St. Giles sang tus a patriot, though in his heai-t and soul he might
feel no bettor than a felon. Wicked, h\i)ocritic St. Giles ! In all
hi.story, did ever man, in higher places, too, do the like ?

It was well for St. Giles that he had fortified himself with a
cnp of ale, with a few mouthfuls of food, ere the maiden who
attended to tlie wants of the visitors, asked him for the requiting
coin. Otherwise St. Giles had felt somewhat abashed to display
liis wealth ; the furniture of his pocket, and his outside ch.attels
in no way harmonising together. The crown-piece would have
confused St. Giles ; as to eyes sharpened by money — and what a
whetstone it is even to dullest ^^9ion I — he felt that he in no way
looked hke a man to be honestly ix)sses.sed of s<i much wealth.
Either he would have thought the lawful met.'J of the coin
might be questioned; or that difficulty overcome, his lightful
claim to it disputed. And then, had he out with the tnith, who,
he thought, in the narro\\aiess of his heai-t, would believe him I
AVhat ! anybody give a beggar a crown-piece ? Then, at once,
believe the moon coagulated cream, or any other household sub-
stance. But, hapjiily, we say, for St. GUes, his heart was suddenly
warmed ; anil, therefore, with a careless, happy air, never sus-
pecting the suspicions of othei-s, he laid his cro\vn-piece in the
hand of the attendant nymph, or if you will, bacchante ; and
she, with all the trustingness and simpUcity of her sex, never
looked at St. Giles and then at his money as though, it is some-
times done, comparing the face of flesh and the face of metal, to
mark if they be worthy of each other ; but instantly gave the
change, with a bljiihe " thank 'ee " for the patronage. Pre-
simiptuous is man ! St. Giles, who, five muuites before, felt
himself wretched, terrified at the thought of singing in the tap-
room of the Lamb and Star, was now made so bold by his happi-
ness, that, his eyes meeting the bright orbs of Becky, full and
swimming as they were with satisfaction, and her little plump
anatomy swajing to and fro, in kindly s3Tnpathy with the dancers
up-stairs — St. Giles, we say, in the hardihood of his sudden
confidence, laughed and chucked Becky under the chin. And
Becky, looking not more than decently ferocious, bounced lightly

VOL. I. 1

m ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

rount], cried " Well, 1 'm sure ! " aiul tlien, as if nothing had
liappeiied, attended the call of another customer.

And could St. Giles so soon forget that he was a returned
convict, as with slight provocation to chuck the maiden of the
ij^tml) and Stiir under the chin ] liut .such i.s the hiart of man !

AVhen the clauiour of the room wiw at its highest, a young
injin sfMukishly drest .suddenly looked in, auil wrus as smMeiily
proeted by the merry-makei-s. A loud cheer for " Miuster Willis"
8h(X)k the roof-tree. The new-comer was a man of about five-
and twenty ; of t;ill ami well-knit frame, with large, fresh -colon red
features, and a profusion of black hair ; the ver)' man to kill
village hearts by dozens. lie seemed in the highest spirits ;
ilidee<l, almost unnaturally gay. There was something in his
laboured vivacity that might have awakened the attention of a
1<'SH men-y audience ; a hollowui-ss in his loud, roaring laugh,
that bjmlly seemed of mirth. I'.ut Master Willis was among
friend.s, admirers : lie w.us tlie favounte of the men, the ailmire<l
i>f the wonien ; besides, he nirely failed, on occasions such !is the
present, to play the patron. Hence, after a few moments, in
which his hand was gnisj)ed by at lea.st twenty humble acquaint-
ances, he gave an onler that " ale was to be sei-ved all round."
This largess was greeted with new acclamation. When it ha«l
Kubside<l, Master Willis, with a significant killing look, bade all
his friends \>c ha|i]>y together ; but that for himself, why he must
join the girls, ainl have a dance uj)-slairs. This gallantry was
met with another burst of ai>plau3e. In the midst of which Master
Willis, all smilfs and happiness, di.sappeared.

"And who is that gentleman ?" St. Giles ventured to ask of
the barber, at the time his nearest neighbour.

*' Who M he ? Well, where did y<Ai come from ? Not know
him ? Where was you l>om ?" cried the barl)or.

" I 'm — I 'm a stmnger hereabouts," answered St. Giles, a little
vexed with himself for his untimely curiosity.

" So I should think, not to know M;uster Willis. A stranger !
Why I should take you for a Frenchman, or an outlandish
foreigner of some sort, never to have heard of him. The best
hand at bowls ami single-stick — the best hunter — the best shot —
the best everything. Well, you do look like a foreigner," mud
the barber, glancing at St. Giles in a way that made him
hejirt-sick.

" I 'm a true Englishman," said St. Giles, " though T 've been
some yeai-s out of the country."

" Ha ! serving your king, and all that ? " said the barber. St,
Giles nodded. "Well, like a good many of the f^ji-t, you don't
*>cem to have made your foilin by it. but then, I supi>ose, you've

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 115

got a lot of gloiy ? Now, within a di )Zt'n or two, can you tell ua
how many Frencluncn you've killed?" St. Giles winced from
tlie small grey eyes of the barber, who, as though conscious of the
Confusion he created, pursued his queries with growing self-
sat isf;iction. *'You can't tell us how many, eh? A precious
lot I should think, by the look of you. Well, if all over you
don't smell of gunjiowder ! " .and the barber aifectedly held his
nostrils, to give, as he conceived, point tene<l his hmids,
and fixing his eye ujk)u the barber, agaui leisurely doubled his
fist. The look, the gesture, was instantly understood by the wag,
for immediately droj)ping his tone of banter, he became most
courteously communicative. " Eut you Wius a.sking about ]\Iaster
Willis ? To be sure — as a stranger, it 's natural you shouldn't
know. Well, his uncle's the richest fanner a hundred miles
about. His land's as fat a;s butter, aud Miuster Bob — we c:dl
liim Bob here — will have every mch of it. He 's a wild fellow,
to be sure. Doesn't mind, when the temper's on him, kuockinc;
down a man like a bullock ; but bless you ! no harm in him —
not a bit of harm. My service to you," and liuafliug the ale —
M;uster Willis's liberal gift — the b;u-ber moved away.

The time wore ou, and St. CiiUs, exhausted by fatigue, made
drowsy with his entert^iinment, tlared to think of bed. Yes, he
liad tlie hardihood to promise himself tluit night at least, the
shelter of a roof "My good girl," said he, in a confidential
wliisper to Becky, " can 1 sleep auj'where here to-night — any-
where, you know ?"

" Wliy, you see," answered Becky, her eyes instinctively wan-
dering fi'om i-ag to rag, as worn by St. Giles, " why, you see, the
missus is very partic'hir." And then Becky, despite of her,
looked dubiously at the toes of St. Giles, indecorously sho'wing
their destitution to the world. Having, quite unconsciously,
counted the s:\id toes, and assiu-ed herself there were ten of them,
all in flagnint want of shoe-leather, Becky repeated, with even
more emphasis — " Very partic'lar."

" I dare say — she 's right, in course," answered St. Giles ; " but
I don't want nothing for nothing — I can pay for it."

" Oh, to be sure," said Becky quickly, " it isn't money ; oh no,
that 's notlunjj — but it 's the character of the house we stand
upon. Missus says that houses are like Christians, and catches
bad chai-acters all the same as j'ou catch the small-pox or any-
thing of the sort from them as have 'em. That 's what she says,
and I dare say it 's all true."

St. Giles made no answer ; but a deep, heart-drawn sigh broke
from him. Becky was turning away, when, touched by the sound,

1 2

IIG ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

phe suddenly looked in St. Giles's face — it was on the instant bo
blankly wretched — so old, so hopeli-ss in its look — the forced
smile that had played about it had so quickly vanished, that,
unknown to herself, with a feeling of conip.ission ami s\nnpathy,
the \KHjr girl caught St. (Jiles's hand, and with alterctl voice 8;iid
— "I don't think niiiwus has seen you, luul as we're so busy to-
night, she mayn't want to look at you ; so he quiet a little while,
and I dare say I can get you some nice straw in the luim."

" Tii;uik 'ee/' said St. (Jihri— " Do, God bless you;" and he

pressed the girl's han<l, and her siini>le, kindly heart was nielte«l

by the poor fellow's wretchedness, an<l with twinkling eyes and a

smile on her coarse, broad, honest face, she left the room. In a

few minutes the door was openeti, and Becky with upraised finger

stood without. St. Giles immediately obi-yed the signal, and in

bnef time found himself on his way to ln-«l, precedwl by IJccky

with a lanthorn ; for the m<x»n hatl gone down, and the night was

pitchy dark. " I 've brought the hght," a;iid she, " for fear oi

tlie dog. lie killed one man, or as gixxl as killed him, for he

never got over it ; but he won't bit*; nolxHly when he sees 'em

with me." And the conduct of the dog .<»i>eedily bore out the

chanicter given him ; for though with grinning teeth, and a low,

snutlling howl, he walked n>und and round St. Giles, Becky —

even as Una dominated the lion — held Dragon in complete-t

subjection. Although she ciille<l him a brute, a l)oast, a na.sty

creature, and twenty other names of the Uke pretliness, Dragnn

with a patient wagging of the tail bore them all, his very patience

— what a lesson for human phikwophy ! — turning invective into

compliment. " Here it is," said Becky, opening the bani-<lonr.

'"Here 's straw as sweet as any clover ; and there isn't m;uiy rats,

for they was hunted only a month ago. You 're not afearxl oi

rats ? Bless you, they 're more afeanl of Cliri-stians than Christians

should be afeard of them ; and so I tells missus ; but for all that

she will squeal at 'em. Well, people can't help what they call

'tii>atlues. As for me, I minds rats no more than rabbits. There,

now, up in that comer ; and if there isn't a sack and all to cover

you ! NMiy, you couldn't sleep better if you was a lord. And

see here. Here 's a bottle with some beer, and some bread and

cheese, when you wake in the morning. I 'ra always hungry

when I wake in the morning, I am ; no matter what time I goes

to bed : but that comes, as I say, of ha^'ing a clear conscience, and

doing no hann to uoIkkIv. There, good night — poor soul ! God

be with you ! " And with this simple, e;imest wish — this Uttle

wish that like the circle of the univei-se holds within it all

things — did the kind, the gentle drudge of a way-side pot-house

send the convict to his bed. No king was ever shown to tapestried

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 117

cli.imher with truer wishes for his rest, tlian went with St. Giles
Ut his straw. " Go<l be with you," suid the girl ; aud the words
(if j^eutleuess, the hapj)}', hoj>eful tone that breathed in them, fell
l«ko balm upim the felon's heart; and in a few nionionts he was
bunk in the ♦lei.-jj happiness of sleep ; he wa^j f;a" away iu that
neutral region of life, where emperors put off their crowns —
where the arrogance of earth is calm ami harmless — where pride
and tjcstentatiou have not their blat^uit trumjHits blown before
them — where the purple of Dives is cast asiile on the same heap
with the rags of L;u:aru8 — where the etjuality to all, that death
shall everljistingly l>iing, is once a day rehe;irsed by all men—
wlu're life is simple breatliing, and the slave loses the master.

For mruiy nights hail St. Giles slept iu the open tieliU. Ragged,
and worn, and liunger-stricken, he had nevertheless slept ; juid
^•nly when the ilaylight came felt for a time his sinews cramped
and stiffened with the dews of night. Still with the sky above
him, no uiore sheltered th:ui his neighbour ox or sheep, he had
sli'pt ; he had, despite of fortune, cheated misery with forget-
t'ulness. Nature for a time luul blessed him as she had blessed
( lie h.ippiest man. Yet sleep luul come to him slowly, reluctantly ;
Viuilily want ;uid sulfcring would for a time refuse the sweet
oblivion. But here iu a barn — with frei.h, delicious, odorous
straw ; with roof .-uid wjills to hold out wind and rain^-St. Gileti
composeJ himself to sleep ;i.s almost to eternal rest. He wa.s
Iiajjpy, profoundly happy tliiit he was lodged, comfoi-tably, an
any be;i2»t.

F(->r an hour — yes, an hour at least — hiul St Giles enjoyed the
happiness of rest, wlieu he was loudly, roughly awukeiietL
'• Hallo ! you vagabond — get up, and answer for a murder,"
bawleil a voice ; and St. Giles, leaping to his feet, saw the bai-n
h;dl-lilled with people, armed with sticks and weapons as for
some sudden £iay.

CHAPTER Xri.

"What's the matter now?" cried St. Giles, pale and aghast;
for instantly he believed himself detected ; instantly saw the gaol,
the gallows, and the hangmam " "^iSTiat 's the matter ? " he cried,
trembling from head to foot.

" What 's the matter 1 " roared the barber, " only a little bit of
murder, that 's all — and that 's nothing to chaps like you."

Terrible as was the charge, nevertheless St. Giles felt himself

113 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

Bomewhat relieved : he Mas not, he fouml, apprehenrled a.s the
escaped convict ; that wjisyet unknown; and, ckMIv enouu'h, with
the accusation of bloo<l8hed on him, he felt coinpanitivcly tranquiL

" Murder, is it," he said, "well, wlio 's murdered ? And whoever
he is, wl»y is it to be me who 's killtil him — tell nie that ? "

" Did you ever hear ?" said the barber. " A chap, with racjs
on him, not fit to scare birds in a l>ean-tield, ami yet talks like
one of us ! I should like to know wliere .sut-h as you get crown
pieces ? "

"Nevermind — never mint!," sjii<l the host of the Lamb and
Star, " that 's justice's work — not ours."

" Justice's work ! " exclaimed the hosteaa, now pressing fore-
most of the crowd — " jind what will justice do for us 1 When
justice has hanj^iil the raLTivmufhn, will jiistice jrive l^v-k the cha-
racter of the house ? Who U come to the I^unh and Star, when
it 's known to harlwur cut-thn>ats ? But it 'a that hussy, Becky ;
it's she that hi>l the murdiMvr hi-re ; it's she, I'll l>e sworn it,
knows all alx>ut the murder, fur tlure isn't such a devil for break-
ing in the whole county." Such was the emphatic declaration of
the hostess, who. by a kind of loi,Me — not altogether uncommon to
the sex — saw in liecky, the reckless di-stroyer of p<jttery, the con-
sequent accomi>lice in human destruction. The reasoning, it must
be coufesseil, wjis of the most violent, the most tvranuie kind ; on
which account, it was somewhat more attractive to Mi-s. lilink ;
guileless, ingt-nuous soul I who, in her inuoceucy, rateil her hand-
maiden for bestowing a homicide in the bam of the Lamb and Star ;
when, ha*l the matron known au<,dit of the moral machinery of life,
she ought iiLstantly to have doubled IV^ky's wages for such ijiesti-
mable service. Mrs. Bliidc ought to have known that to a public-
house a nninlerer was far more ]>roJitable, to both tap an<l parloui-,
than a pretty banuaid. She ought to have looked upt<n tlie L;imb
and Star as a made h(jstelry, fn.im the instant it should be known
that St. Giles, with ihe mark of Cain fresh up<Dn him, changed his
first blood-begotten dollar there ; that afterwards he sought the
sweets of sleep in the Lamb and Star's htxm. Silly Mi-s. Blink !
Why, the verj- straw pressed by St. Giles was precious as though
laid ujx>n l\v !Mitlas : to be split and worked into bonnets it was
worth — what Ijrain shall say how much a tniss ? But Mi-s. Blink
thought not after this fashion. She looked upon St. Giles as
though he had brought so much blood npon the house — so many
inert'aceable stains of shame and ignominy. Foolish woman ! she
ought rather to have made him her humblest curtsey ; ought
rather to have set her face with her sunniest smile, for having
given the Lamb and Star the preference of his infamy. Benighted
creature ! she knew not the worth of a murder to a bar.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 11 J

" And pray who is murdered ? " again a.sked St. Giles, wiOi ai)
effrontery that again called up all the \nrtuous astonishnient of
the host and hoste&s. " If I 've killeil any body, can't you let me
know who it is ? "

"Yes, yes,** cried the landlord, "you're just the felhnv to
hnizen it out ; but it won't do this time ;" and he then looked
knowingly at his wife, who was al)out to express herself ou the
cfHriinty of St. Giles's fate, when she luludd IVcky peepii\g
anxiously from the crowd, mo.st shamefully interested, as Mrs.
}5link conceived, in the prisoner's condition. " Why, you wicked
luissy ! if you oughtn't to Ih? hanged with him," cried the hostess:
whereu])on Becky immediately took to her heels, and was imme-
diattdy followed by her mistress, whose loud indignation at length
died a muttering death in the distance. Mre. Blink being gone,
there was dead silence for a moment ; and then tlie landlord, with
a puzzled look, jerking his lu'a<l towanls St. Gih-s, briclly a.sked
counsel of one and all. " What shall we do with him 1 "

This query produced another p:iu.><e. F.verv man seemed to feel
as though the quci^tion was s|)eeially put to himself, and therefore
difl his best to prepai'e to answer it. Yes ; almost every mau
seratched his head, and suddenly trieil t<:> look acute, sharp.
'' What 's to be done wi 'un ?" iu>ked two or three musingly ; and
then lofiked in each t)ther's faces, as though they looked at a dead
wall. At length, wisdom descended upon the bi-ain of the barber.
'' I '11 tell you what we '11 do with him," said the small oracle of
the Lamb and SUvr, and smMenly all looked satisfied, as though
the mystery was at length discovered, — " I'll tell you what we'll
do with him : we '11 leave him where he is." Eveiybody nodded
assent to the happy thought. " He '11 be just as safe here as
in the cage, and that 's a mile away. We've only got to tie
him hand and foot, and three or four of us to sit up and watch
him, and I wai-rant he doesn't slip through our lingere — I warrant
me, varmuit as he is, we'll give a good account of him to justice."
The barber was rewarded with a murmur of applause ; and such
approbation he received all tranquilly, Uke a man accustomed to
the sweets of moral incense. For St. Giles, he had again cast
himself hopelessly upon the straw ; again lay, seemingly indifferent
to all around him. In the despair, the wretchedness of his con-
dition, Ufe or death was, he thought, to him alike. On all hands
he was a hunted, pei-secut«d wTetch ; life was to him a miserable
disease ; a leprosy of soul that made him alone in a breathing
world. There might be companionship in the grave. And so
dreaming, St. Giles lay dumb and motionless as a corpse, the
while his captors took counsel for his security. " Hush ! " said
the baaber, motioning silence, and then having stood a few

120 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMHS.

iiiKinent.i, lis(eninj», with upraised finger, he cried — "it's my
* belief the ro<.pie '.s asleep ; in that case, we needn't tie him ;
we Ve only to watch outside : the night 's warm, the dog 's loose,
and with a mug or so of ale, I 'm good to watch with any half-
dozen of you." Tlie truth is, the barber had been visited by a
second thought that suggested to him the probability of rough
u.sage at the Iiands of the prisoner, should there be an attempt
to put hin: in Uinds, and he therefure, with a ])ardonable regard
for hin own features, projto.sed to waive the ceremony of tying the
culprit. " He'll have his share of rojie in time," said the barber,
nnich sati.xfied with the suiallness of the jest. Ami thereupon, he
beckoned his companions fmrn the bam ; and had alrea<ly inuigined
the balminess of the coming ale — for the landlord had promised
flowing mugs — when ju.stice, professional ju.stice, art-ived in the
fi!i:il>e of a sw(mi constable. " Where 's this murdering chap ]"
asked the functionary.

" All right, Master Tipps," said the barber, " all snug ; we 've
got him."

"There's nothing right, nothing snug, without the cutTs," said
the constable, displaying the irons with nmch official pride. —
" He 's in the bani, there, eh, M:u»ter lUink ? " Then I charge
you all ill the kings name — and this is his staff — to help me."
The landlon.1, touche<i by the magic of the a<ljuration, steppe*!
forwanl with the lantern ; the constable followed, and was sulkily
followetl by two or three of the party. n»e barber, however, luid
one or two of his kidney, budged not a foot. " Isn't it always
BO ? " he exclaimed, " if ever a man put« himself out of the way,
and ventures his precious life and limbs, taking up all sorts of
varmint — if ever he does it, why it 's s-afe for Master Constable to
come down, and take away all the honour and glory. I should
like to know what 's tlie u.se of a man feeling savage against
rogues, if another man 's to have the credit of it ? Now you '11
see how it will be, it 's the way of the world, oh yes ! you '11
see. They '11 take this chap, and try him, and hang him, perhajjs
put him in chains and all, and we shall never be so much as
thanked for it. No, we shall never be named in the matter.
Well, after tliis. folks may murder who they like for me. And
isn't it precious late, too ! and will my wife believe I 've been
nowhere but here ? " cried the barber ; and a sudden cloud
darkened his face, and he ran off like a late schoolboy to his task.
Poor St. Giles ! he knew it not ; but, if vengeance were sweet to
think upon, there was somebody at home who would revenge the
wrongs of the vagrant upon the barber. Somebody, who, at deep
midnight, would scare sleep from his pillow, even whilst the
feloniously accused snored among the straw. And after this

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 121

fiisliion may many a wretch take sweet comfort ; — if, Indecfl,
revenge be sweet ; and there are vory respectable folks to whom,
in truth, it has very saccharine iiualities, for they seem to enjoy
it ;i3 children ^enjoy sugar-cane ; — sweet comfort that, whatever
wrong or contumely may l>e cast upon him in the light of day
there may be somebody, as it would seem esi>ecially appointed,
to chastise the evil-iloer ; and that, too, " in the dead waste and
niiildle of the night ;" to drive sleep from his eyeballs ; to make
him feel a coward, a nobody, a ninconnxjop, in his own holland.

Pleasant is it for the sour-thinkinj' man whu sees a blusterinfj
authority — whether gra-sping a beadle's staff or holding the scales
of justice — sometimes to know that there is a louder anthority at
hom«», a greater vehemence of reproof, that may make the bully
of the day the sleepless culjtrit of the night. Was there not
Whitlow, beadle of the p.irish of St. Scraggs ? "What a man-
beast was Whitlow ! How would he, like an avenging ogre,
scatter apple-women ! How would he foot little boys, guilty of
peg-tops an<l marbles ! How would he j)uff at a beggar — jaiff
like the jMcture of the north-wind in the spelling-lxHik ! Wliat
a huge, heavy, pui-jjle face he had, its though all the bloo*l of liis
body w;is stagnimt in his cheeks ! And then, when he spoke.
Would he not growl and snutHe like a dog ? How the parish
Would have hated him, but that the parish heard there was a
Mrs. Whitlow ; a small fragile woman, with a face shaqj as a
])enknife, and lips that cut her words like .«cissors ! And what a
forlorn wretch w;is Whitlow, with his head brought once a night
to the ])illow ! Poor creature ! helpless, confused ; a huge imbe-
cility, a stranded whale ! Mrs. Whitlow talked and talked ; and
there was not an apple-woman but in ^Vliltlow's sulFerings was
not avenged ; not a beggar, that thinking of the beadle at mid-
night, might not, in his compassion, have forgiven the beadle of
the day. An<l in this punishment we acknowletlge a grand, a
beautiful retribution. A Judge Jefferys in his wig is an abom-
inable t}Tant ; yet may his victims sometimes smile to think what
Jutlge Jefferys suffei*s in his night-cap !

And now leave we for awhile St. Giles in the official custody of
Tipps, who, proud of his handcuffs as a chamberlain of his wand,
suffered not the least opportunity to pass without resorting to
them. To him, handcufi's were the grace of life, the only security
of our social condition. Man, without the knowledge of hand-
cuffs, would to Tipps have been a naked wretch, indeed ; a poor
barbai'ian, needing the first glimmer of civilisation. Had philo-
sophy talked to Tipps of the golden chain of necessity, to the
sense of Tipps the chain would have been made of handcuffs.
Hence, the constable had thought it his prime duty to handcuff

122 ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMES.

St. Giles ; and then, lie sufTered him.self to be persuaded to leave
the tuurderer iu his stniw ; the l.indlupl hund.soni»'iy promising
the loan of a cart to remove the prisoner in the morning.

Sonje two miles distant from the I*-imb and Stnr, where the
road turned with a eluirp luigle, there w<is a di-ep hollow ; this
place hafl been known, it may be, to the Druitls, as the Devil's
Elbow. Throughout the world, man ha.s ungraciously given
sundry ugly spots of the eartli's face — its warts and jMH-k-niarlcs —
to the ticnd ; and the lilK-ral dwelU-i-s of Kent had, as we say, made
over an abrupt break -neck comer of earth to the Devil for his
Elbow. It was at this sjKit that, whil.it St. Giles was swallowing
ale at the I^jimb and .St;ir, his tiupjxjst-d victim, tlio hamlsome,
generous SU James w:ts discoverwl jjrostrate, stunne<l, and
wounded. IJuiuour had, of course, tidven his life ; -making with
ea.si.-st desjxitch St. Giles a umrdertr ; for being an outcast and a
btgg.-u", how facile was the transformatiou ! But St. James was
not (lead ; all»eit a deep wound, as from some mortal instniment,
some dull weajKjn, as the law luis it, on his temple, looked more
than large enough for life to escajKi from. Happily for St. James,
there were men in Kent who lived not a life of reverence for the
law ; otherwi.se, it is more than j)ro)»able that, iindi.'»covered until
the morning, the Devil's Elbow might have been haunt«d by
another ghost. But it was to l>e otherwise. It was provideil by
fate that there should l>e half-a-dozen sniuggh-rs, bound on an
uuhallowKl mission to the coa.st ; who, fii-st oV«*erving St. James's
/tense, ma^terless and quietly grazing at the road's side, made
closer search and thence discoveit-d young St. James, as they at
firet believed, killed, and lying half-way down the hollow. " Uere's
l»een rough work," cried one of the men ; " see, the old, wicked
story — blo«xi flowing, and pockets inside out. He 's a fine lad ;
too fine for s>ich a death." " All 's one for that," said a second ;
'' we can't biing him to life by staring at liiin : we 've queer work
'"Bough of our owni on hand — every one for his own business.
Come along." '' He 's alive ! " exolainied a third, with an oath ;
and as he spoke, St. James drew a long, deej) sigh. " All the
better for him," cried the second, " then he can take care of him-
self." "%\niy, Jack Bi]s<^>n, you'd never be such a hard-hearted
chap as to leave anything with life in it, in this fa.>>hion 1 " was
the remonstrance of the first discctverer of St. James ; whereupon
Mr. Bilson, with a worldliness of prudence, sometimes worth
uncounted gold to the possessor, remarked that humanity was
ver)' well — but that evei;) body was made for everA'body's self —
and that while they were palaveiing there over nobody knew who,
they might lose the running of the tubs. Humanity, as Mr. Bilson
ijaiil, was veiy well ; but then there was a breeches pocket virtue

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 1'23

ill sraupgled Scbcidara. " Well, if T w:is to leave a fellow-cretiir
in tlii-s plight, I shouKl never have the inipiulence to hope to have
a bit of luck again," saitl the more com passionate contrabandist,
whose nice superstition canie in aid of his benevolence ; " and so
I say, mates, K^t us carry him to that house yonder, make 'em
take him in, and then go with light hearts ;md clean consciences
upon our business." " Yes ; if we ain't all taken up for robbers
and murderers for our pains : but, V>en Magsby, you always was
a obstinate grami)us." And Ben Magsby canned out his humane
purpose ; for St. James was imme<lialely borne to the house afore-
said. Loud and long was the knocking at the iloor, ere it was
opened. At length, a little sharjvfaccd old woman ajipearcd, and,
with wonderful serenity, begged to know what m-;uj the matter.
'* Wliy, here 's a gentleman," said Magsby, " who 's been altogether
robbed and well-nigh murdered."

" Ktibbiil and murdered ! " srud the matron, calmly as though
she spoke of a pie over-baked, or a joint over-rojisted, — " robbed
and murdered! Wliat 's that to us? The public-hou.se is the
place for such things. Go to the Kamb and Stai-." But the woman
spoke to hee«lles8 ears ; for Ben Mag8*)y and his mates — ere the
Woman had ceased her coun.sel — had bonie the wounded man
across the threshold, juid unceremoniously entering the first
■ discovenible aj)artment, had laiil him on a couch.

" There," said Ben, returning with his companions to the door,
" tlure, we 've done our duty jis Christians, mind you do yours."
And with this admonition, the smugglei-s vanished.

It was then that the little old woman showed signs of emotion.
* Jklurder and robbery at the public-house she could have contem-
plated with becoming composure ; but to be under the same roof
with the horror was not to be quietly endured so long as she had
luu'TS ; and so thinkuig, she stood in the hall, and vehemently
screamed. Like boatswain's whistle did that feminine summons
pierce every corner of the mimsion : the cupboard mouse paused
over stolen cheese — the hearth-oricket suddenly was dumb — the
deathwatch in the wall ceased its amorous tick-tick — so sudden,
shai'p, and all-pei'vadiug was that old woman's scream. '" Why,
Dorothy ! is that you ? " exclaimed a matronly gentlewoman,
hastening down staii-s, and followed by a young lady of apparently
some three or four and twenty. " Is it possible 1 ^Tiy, what 's
the matter ] "

"Notbing at all, ma'am — nothing," said Dorothy, suddenly
relapsing into her customary apathy ; for, sooth to say, she was a
sort of vegetable woman ; a di-owsy, dreamy person, whose per-
formance of such a scream was considered by its hearers as a
most wondrous manifestation of power. Nobody, to liave looked

Hi ST. GILICS AND ST. JAMES.

at Dorothy Vale, wcniM li.ive thr.nj^lit tlint v^-itliin hor ilw.li .stioh
a scream in />o.m^ ; hut, soiiic-liiiH-s, great in tlie niVHtcTV i>f little
old women. " Nothing at all, nin'ani — that is, don't be frightened
• — that [ft, they ^1y, ma'am, murder and roMx-r)*."

" Heavens ! "Where — where ? " exclaimed the young lady.

" It isn't yotir dear husband, ma'am — i>h no, it isn't master,
so don't l>e frighteneil," said the tranquil Dorothy. " But,
if you please, uia'am, it's in that room — I mean the bo«ly,
ma'am."

The young lady, for a moment, shrank bark in tomir ; and
then, as though reprr)viiii; herself for the weakness, she rapidly
j'.'iitfwtl into the room, followed by her elder conip.ininn. At the
same inotant, thewounde<l man had half-risen from the couch, and
was l<K>king wanderingly arouml him — " Clarissa ! Can it be ?"
he crit^l, and again swooning, fell Iwiek. Instantly, the girl waa
on her knees at his sitle ; unconscious of the reproving, the
a.><tonished looks of the matron.

"He's dying — oh, Mrn. Wilton, he is dying I Munlere<l — I
know it all — I see it all — and for me — wretch that I am — for
nie," and her form writhed with anguish, and she burst into an
agony of tears.

"t)h, no — the hurt is not mortal; be assure* 1, I am surgeon
enough t/i know that ; be a>wure<l of it, Mrs. Snipeton ;" thus
sj>oke Mrs. Wilton, in wonls of coldest comfort, an<l with a
manner strangely frozen. " Dorothy, stay you with your mii*-
tre.>is, whilst I 8<'n<l for assistance, and seek what reme<li»'s I can
myself. I will return instantly : meanwhile, I say, remain with
your mistre.>«."

And St. James, unconscious of the hospitality, was the guest
of Mr. Ebenezer Snipeton ; whose character, the reader may
rem»inl>er, was somewhat abnij>tly discusaetl by the stranger
liorseman in the ]»ast chapter. It was here, at Dovesnest, that
the thrifty money-seller kejtt his young wife close ; far away, and
safe, as he thought, from the l>old compliments, the reckless
pullantrk' of the rich young men who, in their frequent time of
need, jKiid vi.sits to the frientl who. the security certain as the
hour, never failed to assist them. Mr. Snipeton was not, in the
onliiiaiy matters of life, a man who un<lerrated his ovn\ advan-
tages, moral and physical. S<x»th to say, he was, at times, not
unapt to set what detraction might have thought an interested
v.ilue on them. And yet, what a touchstone for true humility in
n;an is woman ; Ebenezer Snipeton, in all worldly dealings, held
himself a match for any of the money-coining sons of Adam. He
could fence with a guinea — and sure we are guinea-fencing is a
tar more delicate ai-t. is an exercise demanding a finer touch, a

ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMES. 125

readier sleight, than tlie mere twistincf of steel foils ; — he coi;I«l
feme, uuv, with even tlie Hiiialli-st ourivut coin of the realm, an<l
— no matter who stooil against liim — come off conqueror. " Gohl,"
says .Slullcy, "is the olil man's swonl." And most wickedly at
times, will iioary-bearded men, with lilood as cold and tliiii as
•water in their veins, hack and shwh with it! Thej' know — tiic
grim, jialsied warriors ! — how tlie weapon will cut heart-strin'xs ;
they know what wounds it will inflict ; but then, the wounds
bleed inwardly : there is no outwaiil and visible hurt to call for
the coroner ; and so the victim may die, and show, as gossips
have it, a very handsome corjwe, whilst homicidal avarice, with
uo droji of outwanl >^ore uixm his luuids — no danming sj>otjj **een
by the world's nake<l eye — mixes in the world, a very re«i>ectable
ohl gentleman ; a man who has a file of ren-ipts to show for
everything ; a nuai wiio never did owe a shilling ; juid alxive all,
a man who takes all the gotxl ho gets as nothing more than u
projK-r payment for his excee<ling resjuvtability. He is a jMittem
man ; and for such men heaven raiius manna; only in these days
the shower comes down in gold.

Kbenezer Snipeton, we say, had a high, and then-fore market-
nblo opinion of himst^'lf ; for the larger the man's sclf-esteeui the
WMvr is he of putting it otf in the world's mart. 'J'he small
dealer in conceit may wait fix>m the opening to the closing of the
m.irket, and not a soul shall carry away his little |H.iiiiywi»rth ;
now the large holder is certain of a quick denniud for all his
stock. Men are taken by its extent, and close with him innue-
diately. If, reailer, you wiuited to buy one single egg, wouKl you
jmrcluuse that one egg of the jjoor, rasc:d dealer, who hud only
one egg to sell ? Answer us, truly. Behold the mo«lest trades-
man. He stands shrinkingly, with one leg drawn up, and his ten
tingt-rs interlaced lackadiiisically, the while his soul, in its more
than luaiilen b;ishfulncss, would retreat, get away, e-scajx' anyhow
from its consciousness. And so he stands, all but hopeless behind
his one egg. He feels a blush crawl over his face — for there are
blushes that do crawl — as you pass by him, for pass him you do.
It is triie you want but one egg ; nevertheless, to bring only
one egg to market shows a misery, a meanness in the man, that
in the generous hea.t of your heart 's-blood, you most manfully
Jespise. And, therefore, you straddle on to the tradesman who
stands behind a little mountain of eggs ; and timidly asking for one
— it is so very poor, so wretche<l a bit of huckstering, you are
ashamed to be seen at it — you take the first egg offered you, and
humbly la}-iug down your half])enny farthing, vanish straight
away ! As it is with eggs, so, in the world-market, is it with
hmuiin pretensions. The man with a small, single conceit is

126 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

eliunned, a silly, miserable fellow ; but the brave, wholesale-
dealer, the man of a thousand pretensions, is beset by buyers.
Now, Ebenezer was one of your merchants of ten thousand egga
■ — and though to others they had proved addled, they had never-
theless been gold to him. And yet, did Elx^nezer's wife — his
rii)e, red-lipped spouse of two-and-twenty — somehow touch her
husband with a strange, a painful humility. He had sixty ii-on
wiutei-s — and ever)' one of them plain as an iron-bar — in his face.
Time had used his visage as Piobinson Crusoe used his wooden
calendar, notching ever}' day in it. And what wa.s worae, though
Time had kept an honest account — and what, indeed, so honest,
so terribly honest as Time ? — nevertheless, he had so marked the
countenance — (it is a shabby, shamelul trick Time has with some
faces) — that ever}' mark to the thoughtless eye counted well-nigh
double. And Snipeton knew this. He knew, too, that upon his
nose — h;df-way, like sentinel on the middle of a bridge — there
w:l3 a wart very much bigger than a pea, with bristles, sticking
like black pins in it. Now, this wart Ebenezer in his bachelor
days had thought of like a philosopher ; that is, he had never
thought about it. Nay, his hone}'moon had almost waned into
the Cold, real moon that was ever after to blink upon his marriage
life, ere Ebeuezer thought of his wrinkled, pouch-like cheeks ; of
his more terrible wart. And then did every bristle bum in it, as
though it was turned to red hot wire : then was he plagued, tor-
mented by the thi>ught of the wart, as by some avenging imp.
He seemed to have become all wart : to be one unsightly
e.xcrescence. The pauper world envied the happiness of Ebenezer
Snipeton : with such wealth, with such a wife, oh, what a blessed
man ! But the world knew not the torments of the wart ! And
wherefore was Ebenezer thus suddenly mortified ? We have
said, he had taken a vdfe as young, and fresh, and beautiful as
spring. And therefore, after a short season, was Ebeuezer in
misery. He looked at his wife's beimty, and then he thought of
his withered face — that felon wart ! In her veiy loveliness —
like a satyr drinking at a crystal fount — he saw liis own deformity.
Was it possible she could love him ? Tlie self-put question — and
he could not but ask it, — with her, alone, in bed, at board — that
tormenting question still would whisper, snake-voiced in his ear,
could she love him ? And his heai-t — his heart that heretofore
had been cold and blooded like a fish — would shrink and tremble,
and dare not answer. True -it was, she was obedient; too
obedient. She did his bidding promptly, humbly, as though he
had bought her for his slave. And so, in truth, he had : and
there had been a grave man of the church, grave witnesses, too,
to bind the bargain. Verily, he had bought her ; and on her

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 127

small white finger — it was plain to all -who saw her — she wore
the manacle of her purchaser.

And Ebenezer, as his doubt grew stronger — as the memory of
his outside \iglines3 became to him a daily spectre — resolved to
hide this hum!\ji ware, this pretty chattel of flesh and blood, far
away iu rustic scenes. And therefore bought he a secluded
house, half-buried amid gloomy trees — cypress and dead man's
yew — and this house, in the imp-like playfulness of his soul, he
called Dovesnest. Tliat it should be so very near the Devil's
Elbow was of no matter to Ebenezer ; nay, there was something
quaint, odd,, fantastic in the couti-ast ; a grim humom- that a little
tickled him.

And thus, reader, have we at an important moment — if this
small toy of a history may be allowed to have important moments
— thus have we paused to sketch the owner of Dovesnest ; to
digress on his bachelor confidence, and hia married modesty ; to
sjieak of his love, and of the demon ugliness — the wrinkles and
the ever-burning wart — that perplexetl it. All this delay, we
know, is a gross misdemeanour committed on the reader of
romance ; who, when two lovers meet in misery and peril, has
all his heiu-t and imderstanding for them alone ; and cares not
that the writer — their honoured parent, be it " remembered —
should walk out upon the foolscap, and without ever so much as
asking permission, V>egin balancing some peacock's feather on his
nose ; talking the while of the deep Argus' eye — pm-ple and
green and gold, glowing at the end of it ; if, indeed, it be an
Argus' eye. For ourselves, we doubt the truth of the trans-
formation. We see in the story nothing but a wicked parable,
reflecting most ungraciously on the meekness and modesty of the
last-made sex ; the straitened rib. Juno, we are told, when she
had killed Argus, took the poor fellow's eyes and fixed them for
ever and for ever on her peacock's tail. Now, what is most
unseemingly shadowed forth in this ? Wliy, a most mean,
pusillanimous insinuation that when a woman wears a most
beautiful gown, she desires that the eyes of all the world may
hang upon it. This we taJce to be the meaning of— but we are
bahmcing the feather again : and here is poor St. James bleeding
on the couch whilst — stony-hearted theorists that we are ! — we
are talking of peacocks.

Mi-s. Snipeton — (such was the name which, among the other
wrongs Ebenezer, the money-merchant, had committed upon the
young and beautiful creature who knelt at the side of St. James)
— Mrs. Snijieton — no ; it will not do. We will not meddle with
the ugly gift of her husband : we will rather owe an obligation
to her godfathei-s and godmothers.

128 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

Clarissa still knelt at the side of St. J:imes ; and even Mrs.
Dorothy Vale mar\'clled at the whiteness of her mistress's cheeks
— at the big tears that rolled from her iijiraiseil eyes — whilst her
lips moved as though in j«usMioiiate jirayer. " tJod blcsa me!"
fiuid Mrs. Vale, "f dou't think the young man's dead, but — oh,
the goodness ! what a pretty couch his wound will make ! Ha !
jx->»ple have no thought, or they 'd have taken him into the
kil< lien. He'll be woi-ae than five i)ouiul to th.it cxuoli if a
groat. You can get out anything but blood," said Mrs. Vale.
'* If it had been wine, I shouldn't have mimknl it."

" He 's dying ! Ho 's nmrdered — his blood is on my head ! "
cried Clarissa, as Mi-s. Wilton returned to the room.

" I5e tranquil ; pray be calm," s;u<l Mrs. Wilton in a tone o»
eomethinj; like command lh.it, but for tlie mi.sery ofthe moment,
could not have esc-uped Clari.s.sa ; for Mi-s. Willi )n was only house-
keeper at Dovesnest. " He will be well — quite well. I have
de.sii.itched Nicholas fur the siirge<»n ; though I think I have
skill sulKi'ient to save the fee." And this .she said in so hop<fid
a tone, th.at Clariii.-ui languidly smiled at the encouragement.
" You will leave the gentleman with me and Dorothy. We will
sit up with him."

*' No," said L*lari.sfla, with a calm determination, seating herself
near the wounded man. " No."

" Mrs. Snijwton I " crie<i the housekeeper in a tone of mixed
remonstrance :ui<l reproach.

" My husband being al>sent, it is my duty — yes, my duty " —
repo.iti'd Clariiwa, "to att«nnl to the hospitality of his house."

" Hospitality," i-ej>eatod Mrs. Wilton ; and her cold, yet anxious
eye glanced at Clarissa, who, slightly frowning, reix-Ued the look.
** Ai> you will, Mi-s. Sni{)eton — as you will, Mrs. Snijxjton," and
the housekeej>cr gave an emphasis to the conjugjil name that
made its bearer wince as at a sudden pain. " Tliere is no danger
now, I am sure," she continued ; washing the wound, whilst the
sutferer every moment breathed more freely. At length, con-
sciousness retunieil. He knew the face that looked with such
earnest pity on him.

'• Clarissa — Clarissa ! " cried St. James.

" Be silent — you must be silent," said Mrs. Wilton, with some-
what more than the authority of a nurse — " You must not speak
— indeed, you must not — you are hurt, greatly hurt, — and for
your own sake — for more than your own sake " — and the lips of
the speaker trembled and grew pale — "yes, for more than your
own siike, yovi must be silent."

" All will be well, sir," said Clarissa ; " trust me, you are in
carehil hands. The doctor will be here, and — "

ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMES. 129

"N:iy, I need none, fair lady," answered St. James; "for I
ain already in wu^eful tiauds. Indeed, I know it — feel it."

"Oh, yi>u must be siU-nt — indited vuu must," ur<;;ed Mra.
Wilton inijH-'nitiwly ; ami then she added in a voice of sorrow,
and witli a uifist troubled look, — "otherwise you know not the
danger, the misery that may In-fal you. Mrs. Snipeton," and
a^jain slio turned with anxious facv towards Clarissa, " Dorothy
and I i5in watch. "

Clarissa made no answer ; but gravely bowed her head. Mrs.
Wiltipii, sn])])n's.><ing a siirh, spokf ni> further ; but busied herself
with her patient's wound, whiLst Clarissa and St. James mutely
interclianged looks that went to the heart of the saddened, the
unheeded housekeeper.

CHAPTER XIII.

Thk hall clock had stniok five. The beauty of a .«?pring mom
ing w;ls uj>on the earth. The sun shone ijito the sick man".*
room ; green leaves mstUil at his window ; and a robin, {)erche<l
on the topnjost branch of a t:Ul holly, sang a song of thankftil
ghulness to the world. Clari.Hsji, who had watched all nlvrht,
walketl in the g;inlen. How fri«h and fidl of hope was all Jtround
her ; how the very heart of the earth seemed to beat with the
new life of spring ! And she, who was nia<le to sympathise with
all that was beautiful — she, who was formed to dwell on this
earth as in a solemn place, seeing in even its meanest things
ailornnients of a holy temjile ; vessels sacred to the 8er\'ice of
glorifying nature ; why to her, in that hour, all around w:isV>ut a
jiainted scene ; an unreal thing that with its mockery pained her
wearied heart ; yearning as it did for what lay beyond. Wlio
could have thought — who had seen that beautiful creature — that
she walkfd with death ! And yet, with no eyes, no ears, for the
lovely sights and sounds about her, she walked and talked with
the great Comforter. Her look was solemn, too ; as thougli
caught from her companion. Her eye was full and clear ; and
now gleaming strangely as with the light of another world.
And now she would press her forehead with her small thin hand,
as though to S(X)the its misery ; and now she would look clouded
and perplexed ; and now, so sweet a smile of patience would
bi eak into her face, that it was to wrong her nobleness to pity
her. And still — as we have sai<l — she talked wnth death.

St. James lay in a deep sleep. For a few moments he had
vor,. I. K

lao ST. GILES AXD ST. JAil&S.

been left alone — hia door uuclo9o«l. With wft, l>ut aii.Men step,
a man cnUre<l the a|>.irtnient. It w.is KUiiezf-r Siiii>.ton. H«
ha«l sl.'pt half-way on his jouniey from [.oii.h.n ; an<I rimii!,' »*arly
had ridden hanl that he niiyht surprise hi.H »«ditar)' wife with a
imsltaud'd smiles at l)reakf;u<t. The morning w:u» so l)«'autiful
that lU spirit ha<l ent.ri-*! even the he;irt of EU-nezi-r ; and «>,
he had ridden, for him, ver>- gaily al.ai;,'. Yes ; he was touchetl
by the season. He felt — or thoupht he felt — that there was
•ometliing under the blue »ky, jMimethin^j almortt, a« goo«l as reatly
gold. He looked with a fuvouj-able » ye ujxin th,' j>rimn>!j«'s that
lighted up the heilge-sides, and thought thera really pretty :
thought that, when all was s;ud, th.n- might really 1r' *.iue use
In tlowers. Onee, Uk), he che<-ked his hi>rse into a slow widk,
that he might listen U^) a lark that King above him, and with its
gxishing melotly made tlie sweet air thrvib. He smile*! too, grimly
smiletl, at the cunning of two mag])ios th»t, alighte«l fi-om a tall
elm, walki'd In the tvkkI, talking — though with unslit tongue** —
of their family's atTrum ; of where best to provide worms for
their little ones ; of tln-ir plum.age, sprouting daily ; of the time
when they would fly alone; and of other m.itters, j>erhai»*, too
familiar to the reader, if he be }>areutal. And £Il»ene7.er thought
nothing was so Ix-autiful as the country* ; as, in truth, other men
like Ebenezer might have th.ought at four or five in the moniing :
but then as 'Cliange hours approach, the romance failes with the
early mist ; and at 10, A.JI., the Arcatlian somehow finds himself
the scrivener. Tl«u.«. * *' - man of law — KubnrUm

lo»lged — may Infore )i .li leap with the lambkins

in the mead ; but, breakfa.st swallowed, he journeys with unaUiteil
zeal, inexorable to the |>arohment.

And EWuezer, as he riKlc, detennined henceforth to look on
everytliing with smiling eyes. Yes ; he had before always «tare<l
at the wrong side of the Lii>estrk-. He wo«ild henceforth amend
such unprofitable fxdishness. He ha<l all to make man happy ;
weidth, a lovely wife, ainl no gout. To be sure, tin-re were a few
things of former times that — well, he would hope there v/as time
enough to think of thein. Of them, when the time came, he
would repent ; and that, t<x>, mt*8t vehenn-ntly. And ») Elx-nczer
forgot his wrinkled face ; almost forgot the wart upon his nose.
And Clarissa loved him ? Of coui-se. It was not her nature to
W impetuous : no, she was mild and nun-like ; he had chosen
her for those rare qualities, but she lovetl him as a meek and
modest gentlewoman ought to love her hush>and. This sweet
eimviction brought Ebenezer to his court-yard door. It wjw
oj>en. Well, there was nothing strange in that. Xichola.s, of
ec'Urse, was up ; and yet — where was he ? Ebenezer's heart

ST. GILES AND .ST. JAMES. l?.l

sermcrt to fjill fatlioius ; to drnp in liis hody, like a plummet. In
a muiueiit, the e^irth was tli.-.i-ucli.iuti"(l. Tliej-e, Wtoie tlie eyes
of Elx-nezer, stood Ebenozer withered, with the bri&tlcd Wiirt
bij;>,'iT tlian ever ii|Min hin iiosu- ; in his sudilon despair, he saw
Lis bad giftiJ ma>j^nilie<l. And there wjus soniething, too, about
the house that looked suspiciou.s. The windows seemed to leer
at hiiii. Tiie old hoU8<.*-<lo;; rrawled towanl.s him, with no wa^
in his tiiil. The sparrows ehirjRd mockin^dy. The house now
Kxjkeil aa though it held a (X)q)«e — and now, as though deserted.
Kbenezer held his breath and Ibtem-d. lie heard nothing —
nothing. And now, far, far aw:iy, from a thick, nig)it-<lark wt.od,
the eiukiM» sliouled. Ela-nezer j>;i.>wed int<j the court -yard, ami
eiitereil his silent house. In a few moments he stood beside the
couch of tlie sleeping 8t. .Taines.

A ttrrilile djirkne.ss fill u|xin the old man's face as he gaze<l
at the patieut. A tumult, an agony of heait was raging within
him, and he Blnx>k like a reed. Still he \*7u< silent ; silent and
struggling to master the fury that jK>8se»!*ed him. He breathed
heavily ; anti then seatitl himself in a chair, and still with the
eyea of u ghost looked on the sleejjer. Devilish thoughts passed
through the old man's brain: nmnler wliL-jKrcd in hi.s ear, and
still he fiercely smiled :uul listeimi. With his live fingers he
could do it — strangle the disturLter in his sleep. And the old
man luoked at his hands and chuckleii. And u<'W there is a quick
sleji in the pas.s;ige ; and iiuw, L'lari.'«a eiitere the apartment.

" Dear sir ! busliaud," at length she uttere<l.

Sudilenly stjinding statue-like, the old man with pointing figure,
'ami fien.'e accusing face, a-skeil '" Who is this i"

Ere Clari.<sa could answer, h;isty feet were heanl in the hall,
anil Mi-s. Wilton entere<i the room, followed by a thick-set man,
with a red, round, uily face, and his hair matted with stale
jHjwder. He was dress«.il in a very brown black coat, that
scarcely looked made for him ; with buckskin breeches, and high
riding l>oot8. Under one arm he carried a thick-thonged whip ;
and in his right hand, [)rumiuently held forth, as challenging the
eyes of all men, a rusty beaver. " Couldn't come before — very
surr\', but it always is so ; those paupers — I 'm sure of it, it's
like 'em — they always do it on purpose. It 's a part of the wicked
obstinacy of the poor, <uid 1 don't know, sir, whether you've
obsenp'ed it ; but the poor aie always obstinate — it 's in 'em from
the begiimint,'. I 've not brought so manv into the world — the
more mv ill-luck — without kuowint' their wickedness trom the
tirst."' Thus spoke, in high, brassy voice, Mr. Peter Crossbone —
unconsciously flattered by the jjoor as Doctor Crossbone — paiish
doctor ; who, when sought for at his liuuse by Niohuhis, was fo'ir

K 2

132 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

miles away, summoned to assi.st tlie introduction of another
])auper baby into tliis over-stocked, and therefore pauperised
plauet. Wliat Mercurj', Venus, and other respectable ]>lanets
Tnu.st think of this our reckless, disreputable mother earth — this
•wiirkhou.se planet, the shame and reproach of all better systems —
it is not for a son of earth to say. But, surely, if Mercury, Venus,
ami others km.w anjlhing of our goings on, they mu.st now and
then look down uj>on us with inetfable scorn : at least, they ought.
And yet, they do not ; but with all our sins and all our foolish-
no<w, still beam upon us, with eyes of love and tenderness.

'llie voice of Crossbone immediately awakened the patient.
Crossboue liad, however, in liia time sent so many patients to
sleej), that he micht fairly l)e ^K^rmitted occasionally to di.>4turb a
shimWrer. St. James, oK'-.trvinj; Sni|ieton, rose up hastily, and
with his blood burning in his face, w.xs about to speak.

** You must be quiet, 8U\ Mrs. Wilton has told me all that a
mere woman can know of your case, and — I am sorry to say it to
you, sir," — and here Croa.sbune shook liLs hrad, and heaved a
laborious sigh — " 1 'm sorry to say it, you must be very quiet."

"But, Mr. Snii)etou," cried St. James, "|>ermit me even now
to explain — "

" The doctor says, no," answered Snipeton, and his lip curled,
'• you must be quiet. There will be time for us to talk, when
your wounds are healed. For the present, we will leave you with
your .surgeon." And Snijietoii, looking command at his wife,
(juitted the room, followed Viy his obetlient, trembling helpmate.

" Phwegh ! " cried Cro.s.sbone, }X)sst8.sing liimself of liLs p.itient'a
wrist, '■ a nice-hoi-se pulse ; a mile a miimte. Fever, very high.
I.(et me look at your tongue, sir : don't laugh, sir — pray don't
laugh " — for St. .Tames w;us already tittering at the solemnity of
Crossbone — " a doctor is the last man to be laughed at."

" That 's true indeed : I never before felt the force of that
truth," said St. James.

'• Your tongue, sir, if you please ? " St. James, mastering his
mirth, displayed that organ.

" Ha ! Humph ! Tongue like a chalk-pit. This, sir," and here
Crossbone instinctively thrust both liis hands into his jwckets,
'• this will be a long bout, sir — a very long bout."

" I thuik not — I feel not," said St. James, smiling. " Tis
nothing — a mere nothing."

" Ha, sir 1 " cried Crossbone. " 'Tis pleasant — droll, some-
times — to hear what people caXL nothing ; and in a few days,
they're gone, sir; entirely gone. But I'll not alarm you — I
liave had woi-se cases — uevertlieless, sii", a man with a hole in hi»
akull, 6uch a hole as that " — and here Crossbone tightly closed

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 133

lis eyeliils, and yave a shaiT), short sluike of the head — "but I '11
cot al.ina you. Still, sir, if you 've auy little affairs to make
stniight — there's a jewel of a law'j'er only five miles off, the
prettiast Land at a will — "

" I '11 not trouble him this bout, doctor," said St. James, who
saw as clearly into Crossbone, as thuuj^h, like Momus' man, he
•wore a pane of the best plate-glass in his bosom. " I have every
faith in you."

" Sir, the confidence is flattering : and I think between us, we
may clieat the worms. Nevertheless, it 's an ugly blow — the
eighth of an inch more to the right or loft, and — "

" I know what you would say," cried St. James. " Blows are
generally dealt after that Cushion ; there 'a great good luck iu
*em. The faculty are often much iudebtod to the eighth of an
inch, more or less."

" You muiit not talk, sir : indeed, you must not, delighted as
otherwise I should be to hear you. — Yes : now I see the whole of
the niiscliief : now I am thoroughly possessed of the matter,"
ajul Crossbone lookeil with an air of considerable satisfaction at
the wound. " 'Twill be a tedious, but a beautiful case. Pray,
sir, should you know the ruffian who has nearly deprived the
world of what I am sure will be — with a blessing on my jxjur
assistiuice " — and here Crossbone softly closed his hands and
bowed — " one of its noblest ornaments } Should you know the
wretch ? "

" I don't know — perhaps — I can't ftay," answered St. James,
carelessly.

" When you see him, no doubt ? And I am delighted to inform
you the villain is secured. With the blessing of justice he '11 be
hanged ; which will be a gi-eat consolation to all the neighbour-
hood. Yes ; I heaixl it till, as I came along. The ruffian, Avith
your blood upon his hands, was taken at the Lamb and Star —
taken with a purse of gold in his pocket. His execution will be
a holiday for the whole country ;" and Crossbone spoke as of a
coming jubilee.

" Taken, is he ? " cried St. James, with a vexed look. " I 'm
sorry fur it. Come, doctor, I must leave this to-day. My hurt is
but a trifle ; but I can feel, can appreciate your professional
tenderness. I must make towards London this very morning."

" Humph I Well, sir, we '11 talk about it ; we '11 see what 's to
be done ;" said Crossbone, with sudden melancholy at the resolute
manner of his head -strong patient. '' Nevertheless, you must let
me di-ess your wound, and then take a little potion that I '11 make
up for you, and then — we shall see." Hereupon, St. James placidly
resigned himself to the hands of Ci'ossboue, who very leisurely

131 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

ilrcst the wouiul, ugain aiul again ileclaiuig ihat the patient Wiia
only on tliis aide vf the grave by the eighth of an ineh. There
nevt-r hail been a skull so curiously brokcu. At length, Crasa-
boue took his leave of the sufferer, with the benevolent juwurance
that he woiilil nmkc up something nice f(»r him ; of which the
p.iticnt rillt'ntly ilL-termintil not to swallow a drop.

" Well, doctor ? " asked Snipcton, with a savage leer, as Crosa-
bone p;uvsi-d into the h;dl, — '* how is his loixlship now ? "

" lA>rdship I " exchume<l Crossboiie, now Itjokiug woudenueut,
and now smirking — " is he really a lord ? Bless me ! "

" I low Is he, nuui ? " cried Suipeton, fiercely.

" Hu-nh ! Mr. Snii)eton — hush, we ciu»'t Udk here ; for 1 've a
great responsibility — I feel it, a great resjK)nsiliility — hu.sh, my
cleiu* sir — hush ! " and CrossUme troil silently as though he walked
ou felt, and lifting hia tinger with an air of profi-ssional command,
he Iml SnijK>t<)n into an adjoining aj»;u-tment, where s;it Clari.-<H;»,
jKile and motionless. Here SnijM?t<^>u exjHX'tcd an answer to his
question ; but Crt>sslH>n<-, raLsing his evi-s juid his clu.sed h.uids —
M favoiuite gesture with him when deeply move*l — only said,
" and lie is a lord ! "

" Well, lonls die, don't they ? " aske<l Snipeton, with a sneer.

"Why" — Crossbone unconsciously hesitated — "yes. And,
between ourselves, Mr. Suipeton, — I can si»eak confidently on the
matter, having the gentleman in my hands, he is" — Croesboue
gave a kuell-like emphasis to every syllable — " he is in very great
diuiger."

" Indeed ? " cried old Suipeton, and a smile lighted up hia
withereil face, and he looked intently at his wife, as her hand
uncon.sciously gi-asj>«;d her chair. " indeed ] " repeated the old
man very blithely.

" Your imrdou, for a minute, my good sir," said the ap*^)thecar}*.
" I '11 just send thus to my assistant — your man Nicholas must
mount and gallop— for there's a life, a verj- deiir life to the
country no doubt, dejiendiug on it." And Crossbone proceeded
to write his sentence in his best bad Latin.

Chu-issa felt that her husband's eye w.is upon her ; yet sat she
statue-like, with a terrible calmness in hei* pale face. The old
man, his heart stung by scoi-pion jealousy, gazed on her with
Biivage satisfaction. And she knew this : and still was calm,
tr;aniuil as stone. She felt the hate that fed upon her misery,
yet slirauk not from its tooth.

" Mi-s. Wilton," said Crossbone, as the housekeeper timidly
entered the room, " you '11 give this to Nicholas — tell him to gallop
with it to my assistant, Mr. Sims ; and, above all, let him take
owe of the medicine, for there 's life and death — a lord's life and

♦ ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES, ISS

death in it," said the doctor, uucouacious of the probable truth he
Utter tnl.

" Ami his Ictnlshiji," said old Siiipeton, gently rubbing his hands,
" his lordship is in very jrrvat daiii,'er ? "

" Tlie fact iw, ^f r. Snipetou, there are men — I blush to say it,
who belong to our glorious jirofeswion — there are men who always
magnify a c;ise that they may mai^'nify their own small abilities,
their next-to-uolhing talent, in the treatment of it. I need not
say that Peter Crossbone is not such a man. Rut this, sir, I will
say; tliat every week of my life I do such thini.'s here in the
couiilry — hedge-side practice, sir, nothing niojv ; hedge-side
practice ; — sueh things that if any one of 'em was done in Ijondon,
tliat one would lift me into my carriage, and give me a ame with
ten pound.s' worth of virgin g"ld u]>on it. But, sir, uo man cjvu
culiiv,'\U' a reputation among pau|»er9. It's uo matter what cure
you make ; they 're thought thiugs of course ; paupers are ktiuwni
to stand anything. Why there was a cxse of hip-joint I had —
there never w;»s so sweet a ciuse. If that hipjoint had been a
lord's, aa I say, I ought to have stepix'd from it iutu my carriage.
iJut it was a cow-boy's, sir ; a wretched cow-boy's ; a lad very
evilly-<Usixised — very: he'll be hiuiged, I've no doubt, — and, sir,
Lsn't it a dreadful thing to consider, that a man's genius — a case
like that — shovdd go to the gallows, and never be heard of ? I
put it to you, sir, isn't it drea<lful I "

Snipetou grunted something that Cruesbone took as an affirma-
tive ; and, thus encouraged, procee<led. " Ha, sir ! how different
is London pnictice among people who really are peo])le ! What 's
th;it, sir, to the — yes, I must say it — to the disgrace of being a
jijirish doctor f Now, sir, the man — the man-midwife, sir, in a
projK-r walk of society, feels that he is nobly employed. He 's
bringing duke^s and lord-s into the world ; he's what I call culti-
vating the lilies, that, as they say, neither toil nor spin : that 's a
plt^asure — that 's an honour — that 's a delight. But what does a
I>;irish man-midwife do, sir ? W'hy, he brings paupers upon the
earth : he does nothing but cultivate wee*ls, sir — weeds : and if
he is a man of any feeling, sir, he can't but feel it as a thing
beneaXh him. Mr. Snipetou, I 'm almost ashamed of myself to
declare, that within these eight-aud-furty hours I 've brought three
more weeds into the world.''

" Humjih :" said Snipeton.

" And, a^ a man who wishes well to his countrj', you may guess
my feeliiigs. How different, now, with the man who practises
among people who, as I say, are people ! A beautiful high-life
baby is born. The practitioner may at once be proud of it. In
its first little squeal he hears the voice, as I may say, of the

ISC ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. •♦

HouBe of I>^nla. In its little )ita<l he sets, if I may l»c allowwl to
use the expression, the ovaria of acta of j>ui liaTuent ; for he 's a
boni lawmaker. Ahout its little, kiokin;,', rul leg, he already
beholil.i the nmst noble Onler of the CJarttT. Nl»w, sir, this is
><onu'tliini,' to make a man jimud of hi.s Jvin<iiwork : birt, sir, what
is the rerte'^tion of the f»ari»h doctor ? He never wurka for hh*
eonntry. No; wh he li«>ks xjjmn a Imhy — if he'.s any fei-liti'j^
worthy of a man — he must feel \.h?.i he's lin)nghl «/ nindj oiVnl
into the world. He Kx'ks \ijnm a head which is to hare nothing
put into it ; nothinij, p»Tha|>s, Itut H<'«iition and n'T>rHi</n, and all
that iuf;imy, Heseos little tin^'ers that are h>jm — ye.s, sir, Ujiti —
to .<»«'t wires for hares ; and the fact is, if, as I say, the man has
feelinfjs, he fei-ls that he's an abott4:>r of punching, and all soi-ts of
wickwhiess ; — of wirk'-^lncns that at hust — and it '3"^ery ri;,dit rt
shonid l»e so — at hust takes the rreatnn- to the fjallows. Now, sir,
isn't it a dn-adfnl thinp for a n»an— for a pn>f«'H.'<ional man, for a
man who luu* h.id a deal of money s[>«iit nfx>n his e«liH"at ion— isn't
it a dreadful tliinj; for liini to know fli;»t he may }yv only a sort <4
pur%-eyor to tho fallows ? I feel the wrong, sir ; feel it, acutely,
here ;" and f'n>ssI>one taj'jH-d his left side with }/is f »re-fiii<rer.
" I know that I 'm an aheitor to a crjinj; t-\il, ffin/,' kliont as I
do, brining wetnls into the worhl : bnt I «in*t he)p it, it's my
business: neverthelww I feel it. Something ouglit to 1* done to
put a.st<iptoit : I'm not |H.liti<ian enonijh to say what ; Imt nidesH
»omethini» *s dfnie. all I kn(.>w t:< thU, the wet^ls will cwt^iiinly over-
grow the Hliea."

" And your patient, his j^dlant and .■vmiable loniship," saiil
SnijKJton, still eyein-,' his wife, "is in danger ?"

" Great danger," answered CVussbone. " Nevertheless, with a
blessing— understand me. Mr. Srirp<.-ton, with a blessing, for how-
ever wontlrons mycnn', I hoj>e I hare n^rt the p^e^^^mf<iun to take
it all to myself — no, I trust, without offence be it said, to some
practitioners I could name, that I have some religion — therefore,
with a Messing, his lordship nuiy Ix; set npon his legs. Bnt it will
be a long job, a veri' long job ; and he mustn't V;e removed. Ju.'Jt
now, he 'a in a slight delirium ; talket) abont travelling towanl.s
London this vcr>- day. 'Twould be death, air ; certain death."'
And Crossl»one blew his nose.

" Indeed ! Certain death ? " repeated Snii)eton, smiling grimly ;
and still watching the face of his wife. " I fear — I me;in I hope
— Mr. Crossbone, that your anxiety for so ffiod, so haiKlsome a
young man — a nobleman too — may, without any real cause,
increase your fears. For, as yon aay, we ought to be anxious for
the lilies."

" I 'd have given the worth of— of — I don't know what — could

ST. GILES AND ST. J.\MES. 137

I have been here before. Two or three hours earlier might have
luaile all the lUtTereiice ; f<>r his lor.lship h:i8 great nervous irrita-
bility ; is most wuiuierfully ami delicately strung. But I was
away, aa I say, producing the weeds, sir. Yes, I 've ridden I' ni
ashamed to own liow m.'iny miles since ten o'clock la.st night ; and
what 's my reward, sir ] What, aa pai-isli doctor and midwite, is
my consolation ? Why this, sir ; that I 've helped to bring misery
iunl w!uit, and I don't know how m:uiy other sorts of vices into the
world, when I might — f<jr without vanity I will say it — when I
might have l)een employed for the future honour and glory of my
country. Ha, Mr. Sni|>etou, liappy is the professional man who
hiboui-fi among the lilies ! Sweet is his satisfaction ! Now, sir,
when 1 ride home early in the nioniing — for the jiarish jx'Ojile, aa
I say, always make a |xjiut of knocking a man up at the most ud-
Bejisonable hour ; they ilo it on pur]K(se, sir, to show the ]>ower they
Lave over you — now, sir, when 1 "m riding home, m hat s my feel-
ings t Why, sir, as a lover of my country, there 's s^imething in
my brejist that won't let me feel liappy and comfortable. There 's
something that continu.ally reproaches me with liaving heljH'd to
aild to the incumbr.uice of the nation : as I sjiy, that distre.s.ses me
with the thought that I've been cultivating weeds, sir, nothing but
weeds. Now a job like the present I look ujx)n aa a reward for
my j>ast misfortunes. It is a beautiful case !"

" Because so full of djiuger ] " said Suipetou, still looking at liis
p'lle and silent wife.

" It is imjx)ssible that a blow could have been stnick more
favourably for a skilful surgeon. The sixteenth part of an inch,
sir, more or less on one side or the other, and that young man
must have been a very handsome corjise."

Suipoton made no answer ; but with clenched teeth, and sup-
pressed breatli, still glared at his wife. Passion sho<jk him, yet
he Controlled it ; liis eyes still upon the pale face that every
moment grew whiter. Another instant, and Clarissa fell back in
her chair, speechless, motionless. Her husband moved not, but
groaned despairingly.

" Fainted ! " cried Ci'ossbone. " Call Mrs. AVilton," and at the
same moment the housekeeper appeared. With anguish in her
look she hastened to her mistress. "Nothing, nothing at all,"
said the apothecary ; and then, with a smirk towartls Suipeton,
" notJiiug, my dear sii-, but what "s to be expected."

" She 's woi-se, sir — much worse, I fear, than you suppose,"
said Mrs. Wilton, and she trembled.

'' I tliiuk, ma'am," rejdied Crossbone with true pill-box dignity,
" I think I ought to know how ill a lady is, and how ill she ought
to be. Have you no salts — no water, in the house ]"

lUS ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMliS.

" I shall he better — in a monieut, WtU-r," nauX Clarwaa fiwbly,
and tlieii griLsjiiii;; tlio anu of Mrs. Wilt<>n, she athliil, " lielp rne
to my room." Site iIr-u rose with an ell'ort, ami sn|»jK)rte(l by the
housekeeper, quittetl the apartment. And still her husband fol-
loweothecary.

" In the name of the liends," crietl Snij>eton, fiercely, " where-
fore, with that nionkt-y face, do yr»u grin at me ?"

" My dear sir," said (."rosslwrie, smiling still more Ixiboriously,
" my dear sir, you 're a happy man ! "

" Happy !" cried Snipeton, io a hoarae voice, and with a look of
doopost misery — " Happy ! "

" Of course. You ought to be. What more delightful thaii
the hope of — eh ? — a growing comfort to your declining years —
a staff, as the snyini: i.s, to your old age ? "

The mystic meaning of the aiH)thi'cary fla-sheil ujxm the hus-
Imnd ; the old man shook, as though ague-stricken, and covering
hi.s fare with his hand.s, lie fell heavily as leail into a chair.

Mr. Cro»slH>ne was silent in hi^t astonishment. He looked won-
deringly alx)Ut him. Waa his practice to be bo greatly enlarge<l
in one day ? Could it l)e possible that Snii>etou, a man who wore
like oak, cmld be ill ? .Siii|>eton, to be sure, was not, to Cro8»-
boiie's thought, a lily jvitient ; but then, how very far was he
aliove the weetls ! The ajwthecary was al>out io feel Snij>eton's
pul.se ; had the professional fingers on the wrist, when the old
man snatched his anu away, and that with a vigour that well
nigh CArrieil Croasboue off his legs. The apothecary was about to
pay some equivocal compliment to the old gentleman's strength,
wlien Nicholas, flustere«l, with a startling piece of news, ran iu
with the meilicine duly comjxiunded by Mr. Sims.

" They was bringing the munlerer to the house, tliat the gen-
tleman " — for Nicholas knew not the sufferer was a lord —
" miglit Mentify the bloodspiller af«>re he dietl."

And Nichohus repeated truly what he had heard. Rumour had
travelled — and she rarel}' goes so fast as when dniwn by lies — to
the Lamb and SUar. And there — not stopping to alight — she
hallooed into the gaping ears of the landlady the terrible intelli-
gence that the young gentleman almost murdered la-st night, lay
at Dovesnest ; that his wound was mortal ; that he was dying
fiust ; that he had already made his \n\l, Dorothy Vale and
Ebenezer Snipetou having duly witnessed it. Tliis new.s, sooner
than smoke, tilled every comer of the house. Great was the stir
throughout the Lamb and Star. Tipjjs, the constable, on the
instant, wore a more solemn look of authority ; on the instant,
Bummoned St, Giles to prepare for his removal, at the sams time

ST. GILE3 AND ST. JAMES. 139

cautiously feeling the liandcutra to learu if they still remained
true to their tioist. The Icirher left a pedlar half-shaved to
afconqtaiiy llie i)arty ; and m a few luiuutes the horse \v:us put to
the cart ; and^St. Giles, who sjxike not a syllable, was seated in
it hetween Tip]>s and tlie landlord, Mr Blink having donned his
Sunday coat and waisteoat, that he might jjay j)roper respect to
the solemnity ; whilst the barber, gi-.wping a cuilgel, guarded the
culprit from behind. "Stop! hhall I take the blunderbuss, for
fear ! " lusked the huuUord of Tijjps, and eyeing St. Giles. " No,"
answered the constable, smiling coiilidently and looking atfec-
tiouately at the ununiole, " no ; them dear cutis never deceived
lue yet." Crack went the whip — away started the horse ; and
Tipp.s, the landlord, and the bjul>er, looked about tluMU freshly,
happily ; smiling gaily in the moniing suu — g:uly as though they
were carrying a sheep to market — ay, a sheep with a golden
fleece.

And the huidUidy watcluHl the whirling wheels, and with heart-
warm wish (jKx>r soul !) wi.-^heil that the wretch miglit V>e hanged,
ye.s, fifty feet high. And Ix-cky, the maid, in lier deep ])ity,
braving the tongue of her mistres.^, stood sobbing in the road, and
tiien, a.s suddenly insj)ired, plucked otf one of her old shoes,
anil tiling it after St. Giles, with kindly su]>erstition as she sjiid
fur luck. '• For she kuow'd it, and could swear it ; the jx>or
ci-etur's hands wjis as iimocent of blood as any babby's." Foolish
Bw.'ky ! By such presvunptuoiis i>ity — a pity, :i3 Mrs. Blink
tliought, flying in the face of all respectability, did you fearfully
risk the place of maid-of-ali-work at a hedge-side hotel ; a place
worth a certain forty shillings a year, besides the complimentary
half-pence.

Keturn we to Nicholas. Ere Snipeton and Crossbone were well
jx^ssessed of the news, the cart drove up before the window. " And
there is the murderer ! " cried Crossbone. " Bless me ! there 'a
no need at sJl to try that man — there 's every letter of Ciiiu all
over the villain's face. A child at the hom-b<X)k might sj>ell it.
And now they 're going to bring him in. Ha ! my tine fellow,"
added the apothecary, as St. Giles alighted ; " there 's a ciut you
won't get into so quickly, I can tell you. What a bold looking
villain ! "With so much blood upx)n him, too ! A lord's blood,
and to look so brazenly ! What do you think, 3[r. Snipeton ? "

Now, Snipeton was not a man of overflowing chainty, yet, oddly
enough, he looked at St. Giles with placid eyes. The old man,
to the scandal of Crossbone, merely said, " Poor fellow ! He looks
in sad plight. Poor fellow ! "

In a few moments, Tipps, the constable, was shown to the
presence of the master of Dovesnest. " He was very sorry to

14C ST. GILES AND ST. JAME3.

make a hubbub in his honour's house, but as the gentleman was
dying, there was no time to be lost afore he swore to the murderer.
Sam, from the Lamb and Star, had gone off to the justice to tell
Lira all about it, and in a jiffy Mr. Wattles wouUl be there."

" I think," observed Crossbone, " I think I had better see how
my distinguished patient is." With this, the apothecary, making
himself up for the important task, softly quitted the room.

" And you 're sure you have the right man ? " asked Snipeton
of the constable.

" Never made a blunder in all my life, sir," answered Tipps,
with a mild pride.

" Mr. Justice Wattles," cried Nicholas, big with the words, and
showing in the magistrate.

" Mr. Snipeton," said Wattles, " this business is — "

But the Justice was suddenly sto|)ped by the doctor. Crossbone
rushed in, slightly pale and much agitated, exclaiming, " The
patient 's gone ! "

" Not dead ! " cried Snipeton, erultingly, and nibbing his hands.

" Dead 1 no ! But he 's gone — left the house — vanished ; — come
and see ! " Crossbone, followed by all, rushed to the room in
which, some minutes before, lay the murdered St. James.

He was gone I All were astonished. So great was the surjjrise,
not a word was spoken ; until Dorothy Vale, who had crept into
the room, with her cold, calm voice, addressed the apothecaiy.
Pointing to the stains in the couch, she sjiid, " If you please, sir
can you give me nothing to take out that blood ? "

CHAPTER XIV.

And now," thinks the reader, " St. Giles is free. Tliere is
no charge against him ; lie is not the murderer men, in hie
wretchedness, took him for. St. James, with his injuries upon
him, has withdrawn himself ; and once again the world lies wide
before St. Giles." Not so. Tliere still remains, to his confusion,
a hard accuser. St. Giles is destitute. In the teeming, luxurious
county of Kent, amidst God's promises of plenty to man, he is a
guilty interloper. He may not grasp a handful of the soil, he
cannot purchase one blade of wheat ; he is a pauper and a vagrant ;
a foul presence in the world's garden, and must therefore be
punished for his intrusion. Every rag he carries is an accusing
tongue : he is destitute and wandering : he h;is strayed into the
pai'adise of the well-to-do, and must le sharply reproved for his

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. lit

whereabout. Aud therefore St. Giles will be committed for a
season to the county gaol, as a rogue and vagabond. The roguery
is not proved upon him, but it has been shown that whilst decent
peoi^le have goose-beds and weather-proof chambers, he, at the
best, has straw and a barn. It is, too, made a misdemeanor
against mother eai-th to sleep upon her naked breast, with only
the heavens above the sleeper ; and as St. Giles had often so
oifended — he could not deny the iniquity — he was, we say, com-
mitted to gaol by Justice Wattles, as rogue and vagabond. Now,
to punish a man for having nothing, is surely a sport invented by
Beelzebub for the pleasure of the rich ; yes, to whip a rascal for
his rags is to pay tiattering homage to cloth of gold. Nothing
was proved agauist St, Giles but want ; which, being high treason
against the majesty of property, that large oflence might be
reasonably supposed to contain every other.

" Something, I 've no doubt, will be brought against him,"
said Justice Wattles ; " in the mean time, he stands committed
as a rogue and vagabond." And Tii)ps, the constable, led away
his prisoner, preceded by the host of the L;uiib aud Star ; whilst
the dispirited barber very dolorously expressed his disappoint-
ment, " that he left his business and all, and only for a ragamuffin
as wasn't worth salt ! If he hadn't thought him a murderer,
he 'd never have troubled his head with such rubbish." " No,
aud you 'd never have had my cart," said the landlord to Tipps.
" I thought the fellow would turn out somebody ; and he 'a
nothing but a vagrom. Come up ! " cried the Lamb and Star ;
and sharply whipping his horse to ease his own bad temper, he
di'ove oft", the bai'ber vainly hallooing for a seat in the vehicle.
AV^hereupon, Constable Tipps, casting a savagely inquiring look
at St. Giles's handcutfs, with an oath bade his prisoner move on,
and then railed at his own particular planet, that had troubled
him with such varmint.

Nevertheless, although St. Giles's hands were white, murder
had done its worst. As yet none, save the homicide, already
blasted with the knowledge, knew of the deed. How lovelil}^ the
sun shone ; how beautiful all things looked and beamed in ita
light ; the lark sang, like a freed spirit, in the dome of heaven :
and yet, beneath it, lay a teriible witness of the guilt of man ; a
mute and bloody evidence of another Cain ! St. Giles, however,
was on his way to the coimty gaol, ere the deed was discovered.
Not willing to give an account of himself, he was committed to
imprisonment and hai'd labour in jjunishment of his destitution.
That he was not in addition wliipped for his poverty, testified
strongly to the injudicious clemency of Justice Wattles. Such
mercy went far to encourage rags and tatters.

142 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

Leave we for a while the desolate home of Dovesnest. Leave
we that miserable old man, Snipeton, writhing at his hearth ;
now striving to seek for hope, for confidence, in the meek and
wretched face of his wife, and now starting at her look as at
a dagger's point.

A few hours had passed, and again the Ijarab and Star was a
scene of tumult. And this time, there was no d(Hibt of the
atrocity. It was now impo.saible that the worthy folks, assembled
iu the hostelry, could be tricked into useless .symjiathy. There wjia
now no doubt th.it a man was killed ; and if St. Giles had escaj>ed
the charge of former homicide, why such escape only the more
strongly proved his guilt of the new wickedness. " He '11 be
hanged, after all!" cried the landlord, with the air of a man
foretasting an enjoyment. " The villain I Ke was born for the
gibbet," said the barber ; " if I wouldn't walk over glass bottles
to sec him hanged, I 'm not a Christi.on." Whilst the barber and
others were thus vehemently declaiming their Christi;uiity, there
arrived at the Lamb and Stjir a most important j>crson. Up to
that hour, he had been a nislic of average insigniticance ; but he
suddenly ftiund himself a creature of considerable interest — a
man, heartily welcomed, as a boon and a trwisure. Tliis happy
man was one Pye6nch ; and was known to the surrounding
country as a mole-catcher of tolerable p;irts. It was he who had
<iiscovere<l the body of the murdercil man : and had he discovere<l
some great blessing to the human family, it is very questionable
whether he would have been so heartily welcomed by many of its
members. It had, however, been his good fortune — for we must
still C'lll it 80 — to light uy»on the body of Farmer Willis, bloody
and stark in his own meadow ; and again and again was he
pressed to rehearse the tale, whilst mugs of ale rewarded the
etory-teller. Instantly was Pyefmch fjisteneil ujkju by Mi>. Blink,
and it was hard to deny such a woman anjihing. After short
preparation, did the mole-catcher — stimulated by malt and hops
— begin his terrible history,

" Why, you see, it was in this manner," said Pj-efinch. " I was
a goin' along by Cow Meadow, 'bout four in the momin' wi' my
dog Tliistle, just to look arter the snares. Cruel sight of varmint
there be along that meadow to be sure. Well, I was a thinking
of nothing — or what I was a thinking on, for I scorns a lie, is
nothin' to nobody. Well, goin' along in this manner. Thistle
running afore me, and ahind me, and a both sides o' me — "

" Never mind, Thistle," cried the landlady, " come to the
murder, Tom."

'• A.x your pardon, missus. I shall have to tell all this story at
'sizes ; I know what theoi chaps, the lawyers be, to bother a poor

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. Ui

man who 's no scholaa-d ; so I 've made my mind up, never to tell
the story ; but after one way ; then I "m cocksure not to be caught
off my legs nohow." And Pyefinch drank, doubtless, to his own
sagacity.

" Very right, Tom," cried the landlord ; and then he turned
with knit eyebrows to hia wife. " Be quiet, will you ? like all
women ; want the kernel without cracking the nut. Be quiet."
And Blink gave a conjugal growl. " Go on, Tom."

" As I was a sjiying," continued the mole-catcher, " Tliistle
was a niiining afore me, and ahind me, and a both sides o' me —
and barking as though he wished he could talk ; just to say, how
comfortable he felt, now that the spring was come — for depend
upon it, dumb creturs have their notions of spring just as well
as we — well, where w;w I ? "

" Thistle was b;u-king," prompted the landlady, fidgetting and
castuig about impatient looks.

" To be sure he was. "Well, all on a sudden he hold his tongue :
he was then a goo<l way on afore me, down in the j>itch o' the
field. I thought nothing o' that ; when on a sudden he give cry
agin, but quite a different bark to t'other. That didn't stagger
me, neither ; for I thought he 'd lit on a hedgehog ; and of all
varmint o' the earth. Thistle hates a hedgehog ; ha ! woi-se than
pison, that he do. Well, arter a while, Thistle runs up to me.
You should ha' seen that dog," cried the mole-catcher, rising bolt
from his seat, " his face was as full o' sense as any Christian's :
his eyes ! if they didn't bum in 's head like any blacksmith's
coals ; and his jaw was dropt as if he couldn't shut it, it were so
^ stiff wi' wunder — and all his hairs ujwn his back right away down
to the end o' his tail stood up like hedge-stakes — and he looked
at me, as much as to say — ' what do you think ? ' "

" Bless us, and save us ! " cried the landlady, wondering at the
discrimination of the doe.

" I ditln't make him no answer," said the mole-catcher, " but
walks on arter him, he looking behind him now and then, and
shaking his head sometimes terrible, until T come to the pitch o'
the field ; and there — oh. Lord ! " Here Pj'efinch seized the
mug, and, emptjTng it, was newly strengthened. " There, I saw
Master Willis in his best clothes — and you know he was always
particlar like in them matters — there I saw him, as at first I
thought, fast asleep, looking so blessed happy, you can't think,
Howsumever, Thistle puts his nose to the gr;iss, and sets up sich
a howl, and then I sees a pool of blood, and then I run away as
fast as legs 'ud carr\' me, right away to the farm. Well, they 'd
never looked for Master Willis. They'd thought he 'd stayed at
Canterbury all night ; and there he was, poor soul ! killed like a

144 ST. GIL!^S AND ST. JAME=^.

sheep in his o-^Ti field. Terrible, i.sn't it ? and Pyefinch presented
the empty mug to the landlady, who, the tale being told, set the
vessel down again.

" It 's the smugglers as has done it," cried Becky. " They owed
him a grudge since autumn, when he found their tubs among Lid
corn ; it 's the smugglers, as I 'm a sinner."

" The smugglers ! — poor souls ! " — said Mrs. Blink, who, though
a licensed dealer in spirits, had, strangely enough, a large sym-
pathy for contraband tradei-s ; '" they wouldn't hurt a lamb. It "s
that villain that slept in the bam ; and I only hope that you,
Miss Trollop, knew nothing of the business."

" Me ! " exclaimed Becky, " me know anything ! " Had it been
any other than her mistress, Becky would have been too happy
to vindicate the strength and Aolubility of her tongue. The
woman rose strongly ■within her, and tempted her to speak : but
she thought of her forty shillings per annum ; and so the woman
railed not, but cried.

'* -A nd how does Master Robert take it ? " cried the landlord.

" Why, wondei-ful, considering," said the mole-catcher. " A
little dashed at first, in course."

" And he that was so merry, too, at the dance ! Well, it is a
world to live in," moralised the barber. " He stood ale all round,
and little thought that he 'd no uncle. He danced with every gal
above stairs, and never dreamed o' what was going on in Cow
Meadow. He '11 have the old man's land o' course ? Poor soul !
He '11 feel it if anybody do."

" Wakes and fares won't be no worse for Master Robert," said
the landlord. " That is, supposing this matter don't steady him.
But, to be sure, what a noble soul it is ! Well, if we could cry
till the sea run over, it wouldn't bring back the old man ; and so
here 's long life and good fortin to his heir. And a rare night we
shall have of it — that is, when the mourning 's over and it 's all
proper ; yes ; a rare night we shall have at the Lamb and Star,"

" I wonder who he '11 marry ? " cried the landlady.

" Nobody," averred !Mr. Blink ; " he 's too free a spirit — too
noble a cretur. Besides, he knows too much of life. She must
be a sharp thing — yes, she must get up very early for mushrooms,
who 'd get BobVillis."

Of course, suspicion followed St. Giles to the gaol : but although
his poverty, his houseless condition, and, more, his refusal to give
any account of himself, fixed him in the minds of many as the
murderer, there was no point, no circumstance (and many were
the examinations of the vagrant,) that could connect him with the
deed. It was an especial annoyance to several worthy people that
nothing, as they said, could be brought home to St. Giles. He

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 145

seemed, above all creatures, tlie very creature whom such ari
atrocity would fit ; and yet the failure of all cAadenee was a*.
C(.>raplete as to certain folks it was distressing. However, there
was one comfort. St. Giles was fast in prison as a rogue aiid
vagabond ; afld, in good time, sufficient facts might rise up agamst
him. He had been set down to be hanged ; aud in the cheerful
faith of those who had judged him, it was impossible he should
escape a doom so jieculiarly fitted to him. Hence, St. Giles
remained iu gaol, like a fine haunch m a lai-der, to be some day
feasted ou.

A week had jia-ssed, and still justice was baffled. Tlie murderet.
man slept in his grave, aud still his murderer walked the free
earth. Justice Wattles had a double motive for the lestless zeal
which animated him in his search for the culprit : tliere was his
chai'acter as a magistrate ; aud, more ; there was his feeling of
kinship towai'ds the victim, Farmer Willis being his brother-in-
law. Hence, Justice AVattles, indefatigable in his purpose, called
at Uovesnest. A most unwelcome visitor was his worship to
Ebenczer Smpeton, then preparing to depart from his hermitage
for the din of London ; and at the very moment the magistrate
was announced, reheai'sing a farewell speech to Clarissa ; a speech
that, until her husband's return, should be to her as a charm,
an amulet, to preserve her fi-om the temptations of evil spirits.
Snipeton had compelled himself to beheve the story of his wife,
avouched, too, as it was by Mrs. Wilton. He had t}Tanmsed over
his heart that it should give credence to what he fain would hojie !
And so, he would leave home, a happy husband, convinced, assured
' pa^st all susjjiciou, of the unbroken faith, the enduring loyalty of
his devoted wife. It was better so to feed himself, than yield to
the despair that would destroy him. Better to be duped by false-
hood, than crushed by truth. It was accident — mere accident —
that had brought St. James to his house ; and that, too, in such a
phght, it was impossible that Clarissa could deny liira hospitable
usage. And with this thought, a load was lifted from the old
man's heart, and he would — yes, he would be hajjpy. Snipeton
was wandering iu this Paradise of Fools, when the name of Justice
"Wattles called him home.

" Good morning, i\Ir. Snipeton — a dreadful matter this, sir — a
dreadful calamity to fall upon a respectable family — a startling
end, sir, for my poor brother, — so punctual a;id so excellent a
man," were the first words of the Justice.

■ " Very ten-ible," answered Snipeton. " I have already heai'd
all the particulars," and he pulled on his glove.

" Not all, sii-— I 'm afraid not all," said XVattlos. ' Tliat young
pentleman who was brought to your house — "

VOL. L '

litf ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

" Woll ? "

" lie 's a young nobleman, to be sure ; buf. .<;till it 's orM, Mr.
SuJfX'ton ; 1 say, it 'a o<ltl," and the Justice leeriil at Ebenezer.

"Speak out, man;" cried Snipeton : and the Justice pulled
himself up at the abruptness of the command. " "What of him ?"

" Why, the truth i.s, Mr. Snij>et(in, that young nobleman ha«
been seen lurking about here very much of late. That's odd.
Do ynu know what business brings him to these paris ? "

" How should I know ?" exclaimed Snipeton, looking fiercely
at the Justice, as at one who wuuld reail the secrets of his .soul.

"To be sure; perhaps not," said Wattles, " ninl yet you see
it 's odd : he was brought here wounded, the very- night my poor
brother — the most respectable man in Kent — what a sort of .stnin
it is tijHin tlie family I — the very night he met his fate. You
didn't know, then, that the young nobleman tisetl to hang about
these quarters f "

" Justice Wattles," replied Snipeton, " if as a magistrate you
•woidil ex.imine me, I must attend your summons. My house is
Dot a court."

" Certaiidy not — certainly not," answered the Ju.stice, suildenly
taking uj» his dignity. " I a.sk your pardon ; of course, thi.s matter
•will l>e sifte<l cLsewhere — thoi-oughly sifted. Only believing tL?
voun" nobleman to be vour friend — "

" He 's no friend of mine," said Snipeton, sullenly.

" Well, a friend of Mrs. Sniy)eton'9 — oh, my dear sir ! don 't look
at me in that way — I meant no offence, none whatever ; I meant
an acquaintance — a risitor of Mrs. Snipeton's, nothing more. But,
of course, the law c;ui reach him — f>f course, he can l>e made to
explain everN"thing — lenl as he is. Still, being a fincnd of youi-s —
I mean of your wife's — I intended to show him some consideration.
Nevertheless, as you say your house is not a court, why good
uioming, Mr. Snij>oton — irood morning." And saying this. Justice
Wattles, with all the dignity he could compass, quitted the master
of Dovesnest. Poor Snipeton ! but now he was blowing bubbles
of hope, so brightly tinted ; hnt now they were floating about
him in a sunny sky, :md now they were Viroken, vanished !

As Justice Wattles, with a flushed countenance, crossed the
threshold of Dovesnest, he was encountere<l V>y Nicholas, the sole
s<:r\'ing-man of Snipeton. " Bless me ! your worship," cried
Nicholas, " here's luck in meeting you — ^here 's a s^miething a^ I
■was first going to show master, and then to bring to you," and
■with this, the man presented to the magistrate an old black leather
pocket-book.

" God save tis ! " cried Wattles, and he trembled %iolently—
" where did this come from ? **

ST. GILKS AXD ST. JA31E3. 147

" I found it in a hedtfe — just <aa it is — T li.iven'v looked at it —
in a liedife by Finktou's Cuiner," said tlu' man.

Wattle.s, with ffreat emotion, opene<l the book — turned deadly
pale — suddenly clo.sed it a^'aiu, ami with a fauit, forced smile at
LLs while li|iB, said — " Oh, it 's iiothin;^ — nothing at all. But you
may Jia well leave it with me, Nichohis : if it 's inquired for. I
shall have it ready. You know it '.s in good l^uKb, Nichula<5 ; and
take this for your honesty ; luid until I call njnm you, say nothing
at all about it — nothing at all." With this, the Justice uncon-
Bciously made a low bow to the serving-man, and walked a few
st<>]xs rapidly on. Suddenly he paused, and calling the man to
him. gave him a guinea. "For your honesty, Nicholas — though
the thing isn't worth a groat — still for your honesty ; and as I 've
told you, till you hear from me, you nee«l s.ay nt)thing of the
matter." Nichola.s, well ple;vsed to sell his silence on such terms,
pocketeti the guinea, and with a knowing nod at the Justice, went
his way. Wattles walked hurriedly on, turning down a lane that
skir(ed tlie Devil's Elbow. The old UKin trembled from head to
foot ; his eyes wandereil, and his lips moved with unspoken woi-ds.
Now he ran, ami now staggered and tottered down the lane ; and
at length jiaused midway and looked cautif>usly about him. He
then drew forth the pocket-book, and with dee|>est misery in his
face, proceedetl to search it. It cont.'iined n<Ahing save a large
gold ring, set with a cornelian. As he held it to the light, the
old man .-sighed ; then tern's fast and thick fell from his eyes, and
he sank down u}»on a bank, and, hidijig his face in his hands,
groaneil must piteously. " God jvirdon him ! " at length he cried
— "but Kobert's done it : Ko1x;rt's killed the cJd man; it's
Eobert's ruig — my Bible oath to it — his ring ; and the Lord has
brought it to witness against hira. I was sure he had done it ;
no. no, not sure, — but I fearetl it, and — merciful heaven ! — to
butcher his own flesh and blood — to kill his o^^^l luicle ! "
Again the old man wept arnl sobbed, and wrung his hands in the
very impotence of sori'uw. '* And whiit am I lo do ? Am I to
hang him ? ile.\ven sliieUl us ! Hang a Willis ! — 'Twould be
horrible. And then the disgrace to the family — ^the oldest in
Kent ! What shall I do — what shall I do ? " again and again
cried the Justice. " The murderer must not escape ; but then, to
hang him ! — the re^ectability of the fiimily — the respectability
of the family ! " And thus was the old man peqilexed. His
horror of the deed was great ; he wept eai'nest, truthful tears
over the fate of his brother-in-law, a worthy, honest soul, whose
greatest weakness had been, indeed, undue indulgence of his
wi-etcheil assassin. All the horror, ihe ingratitude of his crime
would present itself to tlie miud of the Ju^tioe, who woiJd for

I. 2

148 ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMES.

the moment detemiiue U> denounce the liouiiiiile : and then hia
jdide wiLS ti»uchcd ; he thmj^ht of tlie .shiiiiio. tlie liiatiiii^ ii,'noinuiy,
&H he dcenu'd it, that would cUng to tlie taniily, juid thus helil in
doubt, sus|)eu8e — he would in Lis weakness weep and J*ray of
lieaven to l)e supported and directed. " Koln-rt 's a nion.ster that
jiullulcs the earth," he would cry — " he must, he shall l)e hanged."
And then the stem Justice would cbiflp liis hands, and moan,
and mutter — " l>ut the di.-^irniee t<i the family — the disgrace to
tlie fauiily I " And thu.s, unre.solved, days j»a.Hse«l, and Justice
Wattles said no word of the p<x'ket-book of the murdere<i man —
breathed no syllable of the damnini; ondence, supplied by the
ring, against his nephew ; who, it apjK^-ariHl, had been wrought to
the commission of the act, by the refusal of the oM man to supply
the means of his profuse expeime, caiit away an it -wjis u|>on the
idle .and the pri)fligate thnnighnut the coimtry. The old man
h;ul returned from Canterbury f;ur, as his as«i.Hsin thought, with
a large sum of money in his poBseHsion. The njurderer, ready
dres-sed for the village fe.>4tival, hn<l awaitol his victim ; had
accomplished the act ; and then, with hottest sj>ee«l, made for the
Lamb and Star, to join in the revelry of the merry-makers. More
of this, however, as we proci-eil in our history.

And now old Snii^eti^i must s.-\y farewell to his young wife.
How beautiful she looked ! Wliat an air of truth and purity was
around her I How her mute meekness rebuke<i her husband's
doubts ! She wanly smiled, ajid the old man reproached him.self
that for a moment he covdd suspect that angel sweetness. He
had taken new resolution from her trustful gentleness. That
smile of innocence had dct^-rmined him. He would quit trade :
retire from Loudon. He had enough, more than enough, of
Worldly means ; and he would no longer separate himself from
such a wife ; but — his present ventures realised — he would retire
to Dovesnest, and there j)a.s8 away a life, dedicating every moment,
evei"y feeling to the better treasure that there enriched him.
Henceforth he would destroy, annihilate, every rising thouglit
that should do her honour injury ; he would be a confiding, hapjiy
hu.sband. Nothing should peril the great felicity in store lor him.
''A'^ith this thought, this fooling of the heart, he kissed his wife ;
and though she met his touch with lips of ice, he could not, would
not, feel their coldness ; but serenely iet\ his home, and for many
a mile upon the road strove to possess himself with the great
assurance that he was still an honoured, happy husband. Oh, it
w.xs a sin, a gi-eat wickedness done to heaven's brightest truth to
doubt it.

Po<"<r old man ! Wretched huckster ! Tricked and betrayed in
the oui-gain he bad purchased ; bought with so much moucy trom

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 149

the priest. Willingly bofuoled by iiupe, he could not see the
desperate calmness, the firm, cold resolution that possessed his
young wife at the time of parting. At that moment, as she
believed, she lookeil upon her husband fur the last time : in that
moment, it jvas her comfort that she bade fiU'ewell to him who
made her life a daily misery — a daily lie. She had taken counsel
with herself, and, come what might, would end the loathsuuie
hypocrisy, that, like a foul diseii^e, consumed her. He quitted
her. She wejit ; and then a ray of comfort brightened her face :
Hud she niovetl with lightened step, a thing of new-fuund liberty.
She sought to he alone ; and yet — it was very strange — that old
house-keejMjr, Mrs. Wilton, would still find an excuse to follow
her: still, with questioning face, would look npon her. The
woman could not know her resolution ? IjuiRis.sible. Yet still,
like a spy, the hireling of her husband, she would watch her.
And then, at times, the woman gazed so mournfully at her ;
answered her with such stninLfc emotion in her vnice, with such
familiar tenderness, she knew not how to rebuke her.

" And ray master returns in a week 1 " sjiid Mrs. Wilton ; " a
long time for one who loves a wife so de;u-ly."

" Lo\'e3 me ! " answered Clarissa with a shudder, which s-he
strove not to disguise. " Yes ; there it is — he loves me."

■' A great hapi)ines.«i, if wisely thought of," said the Jiouse-
keeper, with coKl calm looks. '' A great happiness."

" No doubt, if wisely thought of," rejoined Clarissa ; then, with
a sigh, she added : " How hard the task of wisdom ! But we will
Hot talk of thus now, Mrs. Wilton ; I have another matter to speak
<^>f : I am kept such a pri.soner here'" — and Claris.sa smiled, and
tried to talk gaily — '" that for once I am determined to play
truant. Would you believe it ? I have scarcely seen Canterbury.
I have a mighty wish to >Tsit the Cathedrjd ; I hear it is so
beautiful — so awful."

" I would you had spoken of this to ^Ir. Suipetuu," said the
housekeeper gravely.

'' And wherefore ? To have my wish refused ? To be sentenced
a prisoner to the house ; or, at most, to the limits of the garden ?
No : I know his anxiety, his tenderness, his love for me, Jis you
would say — therefore, if I would go at all, I must go unknown to
ray lord and owner."

" Lord and husband," you would say, observed Mrs. Wilton,
looking full at Clarissa.

" Owner is sometimes a better word ; at least, I feel it so. And
therefore, as I am determined on my pilgrimage — "

" Very well, it must be made," said Mrs. Wilton. " "VMienever
you will, I will be .ready to accompany you."

150 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

" Oh no ; I will not take you from the liouse : it i.s neceamry
liiat you bIiduIiI rvniaiu. Dorothy is so ihil! ainl sltiw, I should
not feel haj)py to leave her alone. Let Nicholas onler a diaise,
an<l he — yes, he can attoml me. Now, no wonls, po<Ml Mrs. Wilton ;
for once I must have my way — for once you mu.st not hop' to
deny mo."

'• .\nil when, Mrs. Snii>eton," added the housekeeptr, "when do
you po ? "

" Oh, to-morrow," an.nwered Clariswa, with forcwl \'ivacity.

Mrs. Wilton ItM>ke<l at the pirl with piercing eyes ; then slowly,
pravfly asked — "And wh.-n return ?"

" Oh, the next day," ami the blinxl flut))ie<I in Clarissa's face as
the Wonls fell from her.

" No, no, no: that day \vo\dd never c«jme ; your burning face,
your ItM.ks, t»ll me it would not."

" Mrs. Wilton ! " cried Clarissa, who vainly strove to U>ok
comniandin;.'. '' ! ; to play the mUtn-sa to the presumptuous

menial. ''Mi ^ n, l>v what riu'ht do vou thus ipiestiou n»y

wonl?"

" ]W the ri;,'ht of lovo ; yen, by the love I U-ar you, lady,"
ftiiswere«l the houseke»'|KT. " I know your hrart ; can see the
Wound within it. 1 know the grief tliat daily wears you ; but,
with the knowlttlge of a deeper wound — of grief more terrible — a
grief made of remorse and shaiue — I implore you, leave not your
home."

" And why not ? Since you know the bondage I endure — the
loathsomeneiw of life II ' it me — the cnnt-er of tlie heart

that tortun«8 me — thed<- u of ever\'thin;r that mak»-s life

good and holy, — wherefore should I not break the chain that IxmIv
and soul en.slavi-s me ? Tell me this," cxclainu-d CIari.'<-sa ; and
lier face grew deathly |vile ; and her whole fonn rose and dilated
with the jia^wion that, fury-like, {> «siiej«kKl her.

'• I have t'lM you," said Mrs. Wilton, — " for the more terrible
grief that follows."

" C^n it Ik; .sliarjx^r, more consummg, than that I now endure ?"
asked Clarissa, smiling bitterly.

" Yes — yes I " was the answer, solemnly uttered.

" IIow know you this ? " asked the young wife ; and she looked
with new an<l curious interest at the woman fast changing before
her. Changing. Her faoe alway.s s-^ calm, so self-j><jsi«esse<l, so
statue-like, rela.\ed and beame<l with a sweet yet mournful l(X)k.
It seemed as though to that time she had only playe<l a part —
that now, the true woman would reveal hei-self Clanssa was
6ur})rised, suUlued, by the new a.sj>ect of her housekeeper.

" You ask me, huw I know thi.s. It is a brief tale : and I will

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMKS. 151

t*;ll you. I knew a maid sold like voui-self — suld is the word — in
lawful wedl<K-k. The uiaii wlio purchiuied her was good :ind
honourable ; one of the men whom the world accounts as its best
citizens ; jilain, worthy, and disj);Ls.Hiunate ; a pei"son most respect-
able. He nCouM nut, in his tlaily bargains, have wronged his
neighbour of a doit. An ui)right, a most pimctual man. ,\ud
yet he took a wife without a heart. He loved the hollow thing
that, like a sj)eakiug image, vowed in the face of God to do that
she knew she never could fulfil, to love and lionour him ; and
lie, that juat, goo«l man, sniiletl with great haj>i)ines3 uj>on the
pretty jK-rjurer ; and ttnik her to his bosom .-us the treasure of the
world. True, at times he had his doubts — his sad misiri\"in'rs.
He would look in his wife's face — would meet her cold, obedient
eye.s — and sometimes wonder when a heart would grow wifliin
her. He had marTie<l hir, believing in sueh growth ; it w;La his
wistlom — his knowle<lge of mankind and the world — to be assured
of it. And .so they livetl for three long vejirs together ; the ehain
of wedlock growing heavier with every heavy day. She became
u mother. Even that new woman's life — that sutlden knowh^dge
that o|)ens in the heart :ui unimagineil fount of love — fiiiled to
h;u-moni.><e her soul with him who was her child's father. Still
they jarred ; or, at best, were silent towjinls each other. I will
hurry to the close. She left him ; worse, she left her child. That
silver link, that precious bond that should have held her even
to scorn, unkituluess, misery, — with Siicrilegious act she broke.
She left her husband for one who should have been her husband.
You do not listen to me ? "

" Yes — yes — yes," cried Clarissa — " every word ; each syllable.
Go on."

" For a few months she lived a mockery of happiness. A year
or two passed, and then her lover left her, and she stood alone in
the world, clothed with her harlot shame. It was then, indeed,
she felt the mother : then, what should have been her joys were
turned to agonies ; and conscience, daily conscience, made her
look within a glass to see a monster there. Oh, she has told me,
again and :igaiu, has told me ! The look, the voice of childhood —
with all its sweetness, all its music — was to her as an accusing
angel that frowned, and told her of her fall."

" And she never saw her child ? " asked Claiissa,

" For years she knew not where to seek it. At length, accident
discovered to her the place of its abode. And then the babe —
the motherless iimocence — had become almost a woman."

*' And then the mother sought her ? "

** No. Her huslxind still lived ; she did not dare attempt it.
Her child I How knew she that ihat child had not been taught

!;2 ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMES.

to think Iter mother in tlie jrrave I Ami more ; the mother liad
f'urej^one lier iiuhk-^t claim at that jjoor lilth' ouc'h Ih-jhI n«etl—
auil could the wanton come Imck a;,'aiii to nrge it 1 Therefore,
unknown, .slie watehe.1 hor ; and, like a tliief, stole glances of the
jireoiuu.s crwiturc of her blood — her only comfort, anil her woi-at
reproach, llie girl become a wife ; her father die«l, aiid then — **

" Antl tljen ? '* n'j>eated C'lai-iiwa, as the woman ptiused iu the
fulness of her emotion.

" Auil then the mother dare«l not reveal herself As 8er\'ant,
she entereed hands, looke<l with injploring anguish in the face of
( 'lari.Hs;i. That hx>k toUl all: Clarissa, with a scream, leapt to
her feet, and hung at her mother's mx-k.

" Bo warucil — be wanieil,'' ciiid tin- wi.ni:ui, jiud like a dead
thing, she souk iu a chair.

CIIAITER XV.

To the a.<>tonishment, the rage, and indignation of the neighbour-
hood, Robert Willis ha«l liecn apprehended, cluirged with the
Djunler of his >in<'Ie. After such autl.nrityon the jvirt of th«» law,
ii'j man held himself safe. The whole couutrj' rang with tlie
charge ; the whole country more or leas symjiathised with the
innocent victim of the tyranny of justice. It v,n» impossible to
as.-HX'iato the jovijd, wann-heart*-*!, merr}--maker with any wrong;
s'< wholly had he won the hearts of all by his many feats of rustic
skill, his many qualities of g<x)d fellowship. The men admire»l him
f 'P his athletic daring ; and the women for his noble figure, his
ruddy face, black whiskers, and ven.' white teeth. To W sure, he had
had his foUiea ; now and then he had played the bully, and the small
voice of detraction added, the black-leg : he had moreover broken
a heart or so : but he had never wanted money to pay a treat ;
and young men would be young men, was the charitable cree<l of
the treate<.l. Nevertheless, it w.-us impossible for justice to close
her ears to rumours that, first muttered, grew louder and louder.
^^'illis hfid been seen hurrying fi-om Cow Meadow at the time that
— acconling to evidence — the murder mu.st have l»een committed,
lie had moreover paid many debts of late ; ha.l been seen with
much money in his hands ; and there was a strange, forced gaiety
in his manner tliat showed him restless, ill at ease. In fine,
although Justice AVattles — the prisoner's relative, and the jkjs-
gessor of the dead mans pocket-book — loudly protested against

ST. GILKS .VXD ST. J.VMES. 168

the intlij^nity offerutl to his kiusiiiiui ; allhougli he eloquently jtut
it to his brother nuigistratcs, whether it \v:w ill the circle of ])n>-
buhility fur one so rciii»ectal>ly Ix.ni juul bred, to shed tlio blutxl
of iiis own lehition, — Kobert Willis wjus conuuitte<l, eluirged with
the wilful niuitler of Arthur Willis. Ami then Justice Wattles
&iiil it w;is be.st it sliould be so : it was the shortest, clearest way,
to htop the nmuths of slanderers, and to slmw t4> the worM the
innocence, and, al»>vc all, the resj notability of his kinsman. Vet
were there jwople who womlereti at the change so suddenly workol
in tlie Justice. His face, before so iMund and re<l, lH*oanie shrunk
anil yellow ; and then he would strive to look so hajipy — would
laugh at every other wortl he sjKike ; would prophesy with such
enjoyment the triumph of his brave, his much-wronged relative.

And BO the vag:il>ond St. ( Jiles juid the g;iy aiid gcnciMus I{olx?rt
Willis were brouglit together. In the very goo<l old times of our
liistory, there was deeper and better homage paid totlie well-to-ilo
who, somehow, had done ill and w.-ia impri.sont'd then-fore, than in
these our sterner ilays, whon the sueci-ssors of IJlueskins and
Shep|i;ird.s, no longer hold their levees in gat)I lobbies, and tine
ladies may not pnittle with felons. However lovely and interest-
ing may be the ilooine»l man to the fem:de he;u"t, his f;iscinatioiis
are to be conteini»lated only thi"ough the filmy me«lium of
tlie newspapers, aiid not, as in thi>se very goo<l and much-
lamented old times, hob and nob with the hou-sidireaker and
murderer. Hence, Itobert Willis lived in happier days, Ifence,
by the grace of money and station, had he many little indulgencies
whi<'li softened the rigour of captivity. Wine :uid brandy came
t" him like gootl genii through the prison bars, an<l by their magio
gave to stone wjUIs a comfortable, jolly asj>ect ; again placed the
jirisoner in a taveni ; again sun>juudeU him with the best of
fellows ; hearts of gold !

It was yet early morning, and WillLs, flushe<l with drink,
walkeil the court-yani with St. Giles ; for whom, at their tirst
nieetuig, he liad shown a strange intei-est. How change*! was he
from the merry-maker who, but for a tew moment.s, was bcfoi^e
the reader at the Lamb and St;ir ! He seemeil to liave gi-own
bigger — burlier. His face was fuU-bhxxIfd ; his eyebrows 8hagge<l
and i-agged ; his eyes flashed to :uid fro, dwelling upon no object ;
aiid then he would laugh loudly, hollowly. He walked the court-
yard, t-ilking to St. Giles ; an<l now and then slapping him on the
shoulder, to the wonder of other more respectable prisoners, who
much marvelletl that a gentleman like master Ilobert Willis couM
t;ike up with such a vagabond. And so they walked : and by degrees
Willis laughed less, and spoke in a lower tone ; and it wa.s plain
— iroii) the agitation of his comrade — that he spoke of something

154 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMK.^.

Bti-anrre ninl (orriMe. At leii^'tli St. fJiU-s stdpjn^d •^hort, and
crit'il, "■ 1 will iH;ir no luore — imt .v won! iiinn-. 1 t.Il yuu. God
forgive you I "

'• Why. wliat 8 tlie injittor, f<^M,l — l.uttfr-he.-irt ? " cile<l Willia,
" I tlniiitrht vku a iiinn, :in<l you 'n* a cur. Ha! ha! all 's one
fi.r that ;" and aiijain Willi.s lau^'he<l, and pointed .scornfully at
St. (Jilen, a« — with face a^ha.st — he walked to the further end
of the court. Willis wa.s alwiut to follow him, when he wa8
accosted hy one of the ttimkey.s.

"Mjister WUliii, here's Mr. Monlecute Crawley, the lawyer,
come to talk to ynu alxiut your defence. He 's in a proat
)uirry ; so, if you please, you must make haate : he 's so much
to do, he can't stay for nobo<ly." And the turnkey only
sfM.ke the truth of the al»sorliin<; Inisinesa of Mr. Montecute
Crawley; to wh">se silver tonj^je the world owed the lilx-rty
of many a nill'i.iu. Happy wa.s the evil-<loer whose means
nii^rht pureha-sc the pood offices of Mr. Montecute Crawley !
llure was no man at the Ivar who rould so r • - ' •. jy extract the
stain of M.Hul from a munlerer. Had he 1 ."^awny I^an,

diplMsl a hiindii'il times in infanticide, he woulrl have presented
liini to the court .-ts a >lifpherd with the l>l'M>m and fr.ijTrinoe of
Anaily u|Km him. Worthy ukui ! What a constitution had
JMr. Montecute Crawley, to stand the wear and tear of his own
feeliiiijs, racke<l, ai:onise<l. as they always were for his innocent,
his muih-jtersecut*.-*! client, the homioide or hij,diwaynian at the
)>ar ! Happily, his emotion Mas always so very natural, and so
very intense, that a^n ami a^n it touche<l the liosoms of the
jui-y, who c»>uld not — simple cn-atures I — but l»elieve8o eloquent, so
earnest a pentleni:m, when he not only vouclied for the innocence
of the unfortunate accused, but wept a shower of tears in testi-
mony thereof. Teaix in fact, were Mr. Montectite Crawley's
^Teat weai>ons : but he had t<X) true a noti<in of their v.ilue to use
them save on extraordinary occasions With all his tendemesti,
he had irreat jKiwers of self-restraint ; and, therefore, never dropt
a t«ir ujHjn any brief that brought him less than live hundred
guineas. He had hejird of " the luxurj" of woe," and w.*.-. deter-
mined that with him at least the luxury should bear its ]»ro|>er
price. His coarse and stony-hearte<l brethren at the bar had, in
the envy and brutality of their s«..ula, nicknamed Mr. M<»ntecute
Crawley, the watering-pot. But he — good, silver-tongued man —
hee^lid not the miserable jest. He talked and wept, and wept
and t.ilkiil, as though he felt assuretl that all the world believed
liis words and tears, and that the angels knew them to be only
counterfeit.

And Itobert Willis was now to interest the sympathies of Mr.

ST. OILES AND ST. JAMES. 155

Crawley, who ha<l been paid tlie lull weejiing price — the fee be\i)g,
a.d a junior cuuusel said, up to watt- r-mark. The prisoner au<l his
counsol were private togetiier ; and, jus the accused went through
his simple tale, it waa delightful to perceive the intelligence that
beamed in Mr» Montecute Crawley'a eye, as though he spied a
flaw, no wider thiui a spider's thread, in the indictment ; and thei)
for a moment lie would |)lace his ample brow — writ and overwrit
with HO m;uiy acts of Parliament — iu his snow-pure haml, nieili-
tiiting a legal e8cai>e. " That 's enough," said Mr. Crawley,
abiiiptly stojtpint; the jirisoner: "I've maile uji my mind ; yes, 1
Kee it at once ; an alibi, of cour»e ; an alil>i. Yuu were at the
dance at the Lamb and Star : you 've witnesses — ^yes, I know —
Mr. Swag, your attorney, ha-s told me all, and "

" And you think I shall get over it I" iuske<l Willis, looking up
with ui>aba.shed face at his defender. Mr. Montecut« Crawley
BJightly nodded his hea<l ; whereUfMju the pristjner, with g^n>s8est
fkiuili;irity, otr< reil his hand. ilr. Crawley knew what was due to
the ilignity of his j>rofe}i.sion ; he, therefore, lixiked frozenly at the
])risouer, rebuking him by that look into a proper sense of his
inCiJiiy, and :it the .same time asserting his own foreii.-ic conse-
quence. " Meant no olfence, sir," s;iid the reprobate, '* but aa I
tliought we met as friends, and as Master Wattles has promised to
Come down well if you get me utf, why I thought we might aa
well shake Inuiila on the bargain."

'* It is not necessary," said Mr. Cniwley, with a new stock of
dignity. " And now I think you have told me all ? I hope so,
bei-ause I can give no further time to see you ; and therefore I
Lope, for your sake, I now know all ? You undei-stantl me i "

Innocent munierer — unsttphisticated assassin! He did not
undei-stand his l^est defender. Deceived bv what he thought a
co"-liality of voice, a look of interest, in !Mr. Montecute Crawley —
and suddenly feeling that it would doubtless be for his own
especial l)enetit if he laid bare his heart — tliat black, bad thing —
before so able, so excellent a gentlem.ui, Kobert Willis thought
that he owed hiiu ever)' confidence, and woidd, therefore, without
further ceremony, discharge the debt. " Why, no, sir," he
said, with the air of a man prepared to be praise<l for his ingenu-
ousne>s, — " no, sir, I havnt told you all. You see, uncle — I
must s;iy it — had been a good sort of a fellow to me in his time .
but S(.«mehow, he got plaguy cranky of late ; wouldn't come down
with the money nohow. And I put it to you, sir, who know
what life is, — what 's a young fellow like me to do without money ?
"Well, the long and the short of it is this, — I shot the old chap,
and that 's the truth."

Il" vLitue could have peeped into that prison, could at that

75« ST. tJlI.KS AN'B ST. JAMES.

moment have In-lulii the face of Mr. MuiitocMite ("mwley, wonM
pile iKit liave embracwl — liave wept over her chain|iii)n — evi-n as
he hail often wept on her accmmt ? He 8tarte<l from the confessed
huniicide, as thoujjh Cain himself had ri.Hon from In-.side him.
" Scoundri'l ! nion.ster I vill.iin ! " he exclaimed with ]>assion,
that must bAve been genuine, it was so violent.

" llless me ! " crietl the prisoner. " I hoj>e you 're not offended.
You want«-<I to know all, sir."

" Not that — not that, miscreant ! " and Mr. Montecute Ci-Hwley
pace<l up and down in the very greatest distress. " Monster, — I
leave yi>u to your fate : I '11 not stain my hands with such a brie£
Ho — never — never."

" You '11 not do that, sir, I 'm sure," said the murderer. " Too
much of a gentleman for that. 'Sj>ecially when the Justice haa
come down so haiulsomelv. And 1 know him ; that 's not all he'll
do, if you pet me off."

** Get you off I " cried Mr. M'intecute Crawley with a disgust
that dill the very hii;he8t and deej^-st honour to bin heart. —
*' What ! let loorte a wild In-a-st — a man-liijer into the world.
Monster — miscrt.-ant — miscreant ! " With all Mr. Crawley's envi-
able command of abus^, he l.u-ked vitii|Hration wherewith to
express the inten-sity of his loathing ; and he therefore quitted the
munlerer with a l<x>k of inexpressible sconi ; Rol>ert Willis having,
in bis imairiuatiun, the ven.' clearest view of the gallows, with
himself in the cart, wending to his inevital>le destination. He
Wiw given up by that miracle of an orator, Mr M"Utecute Crawley,
and there was nothing left him but the hangman.

Ingenuous liobert Willis — unsophisticated homicide ! Little
knew that simple munlerer the magnanimity of the lawyer, who
would forget the imprudence of the bliKi<l-she<lder in pity for the
erring fellow-creature. B»'sidcs, Mr Monti-cute Crawley, in his great
res]»ect for the intellectual cravings i,>f the public, could not consent
\Ai deprive a crowded court of his expectetl speech : an oration that,
as he knew, would impart very considerable enjoyment to his
auditors, juid, jw-ssibly achieve a lasting glor)' for himself. There-
fore, possessed of the knowledge of the prisoner's crime, it would
liC the business, the pride of Mr. Crawley to anay him in a garb of
innocence: thousjli, everlastiuf'lv staineil with blooil, it would be
the fame of the orator to purity the asaas-siu. returning him back to
the world snow-white and sweetened. And, with this detennina-
tion, when the day of trial came, Mr. Montecute Cniwlcv entered
the cuurt, amidst the tlattering admiration of all a><siinbl«il. What
a solemn man he looked ! What a champion of truth — what an
earnest orator in the cause of innocence — with every line in his
fiace a swelling lie I

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 157

Aikl the 'lay of truil cnme. St. James sat upon the bench
in close neij^hbourliotxl to the Judge. The court was crowded.
Lj\die3 liad dre.s.'<ed theiii.selvfs as for a yala ; aiul wlaa the
jjrisuuur — haliitcd with MTUpiiluus neatness — apjK-ared at the
bar, there wa6«a niurniur from the fair that at once acquitted so
handsome, so lint'ly-nuKle a m:ui, of such a naughty crime. It
wjus imjHJSsible that with .such a face — such very fine eyes — such
wavy, silken liair, :uid aUive all with such a self-assuring smile
— it w.uj iiii|)OK.sibIe that such a creature could be stauietl with
an oKl man's blood. And theu the gt-ntlewomen l(M>ked from
the jiriHoiiir to the prisoner's couu.sel, and Kiii-ld in his sweet
gravity, his bt*autifid composure, an a.ssunin<-e th;it he, th.at
eluipient and syni|>athttic ]iIoadir. w;ls jxi.s.ses.scil ,'u* with the con-
seiuusness of his own sciul, of the guiltlessness of that i«pjiif;*iH-il,
that handsome young miui ; and would therefore pleml with the
Voice and sublime fervour of a suiK-rior spirit for the .•ucu.sed at
the bjir. Men of every degree tluongetl the court. Tlie gentry —
the yeomen — the i-ustics of the countiy ; all ])rej)osse.s»ed for the
prisnner. And many were the greetings and shakings of the
hand exchanged with the prisoner's kiiLsm:ui, Justice Wattles,
who tried to look hojx'ful, and to t-peak of the tri.il :us nothing
more than a ceremony, uecessjirv to stop the mouth of slauderoiu
wickedness. And so, restless juid inwardly .sick at In-art and
irembling, the Justice looked smilingly alxiut the court : but
never looked at the prisoner at the bar. The prisoner gazed
Bcarchingly at the jury, and his eyes brightened when he saw-
that Simon Blink, landlord of the Lamb and Star, was foreman
» of the twelve.

The trial l>egan. One witness swore that on the evenhig of the
murder he he.ird a gun tired ; and immediately he saw the prisoner
at the bar rush from the direction of Cow Meadow. The ball
had l>een extracted from the murdered man, and found to ht a
gun, the prisoner's proj^erty, subsequently discoveretl in the farm-
house. Every face in the court — even the face of Mr. Moutecute
Crawley — fell, darkened at the direct, straightforward evidence of
the witness. He was theu handed over to be dealt with by the
prisoners counsel. \\ liat awful meaning possessed his features,
when he rose to turn inside out iV.e witness ! "VMiat lightning in
his eye — what a weight of scorn at his Up — what thunder in his
voice, terrif}*'ing and confounding the simple man who had spoken
a simple truth. Poor feUow I in a few minutes he knew not what
he had spoken : his senses were distraught, lost : he would
scarcely to himself answer for his own consciousness, so much was
he bewildered, tiling about, made nothing of by that tremendous
man, Mr. Moutecute Crawley.

158 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

" Answer mo, sir," tliuiulorc^l the imli^niant counsel ; " wore
you nevrr in ^,Tif>I fur felxny ? An.swer, sir."

The man paused fur a moment. He ha<l never l>een in paol for
fi'lrmy — .Mr. f'mwlcy knew that Wfll enouj;li — nevertht-leas the
<jut .stii)U was put with such velienicnt contidenc*'. tliat, honest man
as he was, tlie witness was for a time unahle to answer. At
leiifTth he ventured to reply that he never Iiad lieen so iini>ri.4oned:
wliicli rt'ply he a^in anil a;,'ain re|H*ate<l, wanie<l l>y the counsel-
as by the tnimiHit of juiltjinent — that he wa.s ujMin his oath.

" And you 've never V)een caught |x>aching — come, I shall get
Bonu'thinu out of yuu ? S|H>ak up. sir! l']>on your oath — have
you never been caught sotting win-s for hares I " roare<l Mr.
Crawley.

" Never, air," stammered the witness. ** Never caught in my
life."

" Ha ! you 've been lucky, then, my fine fellow," said the coua-wl.
" You haven't been caut'ht, that 's what you mean, eh ? " Ami
at tliis humorous distinction, Mr. Montecute Crawley laughe<l —
the prist»ner, out of gratitude to his cham|>ion, laughed — all men
in the court laugheil, and the pretty lailies giggle<i. Assure«lly
there is no place in which the ver^- smallest joke g'>es s>> far ;is in
a Court of ju."«tice. There, a farthing's worth of wit is ott<Ti t.nken
as though it were an ingot. And, accej)te*l after such vahie, Mr.
^^ontecute Cniwley was a tremenilous wit. " I In-lieve, sir," — he
continueil, — "come, sir, leave olf twiddling your thundw .and lo*jk
at me — I believe you 've been mixed up a little in smuggling ?
Come, you dont think there's much harm in that ? You know
how to run a tub or two, I 8up{)09e J "

" No, I don't," Answennl the witness with new confidence.

" Bless me ! " cried Mr. Crawley, " you 're a very innocent
gentleman — very inn<x*ent, inilee<l." And tlx-n with much hidig-
nation at the unsjiotted character of the witnes.-*, he thundere<l,
" Get down, sir ! " Now, this seeming unchjiritableness was, it
ni.ay \>c hojx^l, ver}' repulsive to the kindly nature of Mr. CniwIey ;
but what he did, he did fur the benefit of his client. To ser^-e his
client it was — he held the obligation as his forensic creed — it was
liis d\ity to ]»aint eveiy witness against him the blackest black,
that tlie suffering, ill-u.sed man at the bar miglit stand out in
candid relief to the moral darkness frowning against ' im. Poor
Mr. Crawley ! In his heart of hearts, it was to him a great
sorrow that — for the interest of Ids client — he was sometimes
com|>elleil to wear his gown, the solemn rol)e of the chanJi)ion of
truth, as the privileged garment, holding safe the coward and the
bully. He wa.s a gentleman — a most perfect gentleman — with an
almost etlemijiate sense of honour when — his gown was off. But

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. I'f)

wlicii he rubt'tl liiuisolf, lie knew tliut t liere might he <Urty work to
do, autl if it iiiUMt he iloiie, why he iliil it nn though he loved it.

All the witnesses for the itroseculiini, sjive one, h;i(l been
exuniined; ;uul the j>ri.st>ner l<>uke»l aljout him with blither looks:
and there wiu) an int-erehange of triumjthant glauees between
liini«elf .■mil valued old cnmie.s in court that plainly said, "All 'a
right ; " wlien St. tides w.-is calletl. Then the prisoner bit his
lip, and impatiently struck his tist ujwn the spikes in the front of
the bar, ami then with a hard .smile — as at his folly, his absence
of mind — wrapt his han«lk<Mehief al>o\it his V>leetling liand. It
wjus nothing — a mere moment of absmxl forget fulne.ss. How could
he l>e 8o ridiculous !

St. Ciles wa.s swoni. There was something strange and solemn
in that miserable faee ; nwu'ked and lined as it was with a s;ul
hi.story. The man had Wen well-fe<l, well-lodged, though in a
gaol. Imprisoned as a rogue and vagrdmnd. he had nevertheless
tasted of e<<mforts that, until the erime of iM»verly an<l de.stilution
w:us jmt ujion him, he had not for inany a season, knowii ; and
yet he l(K>ke»l hnrasse<l, weary, and w.xsted. Poor wretch ! He
h;id long wrestled with himself. He felt that he was cui-sed with
knowledge of a Bei.'ret forcetl ujvm him. It w.hs another of the
many unearned wrongs that blighte<l him. He hated himself that
lie had been brought to statu! in that court an accuser of that
man at the bar. He had fought against the feeling that had
urged him to lell all ; aiwl then in the dead of night a voice would
cry in his ear, "Murder — murder! remember, it is murder! Ijase,
bad, most unnatuial murder!" — and so, !V3 he thought, to lifts
k load from his he;at, he demanded to be taken to the keeper of the
gaol ; ;uid then — solemnly admonished by the prison chaplain —
he narrated the terrible story that, in his hour of mad defiance,
Kobert Willis had told his fellow-prisoner. That confession made,
St. Giles felt himself a wretch — a tniitor to the man who had put
the secret on him : he woiild have given worlds to recall the story
told ; it was impossible. He had told all. Ajid in open court,
he would be smnmoned to meet, eye to eye, the prisoner : would
he made to rehearse a tale that should make that man, smiling so
full of health and strength at the bar, a clod of eailh. It was
these thoughts that had cut themselves in the face of St. Giles :
it was thejje thoughts that, like poison, struck a coldness at his
heart ; ma<le him tremble, and look a most forlorn and guilty
wretch, wlien called upon to tell his story.

He told all he knew. The prisoner at the bar had confessed to
him that, stung by the unwillingness of his uncle to feed his
means, he had killed the old man : at such an hour — with such
an instrument. More : he had robbed him : and had hidden the

160 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMHS.

d«iil mail's j>ocke*-lM>ok soinewlioi-c noai" Piacktoii's Comer. Tiie
Jjrisoner had dropt a riuff — it had alwava been too large for him
^-as he feared, U|h)U the s]Hji where the old man fell.

And then St. Giles was cruHS-ex:uuined : anatomiseil, torn to
piccea hy the counsel f«r the prisoner. A very few niiimteH, anil
80 potent waa the sconi, the indi^'natiun of Mr. Ci^awley, that St.
(iiles st<xKl lMf>in' the court the vili-st of the vile of men ; a human
reptile, a moral hlotch : a shame Ujkhi the race of Adam. The
■whole court looked Ujion him with wondering eyes — a monster of
•wiikeilnesa. And St. <iil<-.s f.-lt the ignominy: it pienv-d him
like a bwopI ; yet with calm, unaltered looks he m«t tht- hatri-<l of
fill around him.

And with the testimony of St. Giles closed tlie eviden<.'e for the
proi*ccution. Twenty witm.'SBes for the pri.soner proved that it
wiL'* imjKj.'wihle he could have l)een near Cow Mea<low at the time
of the murder ; no : he wa.s at a nurry-makinj; at the Ijuu)) and
Star. Again, every inch of I'inckton's Corner ha«l Iwen searche<l,
and there w;is no p<H.ket-l>.M>k : another ppxif — if such indeed
vere neetled^-uf the dialxtlic malice of St. Gilea, who, it wa» plain,
to cloak his own infamv with some small cre<lit, hoix'fl to tiestrov
the pns«.>ner. Mr. Montecute Crawli-y had Ik'Cii exrct-dingly movi-d
liy this tremendous evidence of the iniquity of man. Wliilst crofM-
cxamining St. (iiles, the cr>un8el, touching Ufxm what he termed
the ajK>cryphal jKK'ket-lx)ok, ha«l wej)t ; yes, had sutfered large
round tears to "course down his innocent nose," to the lively
concern of the court ; ami, more osjH'cially, to the emotion of
m.iny ladi.-s. who wept in .symjiathy with that sweet man, that
»ort-heaited harri-nter.

The judge summed up the evidence ; and the jury, after the
pau.se t)f j>erha]>« two niiiiut<-s — tlnir verdict w.is already Niiiiliii;^
in their faces — tlirough their re.idy foreman, Simon lUiuk,
acquitted the prisoner. R«)bert Willis was — Not Guilty 1 What
a shout rose from the court! It wa-s in vain that the jud;re looke<l
angrily around him : there was another huzza ; another, and
another. Friends and neighlniurs 8hr>ok each other by the hand ;
and all blessed the admii-able Mr. Cniwley, the excellent judge,
the upright and most manly jury. Tlie hubbub suddenly ceased :
and wherefore ? Men were touched into resjjectful silence ; and
why ? Oh, the scene was most impressive : for Mr. Justice
Wattles — an old and most respectable ra.igistmte — entered the
dock ; and there, in the face of the wt>rld, embraced his innocent
kinsman — folded to his heart the pure, the spotless, the acquitted.
And then Robert Willis left the gaol ; and the multitude without
shoutetl their sympathy and gratitude.

St. Giles remained within the prison. His tenu of captiviiy

ST. niLES AND ST. .lAMKS. 161

\ras oiulctl : yet, coiii])a>isi<ii);iliiifj his inisirv. the governor wmilil
])crniit hiiu to reinaiu until uiijht-fiill. when he luiglit ilejiart
iiiiseen. Ditl he show himself in open day — such was the belief
of the j»eo])le of the paol — the niob would ti:ir him piecemeal. He
had trif<l to liang an innocent man : woidd have siied the blood
of the m (Vilest oreature in the county ; and burning alive was a
fate too good for him. And thus St. Giles was spurned and
cxei-rated. Sliut up with felons, he was sluinncd by them as
somelliing nmnsirous ; a demon, for whom they had no w.irds
save thuae of cursing and conterajit. St. Giles, with a crushed
heart, w;dked the oourt-yanl. A few paces were tacitly allowed
him by hi.s fellow-prisonei-s ; mid he walked, in misery, apart
from all. It was a beautiful summer's evening, and he jiaused,
and with gla.>v>5y, vacant eye, surveyed a swarm ot insects dancing
and wliirling in that brief, bright world of theii-s, a suidx^am in a
g.iol. " A gentleman wants to 8]ieak to you," said one of the
turnkeys, looking contemptuously at the witness for the crown
"Gome this way." St. (iiles olx'vetl the order, and entering the
body of the prison, found there his former benefactor, young
St. Jame.-^.

" Vou are the man who gave evidence against the person tried
to-<lay for munler ? " s:ud St. James.

" Yes, sir ; and I 8]>oke the truth : the very words the man
said to me, 1 — "

" It is no matter. I did not send for you on that bad busines.s.
You and I have met before ? How is it that I tind you in this
place ? "

'"I hail no j'laoe to lay my head in, not a penny, only what
your honour's goodness gave me, to buy a crumb ; and so for tiiat
reason, aftt-r I 'd been hauled up, as they said, for killing a mrui
that was afterwards foinid alive, they sent me here. But bless
you, kind gentleman ! for your goodness to me. I hav'n't been
without doing wrong in my time, sir, I know that : but the workl,
sir, hasn't dealt kindly with me, nohow ; it liasu't, indeed, sir."

" Where do you come from ? " asked St. James.

" I come, sir, from'' — and St. Giles stammered — " I come from
abroad."

" And you are willing to earn honest bread ? Is it so 1 " said
his lordship.

" Oh, sir : " cried St. Giles, " if I might only have the chance !
But it 's a hard case to put a man to — a hai >1 case to deny a
miserable cretur honest bread, and then if he dout (Starve without
a word like a rat in a hole, to send him here to gaoL I sav it,
sir ; I've had my sins — God pardon 'em — but I've been roughly
treated, sii- ; roughly treaty* I."

VOL. I. ii

182 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

" I ho]>e to thiuk so," saiii St. Jaiues. " I may be wronfj ; but
wljat I liave seen of you to-day iiuluces me to tnist you. I want
to kiKiw nothing of your history; nothing t«f tl»e past. All I
expect is an lionest future. If you can promise thus, you shall
enter my service, and so stand ujiright again in the world."

" I do promise, sir — with all my heart and soul — with all" —
but the poor fellow could speak no more ; tears poured down bis
face ; tears choked his speech.

"Here is money. Get yourself decent covering, and make
your way to London. ^Vhen there, jiresent yourself at my house.
Semi this card to me, and I will see what may be done for you.
IJemcmbcr, I depend upon your gotnl resolution, that T may not
l>e laugheil at for hiniig a servant from a gaol." With these
words, St, James quittetl the prison, leaving St, Giles bewildered,
last in h.ippiness. He glanced at the can.1, saw the name — the
name of that noble, gracious boy, who h;ul before j>resorved him
— and the poor convict fell upon his knees, and with a grateful,
l>ursting heart prayed for his protector.

Let us now for a brief space, shift the scene to the I^amb and
Star. It was ten at night, and tlie house was crammed with
n?vellers, all met to celebrate the triumph of injiuvd iuiioconce ;
to drink and ib-iiik to the attested purity of Robert Willis. What
stories were told of his spirit, his athlresa, his gallantry ; how
often, too, were curses called down uix»n the head of him who
wouKl have spilt such guiltless blood ; how often did the drinkei"3
wish they hail St. Giles among them, that they might tear him
to bits — yes, limb him for his infamy ! And ere the night passed
they had tlieir wsh ; for St. Giles entered the Lamb and Star,
and called with the contidence of a customer about him. But
who was to know St. Giles in the ne^itly-dressed, tiim-looking
groom — the tall, clean-faced looking young fellow — that took his
mug of ale from the hands of Becky, and nodded so smilingly at
her ? Time it is, the girl stared ; the blood rushed about her face,
and dai'ting from the room, she cried to herself, '' It is — it is ! the
Lord presei-ve us ; " but Becky looked with womanly eyes, and so
rememberetl the ragged outcast in the spruce serving-man. In a
few moments she returned to the room, and whilst she affected to
give change to St. Giles, she said in a low, agitated voice — " I
know you — they '11 know you, too, soon ; and then they '11 have
your life ; go away : if you love — if you love yourself go away !
What a man you are ! What brings you here ?"

" Just this little remembrance," said St. Giles, " for you got
yourself into trouble for helping me : just this odd little matter ;
keep it for my sake, wench," and he placed a Uttle silken huswife
in her trembling hand.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMF.S 163

"Law!" said Becky, "I didn't do ni»tluiig for you that I
wouldn't ha' done for any body else ; still I will keep this anyhow ;"
and Becky a^^ain blusliing. again ran fi-oni the room. At the
same moment there was a shout outride the house of " Miister
Willis — Master Willis ! " and lotul and long were the huzza.s that
followed. The dour was Hung ujien, and Willi.s, frantiely drunk,
nished in, followed by several of his comivuiions who with him
had celebrated the trluni|ih of the day. AVillis threw hini.self into
a chair, and chilled for a "thousjuul bowls of punch" — and then
he would have a song — and then he would have all the village
girls roused up. and would d.-uice the night tliri>\igh.

Great w;us tlie respect felt by the landlord of the Ijunb and Star
for Mr. Willis : nevertheles-s, the tumult ix>se to such a height,
that Blink, with bending V)ack, and in the very softest voice, begged
of his honour not to insist upon a dance so late at night. Willis,
with a death-iKile face — his hair disordered — his eyes stupidly
rolling — glared and hiccupped, and snapped his fingeisat the nose
of tiie landlord.

" Now squire, do be advised ; do, indeed : you '11 hurt your
health, squire, if you 've any more to night, I know you will,"
said Blink.

" You know ! " shouted WillLs — " !Mughcad ! what do vou
know ? Yes — ha ! ha ! ha ! — you 're a pretty conjuror, you ai'e.
You know ! Ila ! you were the foreman of the jury, I believe ?
A ]n-etty foreman — a precious jury ! And you found rae Not
Guilty ! Fool ! nincompoop — :iss ! Here, 1 want to say some-
thing to you. Closer— a little closer." Blink approached still
nearer to the drunken madman, when the ruffian spat in the land-
lord's face ; he then roared a laugh, and shouted — " That for you !
I killed the old fellow — I did it — damn me, 1 did it." And the
wretch, trying to rise from his chair, fell prostrate to the ground ;
whilst all in the I'oom shrunk with horror from the self-denounced
homicide.

CHAPTER XVL

Evert guest of the Lamb and Star bore awav the confession of
the assassin ; and full soon scornful, loathing looks beset the path
of Robert Willis. The gossipping villagers would stand silent,
eyeing him askaunce, as he passed them. The dullest hind would
return his nod and good-morrow with a sullen, awkward air. Even
little children cowered from him. huddling about thefr mothers, aa
the gay homicide would pat their heads?; and give them penniee.

u 2

1G4 ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMKS.

It dill not gorve. that Ivolx-rt Willi.s with a roariiiij l;ni;.;h <leclait«<l
the wli'ile a jest — a ilnuikeii frolic just to make folks stare. It
serveil not that ho wouM loiuUy ami laburioiislv rhuokle " to think
how he h.'ul inaile liliiik Hhake — ami how, with just a wonl or so,
lie ha<l takt-n evtrvUxly in." N'o ; the conf-Hsion of the nmnh.Ter
ha<l sunk into tin- hfart« of hin hfan-re ; the tale .ipreail far and
wide, and not even buttA of ale — and Willis trieil that Lethe-
would drown th>- nieinor\' of it. And .so in l>rii-f tinie. the nii.^er-
ftlile wretch wiw left alone with the tiends. A few, out of pure love
of the liquor he be«towe<l, wouM still have <loul»t<Hl the l>U>od-
fruiltiiH-iw of their |>atri>n ; hut even they could not \'H\fi confront
the rejtroacheH of their fellows. And so, with a late and hesitating
virtue, they wi|K-<l their lij* of the niunlerer's malt, ami consenteii
to believe him very Iwul imlee«l. Willis, am one by oue dropt from
hiuj. j,Tew fiercely confident ; battlim: with brazen brow the l<Mika
of all. Uncipial fight ! The iKvil is a coward in the entl : and
so, afler a show of scornful op{M>8ition, the poor cowed fiend gave
Uj) the contest .ind K'-K-rt Willis went no man kii>w whither. A
s;id blow w!u* this to Ju.sticc Wattles. That he slmidil have sjtent
w) much money on so hopeless a creature ! Tliat he should have
pone to the heavy exixML-M; of Mr. Montecute Crawley ! That at
So vaat a price he should have saved hi.s kini<nian from the gibbet,—
when the de«|>«-rate fool hail hung himself in the opinion of all
men ! It would have been Wtter, far cheaper, to let truth ti-Jte
it.s course, — but then there was the respectability of the family!
And yet, it vf:\A some j»<x)r c*»nsolation to the puzzled justice, thjit
hi>wever a Willis might have de«en-ed the gallows, he had escaped
it: opinion was a hanl thing; but at the hanle.>*t it wa.s not
tightened hemp. NoIkhIv could say that a Willi.s was ever hanged.
Tnith, after all, had not been sacrificed for nothing ; and that was
some comfort.

In due course, the Kent waggon brought St. Giles to Ix>ndon.
It w;i3 alv'ut five o'chx-k on a bright summer morning when
St. Giles, with rapturous eyes lookeil ujwn the Borough, "i'ea, he
hatl returned to his hanl-nursing mother, Ix»ndon. She had lAught
him to pick and steal, and lie, and when yet a child, to anticipate
iniquities of men ; and then — foolish, guilty mother I — she had
scouri:ed her younirling for his nau^'htiness ; lielienng by the
severity of her ch;tsti.sement best to show her sconi of vice, her
love of goodness. And St. Giles, as the waggon ci-awled alonfr,
lay full length ujwn the straw, and mused upon the frequent
haunts of his eai-ly ilays.

Sweet and balmy sweet such thoughts! Refreshing to the soul,
jade<l and fretful from the fight of men, to slake its thirst for
pence and beautv, at the fountain of memory, when childhood

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMliS. lo5

Befnunl to have playe«l with ai)gcls ! What a hi x any cif the
lieurt, to CJist oH" the present like a fuul, hegriiaed gmiueiit,
ant I let tlie soul walk awhile in the naketl inuocence of the
jt.ist I Hei-e is the scene <>f a ha])i(y chililhood. It is lull of
gi uciuus sh;»j»es — a resurrection of the gentle, beautiful ! We liave
lauj in that held, and thought the l;uk — a treiuhiing, fluttering
speck of song above us — must l>e very ne.ir to God. That hell
is tilled with sweetest memories, as witli riowei-s. And there
is an old— old tree. How often have we climbed it, and, throned
amid its boughs, have read a wondrous book ; u something
beating like a drum at our heiu't : a something that contusing \i.-'
with a dim sense of glory, hiu» filled our soul with a strange, liiful
music, as with the sounds of a far-coming triumph ! Such may
be the memories of a happy youth ! And what, jis St. Giles, witli
his face le;uiiiig on his propjx-d hands, gjczed t'rom the wagg<jn,
what, seeing the scenes of his childhood — what sit w he? Alany
things big with many thoughts.

Yeji ; how Well he knew that court ! Six-aiul-thirty hours'
Imnger had raged in his vitiiLs, juul with a despenite plunge, he had
ilived into a iX)cket. It wjus empty. But the would-be thief had
been felt, and w.is hotly pursuttl. lie turned up that court, lie
w;is very 3oung, then ; and, like a fool, knew not the iiis-aiul-outs of
tlie Borough. He nm up the court ; there w;i3 no outlet ; mid the
young thief w:is caught like a stoat in a trap. And now St. Giles
sees the joy of his pursuer ; and almo.st feels the blow the good,
indigiuant man, dealt as with a flail upon the half-naked child.
Ay, and it was at that post, that his foot slipt when he was chiLsed
by the beadle for stealijig two potatoes from a dwilers sack. — Ye&
and opjMisite that very house, the beadle laid about him with his
cane ; and there it was that the big, raw-boned, painted woman,
tore him from the beadle's grasj) ; and giving him a pemiy, told
him witli an oath to run for very life. Such were the memories
— yes, every turning had such — that thronged ujion St. Giles,
gazing in thought upon his childhood days, from the Kent wiiggon.

And then happier thoughts |x>ssessed our hero. He lotjked
ag:un and again at the cxird given liim by St. James ; and that
bit of j)aj)er with its few words was a tidisman to his soul ; a
written spt 11 that threw a beauty and a brightness about the mean-
est things of London. Human lite moved about him full of hope
ami dignity. He had — or would have — an interest in the great
gaint^ — how great and how small ! — of men. He would no longer
be a man-wolf; a wretched thing to hunt and be hunted. He
would know the daily sweets of honest bread, and sleep the sleep
CI peace. What a promotion in the scale of life ! What unhoped
leLieity, to be permitted to be honest, gentle ! What a saving

166 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

mercy, to >)e allowed to •walk upright with tho.se he micrht W-crin to
l..ok upon as fellow-orealuri's ! Auil na St. Giles tlidught of this,
he could have fallen ujwn las knees on I..ondon stones, in thauk-
fnliicss and jwnitence. Solitude to him had been a softening
teacher, ^feditation ha<l come uixm hiui in the f;u- wilds : and
the isolated, liadgetl, and toiling felon for the first time thought
of the mysterj-of himself ; for the first time dareil to li>ok in upon
his heart — a lf)ok that some who p:u»s for hold men sonietimes care
not to take — and he resolve*! to fight agaiiust what seemed his fate.
He wojild get l>ack to the world. Despite of the sentence that
hade him not to hope, he would hope. Though doomcfl to be a
life-U>ng human instiument, a drudging cjirca-se, he would win
back his nianbooil — he would return U) life a self-respecting being.
And this jiossf-ssing will U-at, coiisL-uit as a pulse, within him.
And these f»'tlings, though the unl\itoreil man could give them no
harmonious utterance, still sustained and southed him, and now,
in London street.s, made nuwt ho|H.ful mu.sic to his soul.

And St. Giles piissed through »dd fiuuiliar places, and would not
ponder on the miserable memories that thronged them. No ; with
a strong will, he laid the rising ghosts of his boyish days, and
Mt>nt with growing stoutness on. He was bound for St. James's-
si[uare, and the way befon.' him was a path of plwisure. How
changed was London-bridge I To his boyhootl it had been a mass
of smoked, grinn^l stone : and now it s^t-med a .shajn; of grace and
iK-auty. ]le lookt^l, too, at tlie tliousand shijx* that, wherever the
sea rtdled, with mute gigantic power ttdtl the strength, the wealth,
;ind enterprise of Kngl.-uid. He looked, and would not think of tlie
convict craft, laden with crime.s, and wrong, and bla-sphemy, th;U
had Ikuiic him to his doom. Ue passed along, through Lombard-
street to the B.'Uik ; antl he paused and smiled as he thought of the
time when the place seemetl to him a ])Kace of awful splendour ; a
visilde heaven, .ind the}' he thought who wont fur moneys there.
'' angels ascending and descending." And above all, what a glory
it woulil lie fr«r him — a fame surpassing all burglarious renown —
to rob that Bank of England. And then he saw the Mansiun-
liouse ; and thought of the severe and solemn Alderman who
had sentenced him to Bridewell. And then St. Giles passed
along Chea]>side, and stood before St. Paul's church ; and then for
the first time felt somewhat of its tremendous beauty. It had l>een
to him a mere mountain of stone, with a clock upon it : and now,
he felt himself suKlued, refined, as the Cathedral, like some
strange harmony, .sank into his soul. He thought, too, of Christ
and the fishermen and tent-makers Christ had glorified — for he
had learned to read of them when a felon in the wilderness, — and
Lis heart >;luwed with Cliristiiui fervour at Ciuist's temple, — that

ST. niLKS AND .bT. JAMES. 167

visiV)le glory iiKidc ;uiil tlcMlicutcJ to the pur oses of the Groat
Teacher — most luighty in his geutleuetss, most triunijihant by his
endurance, most adorable by the arity that he taught to men, as
tlie inimortjd link to hold them still to God ! Could expression
have breatheJ upon the tiMUghts of St. Giles, thus he might have
delivered himself. lie spoke not : but stood gazing at the church,
and thinking what a blessing it wa-s u])i)n a land, wherein temi)les
f(jr such purposes abounded ; where solemn men set themselves
apart from the sordid ways of life, keeping their minds calm
and undefiled from the chink and touch of money, to heed of
nothing but the fainting, bk-eding, erring hearts of those who had
dwelt upon the earth as though the eaith had never a grave. Yes ;
it wjis a ble.ssing to breathe in such a lautl. It was a destiuy
dcmaniling a daily prayer of thiujkfulnesa, to know that Christian
charily wiis preached from a thousand autl a thousand pulpits ; to
feel that the spirits of the Apostles, their wirnest, truthful spirits,
(ere solemniscil by inspiration), still juiimated bishops, (K-;u»s, and
rectoi-s ; and even c;ist a glory on the worn coats of how manv
thous.md curates ! St. Giles, the returned transport, the igno-
rant and sinning man ; St. Giles, whose innocence of childhood
liad l)een ittfcretl to the Moloch selrishncss of society, even
St. Giles felt all this ; and with swelling heart and the teai-s in
Ids tlu-oat, p;issed down Ludgate-Hill with a fervent devotion,
thanking liis (iod who had brought him from the laud of cannibals
to the land of Christians.

And now is St. Giles aroused by a stream of people passing
upward and downwju'd, and as though led by one purpose turning
into the Old Ixiiley. "What 's this crowd about ?" he asked of
one, :ind ere he w;is answered, he saw far down at Newgate door
a scalfold and a beam ; and a mass of human creatures, crowded
like bees, gazing upon them. — " What 's this ? " again asked
St. Giles, and he felt the sickness of death U])on him.

" What 's this ! " cried a fellow with a sneering leer, — " Why,
where do you come from to ask that ? VTliy it's king George's
new drop, and this is the first day he 's going to try it. No more
lianging at Tybum now ; no more drinks of ale at the Pound. It 's
all now to be the matter of a minute, they say. But it will never
answer — it never does ; none of these new-fangled things. Nothing
like the old horse and cart, take my word for it. Besides, all
London could see something of the show when they went to
Tyburn, while next to nobody can be 'commodated in the Old
Bailey. But it ser^-es me right. If I hadn't got so precious
drunk last night, I 'd been up in time to have got a place near the
gallows. Silence ! There goes eight o'clock."

And as the b nir was stx'uck by the beUs of Christian churches — ■

188 ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMCS.

c>f ehurchfa built in ChriKt's nanie, who couijueretl vciipeance by
cliarity — men were led forth to be 8lrani,'le(l by men, thuir liMt
iiioiiients 8<>othcil and made hopeful by ('hrist's clerjrjman.

There wan a sudden hush amontj the cnnvd ; and St. Gileo
flit himself roote«l where he stofxi ; witl> Raping mouth, and eyes
frlaring towanU Newjjate. The criminaln, tnisae<l for the gnive,
fame out. " One — two— three — four — tive — six — seven," — rrii-d
St. Giles in a rising wream, numbering the wretches as t icli
{HLSMil to Ilia pUice — " eight — nine — ten — good God ! how many J "
— and terror-strirken, he could coinit no further.

And titcu the la^t night's bacchanal next St. Giles, took up the
rt'<*koning, counting aa he would have eount«<l so many logs of
wiKjd, so many sacks of coals. — " Eight — nine — t^n — eleven —
twidve — thirteen — fourtet-n — ilftetMi. That's all; yes, it wju< to
be fifteen : that little chap 's the last. Fifteen."

Iteader, pauik; a moment I)nk with sudden
indignation at the writer wh", to make the ingr«'«li«'iil« <>( ' y

" thick and slab," invents this h"rn»r. No ; he but co: m

the chronicUa of the Old liailey. Tuni to them, incrv«luloua
reader, and vuu will tind that on the Ivdmy mi.rniiig of the tw« iity-
thinl of Jinie, in the yejir t«f our Gtriiide^l h<>nl, one thi>n-<ttid
8«'ven hundrinl ai>d eighty four, fifteen humiui Ixingn were haiiL;"d
in front of Newgate : death-olferings to the laws and virtues of
merry England. It vtas the first day, t^>o, <.f the new drop ; and
the novel engine mu.st lie ^rac-il with a gallant nund>er. Eame
h:is her laurels ; why sliouM not Justice have her ropes ? Tliere
wa.s, to<i, a ! " ' devil nuist joke after some such

fashion — in t: . ._ •... a :uice an<l cajwicity of a new gallows,
by so much weight of human flesh convulsetl in the death-
struggle. And »t^ — great w.is the legislative wit I — there were
fifteen Ui be strangled. A gix-at exaiuple this to an erring, law-
bieaking world of — the strength of timl>er !

The lA>nls of the Privy Council had met, with gootl king Ge<irge
the Thinl at their head, to correct the vicxs of the Lind. lliere
w.is de;ith tor the burglar — tlcath for the footpa«l — death for the
sheeji-stealer — death, death, death for a hundred different sinners.
The hangman w;is the one social physician, and w.is th<.'U;;ht to
cure all jvccaut ills. Uorrible, ghastly ijuack ! And yet the
king's majesty lielieved in the hi<leous mountebank, and every
week, by the advice of his Lords of the Council — the wise men
of St. James's, the Magi of the kingdom, the staiTCtl and gartered
]>liilosoi)hei"s and jihilanthropists — every week did sacred royalty
call in Jack Ketch to cure his soul-sick children ! Yea ; it was
with the hangman's fineers, that the father <>f his people touched
the People's Evil. And if in sooth the malady was not allayed,

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 169

it w.xs tor lie lack uf jintcMvial tiMurm;,', since wo tiiul in the Old
Bjiilcy Kegisier — ihut thing uf 1)Iim«I, and l>ig<>try, and ign«»ran<v.
• — that, in one little year, in ahnuat the first twelvemonth uf the
new tlroji, tiie hanf,'nian wius sent to ninety-six wretehea, who were
jjnblidy cureif of their ills in the front uf Newgate ! And the
King iu Council thought there was uu uuch remedy for crime as
the gnive ; and therefore, hy the coun-sel of his privy sagep failed
not tu i)rescribe death-warnmt-s. To reform man was a teaioua
and uncertain lalxjur : now luuiging wjuj the sure work of a
minute.

Oh, that tlie ghosts of all the martjrrs of the OM Railey — and,
thinigh our profession of faith may make some moral anti-
quari:ui8 stare, it is our invincible belief that the Newgate
Calenilar h.is its black array of uiartyi-s ; victims to ignorance,
perversene-ss, prejudice ; crealurea duume<i by the bigotry of the
Council table ; by the old haunting love of blood as the best cure
for worat of ills : — Oh, that the faces of all of these could look
fntm Newgate widls ! Tliat but for a moment the men who
stickle for the laws of death, as for some sweet household privi-
lege, might behold the griiu mistake ; the awful sacrilegious
l>lunder of tho past ; and, seeing, make amendment fur the
future.

A few minutes, and fifteen human creatures, sanctified with
inunortal soul.s, were carc^tses. The wiadom of the kinir ;uid
lords iu Council was made manifest to the world by fifteen scai-e-
crows to guilt, iKjndent, and swaying to and fi-o. A few minutes,
and the heai-t of Lundun, ay of the Old Bailey, beat equably as
Wfore. The crimiiuils were hanged, cut down, ainl the mob
se{>;irate»l only to meet — if it shoukl again please the wisdom of
the king iu council — for a like show on the ne.xt Monday ; Saint
Monday being, in the good old heiniieu times, the hangman's
special saints day.

The sutlerei-s were scarcely dead, when St. Giles staggered like
a drunken m;ui from the crowil. He made his way down Lud-
gale-hill, and sick and i-eeling, prtKjeeded up Fleet-street. He
saw, he felt that the peoi»Ie stared at him ; and the thought that
he was an escaped felou — tliat if detected he would as surely
reheai'se the bloody scene, as surely as those fifteen corses scarce
done struggling — seemed to wither him. He stumbled against a
post ; then, for a moment gathering energy for the etibrt, he turned
up Shoe-lane, and entereil a public-house. " A mug of water,
master ; " he asked of the landlord.

" It 's a liquor we don't sell," said the host, "and I can't afford
to give it away. Water ! T should think a dram of brandy would
be better for your complaint. Why, you look like a blue-ba^

170 ST. GIl.i:-; AND ST. .I.VMH-.

Cot no c.itrliiiiL,' sickness I liope ? If so, be so ;,'oo(l as to so to
aiiotlier liou.so. I 'vo novi-r yet had a ihiy'a illness, ai'.d I dou't
intend to have."

" Nothing Init a liltK- faint, master. I pa-ssed, just now, by the
()id r.Jiiley, and — and it's been too much fur uie."

" Wril, vou nuist have a ccldled sort of lieart, voii must. I
eliould have gone my.self, only I couldn't leave the bar ; fur they
tlnn't ham,' fifteen every day, anil — why, if now you nint as white
a.s if you "d run from the gallows youi>elf"

" Water, ma.ster — water,' cried SL Giles, — " and for the
brunily, I '11 take that afterwards."

" I'H'tter tjike it lirst," ««ud the lantllord, "but that's your
business. Wi-ll, I sliuuldn't much like sucli customers as you,"
he added, as St. Gile.-* hastily ijuatlVd the lyni|ilu " Now, do
take some of the real stuff ; or, with that cold rubbish, you '11 give
yourst'lf the aygur ;" and the host presse*! the bnimly.

" In a ndnute ; I'll just sit down a bit," 8;iid St. Giles, and
takinirthe brandy, he eiitere«l a side-room. It was empty. Seat-
ing hhn.self, with the uutasted liquor bt-fore him, he again saw the
vision that had api^illed aiul nxited him in the OM lijiiley. He
rould swiar to it — it w;is ehar to his eye as his own hand. All
but himsolf hail lii'held fifti-i-n felons on the drop, but he had
seen sixteen ; and the last, the sixteenth, was him.self ; yes, if in
a ghuss he had ever seen himself True ; it was but a vision — but
a vision that foreshadowed a horrid truth. He had escaped from
captivity to be luuiged for the crime. All the bright promises of
the morning had vanislied, and, in the bitterness of his thoughts,
he already sat in the glot>m of Newgate. Thus sunk in misery,
lie was unconscious of the entrance of a visitor, who, in a few
momcnt.s, startled him with a greeting.

" IWn to the Jug, mate ? A cruel fine day to be hanged on,
isn't it ? " asked the new-comer.

St. Giles looked at the speaker, who suddenly recoiled from
his ghmce, as from the glare of some wild beast. " ^^^ly,
what's the matter?" asked the man. "Do you think you'll
know rae again, that you stare in that way ? Perhai)s, you do
know me ? "

" Not at all, friend ; not at all ; though coming suddenly, you
startled me a little at first." But instantly, St. Giles recogniseil
his old master and temjiter, Tom Blast. Vice had cut still deeper
lines in his <\-icked face ; time had crowned him with its most
horrid crown, grey hail's U|X)n a guilty head ; time sat heavily
upon his back, yet St. G les knew his early tutor ; knew the
villain who had snared his boyhood, making him a doomed slave
for his natural life. Fierce thoughts rose in the heart of St. Giles,

ST. GILES AXD ST. JAMES. 171

as he ?azo(l iii)on the traitor who liad sold him ; a moment, anrl
lie could have dipped his hands in that old man's blood : another,
instant, and he looked upon him with compassion, with deepest
pity. The villain saw the change, and took new confidence.

" It 's luckvtimes for you, mate, if you can tipple brandy. If
I 've had nothing but five-farden beer since Tuesday, may I be
pisone<l ! "

" You may liave tliis for me," said St. Giles, and he gave
Blast the brandy, which the old knave greedily swallowed.

" Should like to meet with one o' your sort every day," cried
Blast, smackiiii,' his lii)3. " Never saw your like afore."

" Indeed / " a.sked St. Giles, who, from the tone and manner of
Blast, felt himself secure from discovery. " Indeed ? "

" No, never. You couldn't tell me where I could see you to-
morrow ? " asked Blast.

" Why, wlure may you be found — where do you live ?" ques-
tioned St. Giles quickly.

" Oh, I live at Ilorsleydown ; but I so like the look o' you,
mate, I '11 meet you here," answered Blast. " I 'm agreeable to
anything."

" Very well," said St. Giles, " say twelve o'clock ; we '11 have
another glass. Stay, you can have another now ; here's sixi)ence
for the treat. I nmst go ; goo<l bye ; " and St. Giles was hurrying
away, when Bhist seized him by the hand, and whilst our hero
shrunk and shook at his touch, swore that he was a gooil fi-Uow,
and a regular king. St. Giles, releasing himself, retreated quickly
from the house, casting frequent looks behind that he might
♦not be followed by his former friend, whom, it was his hope,
despite of the engagement of the morrow, never to behold again.
Nevertheless, St. Giles had yearned to have some further speech
with Blast. Half-a-dozen times the words were at his lips, and
then the fear of the chance of detection kept him dumb. And
then again he repented that he had not risked the peril, that he
might at once have known the fate of his mother. He had heard
no word of her. Was she dead ? Remembering what was her
life, he almost hoped so. Yet she was the only creature of his
blood : and, if still li^Hng, it would be to him some solace — some-
thinsr to link him anew to her — to snatch her old age from tlie
borroi-s that detiled it. W'ith these thoughts, St. Giles took his
■way up the Strand, and feeling a strange pleasure in the daring,
was soon in Bow-street. He jijiproached the office : the judg-
ment-seat where he was arraigned for his maiden theft. There at
the door, playing with his watch-chain — with almost the same face,
the same cut clothes, tlie same flower in his mouth, of fifteen yeai-s
before — stood Jeriy WTiistJe, oliicer. and prime thief-taker. A sort

172 ST. GILKS AXn ST. JAMKS.

of liuinan bl<XKl-houiiil, .is it seeiiuil expressly fn.shi<)nc<l by madam
imtiire, to watch aii<l seize on evil-doers. Ilf ajij>eareil to he sent
into thiH world with a iK-cwliar nose for rohU-rs ; scentinj^ them
through all their douhlings, although they Khould put seas Ix-tween
liiiu and them. And Jerry perfurnie<l Iuh ftinrtions witli Huch
extreme <;ixxl-humour, seizetl ujxjn a culprit wiih «ucii great good-
nature, that it seemed iraposHihle that deatii Hhould end a cere-
mony .HO conlially Ix'ijan. Jerry Wliistle would take a man to
Newgate a-s to a Lavem ; a place wherein iiuuian nature might
•with the fattest and the strongest enjoy itself.

As St. CJilea approarheil Whi.stle, he thought that worthy officer,
leanieil as he waw in human countenances, eyed him with u hnjlc
of rememhranco ; wherenixm, with a wise boldness, St. Giles
stepjwl up to him, an<l aske<l the way to Seven l^ials. "Straight
nli<ad, my tulip, and a-<k again," .said Jerry ; and ho continued to
suck his pink and chink his watch chain.

In a few minutes, St. Ciilea was in Short's Ganlens. IIo looked
upw.inls at the third fl<>"r ; whore his first friend, Mi-h. Ani.seed,
had carried him to her gentle-hearted loni, iJright Jem. No :
they were tenants there no longer. The windows, always bright,
were crust*"*! with dust; two were broken, and |>atche»l with
|)ai>er. And there was no tlower-|)nt, with its three-|H;imy worth
ol" nature from Covent-ganlen ; no singing-binl. St. Giles, with a
sinking of the heart, jiasseil on. It was plain he ha<l lost a ]iart of
8<>mt'thing that, in hi.s hours of exile, h.id maile Knu'lainl so fair a
land of pi-omi.-ie to him. He turned his .^teps towards Seven
Dials. lie would look up at the shop of the muthn-maker: of
c-'Uiae he could not make him.sclf known — at least n<^>t yet — to
that Bweet-andbitter philanthnjjM.-^t, Capstick : but it would be
something to see how time had dealt with him. A short 8[iace,
and St. (files approachesseil with biisket aiul bell. Cajtstick hatl departed ; no nmllin
graced the window. Tlie shop wa.s tenante«l by a small under-
taker ; a ti'adesmon who had to higgle with the jxjor for his price
of lajnng that eye-s<ire, |x«verty. in the anus of the maternal earth
who, leiiiit jKirtial of all mothers, trejits her offspring all alike.
" Can he be dead ? " thought St. Giles, for the moment uncon-
sciously associating his benefactor with the emblems of mortality •
as though death had come there and edged the nmllin-maker out.
Ere he could think another thought, St. Giles stood in the shop.
The master, whistling a jig of the time, was at his work, driving
tin tacks into a baby's coflin. The pawnbnjker wovdd have an-
other gown — a blanket, it might be — for those tin tacks ; but
that was nothing: why should wealth claim all the pride of tha
world, even where j)ride is said to leave us — at the grwe i

ST. (JlLi:S AND ST. JAMES. J 73

" Do you know whether 'Sh: Capstick 's alive ?" asked St. Giles
of tlie whistling wurkmaii.

" Can't say, I 'ra sure," auswenxl the undertaker. " I only
know I 've nctt yet hail the luek of buryinj.' him."

" I mean the* mulUn-maker, who lived here before you," said
St. (liles ; "you knew him i"

" 1 've heard of him, but never seen him — never want. ITe
w.'us a tailor ha w:u5 ruinetl hwt here. I aiy," — cried the under-
taker, with lui intended juke in his eye — " I sny, you don't w;uit
anything in my way 1 "

St. tJile.s, making no answer, stejit into the .street. He then
paused. Should he gi> fnrw.nrd ? He should have no luck tiiat
day, :uid he wouKl seek no further. And while he 8^» determined,
lie luiived toward.s his native nook — the fetid, lilthy comer, in
which lie liixt anielt wliat waa called the air. He walked towards
Hog I>>uie.

Again anil again did he pass iL Again and again did he
ap]iroach St. <iile.s'a C'hureh, and gazo ui)on the cl'>ck. It wjia
only teu ; t<x> early — he wa.s sure of that — to prt-sent himself in
St. .James's-stjuare. Otherwise he would rirst go there, aud return
to the I>jine un<ler cover of the night. He then cross<*d the w.iy,
and looked Uj> llie Lane. He saw not a face he knew. AW he
had left wei*e deail ; and new teniuita, other wretches, fighting
against want, .and gin, and typhus, were jireparing new loam for
the cliurchyard. No: he wmdd not seek now. He would come
in (he evening — it would W the be.st tiuie, the very best.

With this feeling, St. Giles turned away, and w:u> i)rocee<hng
• slowly onward, when he j>au8ed at a fihoi>-window. In a moment,
he felt a twitch at his ix>cket, aud turning, he saw a child of some
eight or teu yeju's old, c:irryiug away a silk h;uidkercliief that
Beeky, in exchange for the huswite, had force«l ui)on iiim. How
sudden, and how great w;t3 St. Giles's indignation at the villain
thief ! Never had St. Giles felt so strongly virtuous ! The pigniy
felon flew towanls Hog Lane ; ;md in a moment, St. Giles
followed hLm and stood at tlie threshold of the house wherein
the thief had taken shelter. St. Giles was about to enter, when
he w;is suddenly stopt by a man — that man was Tom iJList.

" Well, if this isn't luck ! " said Blast spreading himself in the
door-wav, to secure the retreat of the thief. " Who 'd ha' thought
we should ha' met so soon ? "

" All 's one for that," said St. Giles. " I 've been robbed, and
the young thief's here, aud you know it."

" A thief here ! Mind what you 're about, youag man : do
mind what you say, afore you take away the character of a honest
house. We 've uothin' here but our good name to live upon, and

i:» ST. GILES AND ST. J.VMKS.

8o do mind what you 'i*e al>out." And BList uttoreil this with
8uch mock caniestuetus looked so knuwiugly in the face of St.Cjiles,
tli.it, iincoimciouMly, he .nhnuik fn):n the si>i>aker ; who contiiiiieil ;
" l.H it likclv uow, that you o>ul<l think ohvIkhIv in this I-ine
Would pirk a gentleiiwat'ti {lockft ? lUfus yuur h tort I we're all
so honejtt lu-re, we are," and lila-st lau;;he«l.

" I thouirht you t<»ld mo," said St. (tilwi, confused, "that yoa
live<l souiewhcn* away at Ilnrxleydown."

" Lor love you I folks .xs are poor like un have, you know, a
dozi-n town-houiH-s ; Inaiidcs cunlry oiu'm under hedcj* and hay-
atackH. We can easily move alx»ut : we haven't niurh tt» Htop us.
Antl now, to hunineiw. You 'vc really lo«t your handkercher \ "

" Ti«n't that I care alxjut it," Raid St. Giles, ** only you see 'twas
given me l>y tu>melxMly."

" ( Jiven ! To lie Bure. Polkn do p%-e away thinps, don't they ?
All the world's pone mad, 1 think; jx-ople <la so give away."
St. Cili-s's hi-art fell at tho Liti ' ' Maiit look with which

lil;i.>*t j.'.-tzi'^l Ujxm him. It wa- , he wa« onif aj;ain in

the handfl of his master ; again in the fiower of the ilevil that hail
tii-st Hold him. " IIowponH-vi-r," continu«d I<laj«t, "if you've
ii-ally Ui>n roltl>ed. and the thief's in this houso, shall I gi> and
tVt.h a niliior J You <lon't think, sir, <loyou" — and HlaMt ginnnetl
an<l Uiwoil his head — " you <lon't think, sir, as how I'd p*Ttect
anylxxly a.s had hn>ke the lawn of my native land J Is it likely I
Only say the worL Shall I go fi.r a o*Jit*er ?"

" No ; never mind — it dt>enn't matter. Still, I 've a fancy for
that h.-uidkcn'her, an^l will [nv.- more th.-ui it « worth for it."

" Well, that 's like a nohkniaii, that is. Hen*, Jingo ! " — crie<l
Blast, stepping a pace or two into the {ka&Magi-, and Kiwling his
lustit-st — ".Hn;;o, here '« the ::<iriman a.H hnn \"^t the handkt relief
you fi>unil ; hring it down, my U-auty.'* CilnHlJont to tin- eonini.and,
a half-naki>tl child — with the very hx.k and maimer of St. Giles's
lonner self — instantly appeared, with the stolen goods in his hand.
"He's sich a lucky little chap, this is," — staid I^Last — "nothin's
lost herealxtut, that he d-x-sn't find it. CJivo thf fogle to the
gen'lman ; and who knows ? {H.>rha|)«, he Ml give you a guinea for
it." The Ijoy oheye<i the order, and 8t<M«l with ojk-h hand for the
rew.irxl. St, Giles was about to Inistow a shilling, when Tom
Blast sidled towanls him, and in an affected tone of confidence,
said, — " Couldn't think o" letting you do sich a thing."

"And why not?" asked St. Giles, becoming more and more
terrifieil at the Itold familiarity of the ruffian. " Why not ? "

" 'Tisn't right ; not at all proper ; not at all what I call natral"
— and h»»re Bl.ist whi.<jx-red in St. Giles's ear — "that money
should pass atween brothei-s."

ST. rjILKS AND ST. JAMES. 175

" Hrothfit^ ! " fric"*! St. (Jilf.'*.

" Hjl, .sir I " saiil lil^tst, Uikiiig IiIh funner manner, — "you don't
know what a woman lliat Mrs. St. Giles waa ! Shu was a goo<l
«<iul, wasn't she ] You must know that hor little hoy fill iu
trouMe aliout n jK)ny ; and tlien he wa.s in New;,'ate, K-ing nia<le
all right for Tybuni, jist as this little feller was Imrn. And then
they took and tnuisjtorted young St. Gill's ; and he nevt-r seed his
mother — never kuow'd nothin' that she'd got a little Iwhy."

" And she 's dead ! " crie<l St. Giles.

" Anil, thin I will say," answered Hla.st, "comfoi-tnhly liuri<.'<l.
She wjis a good soul — Ux) good for this world. You didn't know
St. Giles, did you ?" said ISljist with a laugh.

'' Why do you a.sk ?" replie*! the Iremhling trans|>ort.

" Bivause if you did, you must see the likeness. Come here.
Jingo," and i^last laid one haJid U]Min the urehin's head, and with
the other jKiinted out his many tniits of resemblance. " Tiiere 'a
the sjiine eye for a fogle — the same nose — the same everything.
And oh, isn't he fond o' ]M>nies, neither ! jist like his jMKjr dear
brother as is far away in liotjuiy liay. Dout you see that he's
the very spit on him 1 " cried HIast.

" I cant sjiy — how should I know ?" answerer! St. Giles, aUiut
to hurry otV ; and then he I'elt a stnmge int^-rist in the victim,
and ]viusch1 and asked — " Who takes care of him, now his mother 'd
gone ?

" lie h;u>*irt a friend in the world but me," said Blast.

" Gotl helj. him ! " thought St. Giles.

"And I — though you'll never think it" — continued Bhist, "1
love the little varmint, jist as much as if I was his own father."

CHAPTER XVn.

With many wonls did Tom Blast strive to assure St Giles that
the orjihnn boy had found a watchful jwirent in his mother's
friend ; and St, Giles was fain to look believingly. He saw his
own doomed childhood in the miserable, mLstaught creature : he
paw the wretch prejmred to sell him, in due season, to Newgate
shambles ; .ind yet the passion, the agony that tugged at the
transport's heart must be subdued : he must mask his hate -with
a calm look, must utter friendly words. " 'Twas kind of you,
mate, — very kind." said St. Giles, " to take such care of the
young cretur. "VN'cll, good day ; " and St. Giles coloui^d and

17'J ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

hUiminoivsl as he felt the eye of Blast wa« u\wn him — " we shall
liieot aqaiii."

" Von never saiil r tnier word,'* cried Bla«t, and he held forth
his hand. St. (Ji!i's l)r<-athe<l h'.iv'ly; he wciild rather have
^.jnLxjH'd a wi>lf hy the throat ; and tht-n he tov>k tlie hand that
had aJI but fitte<i the hftlter to his neck. " We shall meet aj^ii,"
wii'l I'.I.x-^t ; and tlic wopls, like iMxlilpjw furi<'.H, .Het-iniMl to St. Giles
ttj till the air aruund him. H«- ita-^sitl from the l.uie into the open
Btnvt, and still they fi>ll.>w»"«i him ; each syllahle 8eemc«l a devil
threatenintj him. " We shall meet apain," ran;j in his ears,
torturinjj his l)rain ; luid .ni,'ain he saw the j^diastly horror of the
niorninjL:; ; again l>eheld tho.se fifteen corne«l wirteh^s ; a^rnin
beheld the Bha<low of himself. He {tasseil on, cnwneil the roa«l ;
the Mtn'et was tl 1 ; the hnhbul* of the d.iy was at iti

h'ML,'ht ; Vet St. < ■ v nothing; but those piniuii*^] in-ii, and

the pr(>acher of I'hnst's wonl, in the name of his merciful Master,
s inners to U- in a moment strangled 1:)V the warrant of a

t'l.; . . ... kinu He fiaiLHt**!, and with his hand W-lwre his eyes,
leaned a'.rainst. a wall ; and piercing wonls in terrible dislinctneH.'*
feH u|x<n him, — " I am the n-^urrectii'n ainl the life." Hestart*--!,
aiid a few |i.ice8 fntm him, in St. Hi' ' :- ' rd, he l>'held

the p-HPl.th priest. The h<>ly man wa irial service

over ]«au|ter clay ; was H.anctifying ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
amid the whirl of life — the struggle and the roar of money-clawing
Ji<>ndon.

The ceremony went on. the solemn sentences tuned with the
uiusic of eternal ho|H v heanl through cri«-s of "Chairs t«>

mend," and ** Live m^' r^.n. i. ' The awful voice of Death seeiui^l
scotfeil, deride«l, by the reekle-vs bully, Life, The pniyer that eni-
balmi'«l |»oor human dust for the judgment, seemed :is measurcl
gibln-rish that oidil i ' •" r •' who hurried

t4> .and fi-o, as thoUi;li i ; .vs. Ainl th.it

staiti and seriousdooking maji, with upturned eyes ami sonorous
Voice, cljwl in a rol>e of while, and ho" 1 Ux^k, — why,

what w.'is he ? .Surely, he was pla}...., -..^e p.ul in a

I'iece of bu:unesa in which business men could have no iuterest.
The ceremony is not concludeil, and now comes an adventurous
trailer with a d!v»me<ljir}- and a monkey on its back, the wcll-
taught pug, with dolfeil feathered aip, sagaciously s<jliciting h.alf-
pence. And there, o]>p«>site the churchyard, the prayer of the
priest coming brokenly to his ears, is a tr ' :i smiling at his

counter, ringing the coin, and scarcely .- _, ihe Golgotha at

his door, .asking wh.at .-irticle he shall next have the ha|>piness io
show ? And thus in Lonih)n highways do Death and Life .shoulder
each other. And Life hteds not the foul, iiupcrti:ieut. w;a-nijig ;

ST. Giles and st. james. 177

but at the worst tliiiiks Death, when so very near, a nuisance. It
U maJe by familiarity a Uiisty, vulgar, unheaithy thing ; it is too
close a ni'i;ililM)ur to become a solemnity.

It h.'us been lielil to be a \vi.se, tleep-thouglited ordinance of the
EgA'ptiiuis tjiat at their banquets was aerveil a .skflcton, that, in
its grim niikedness, it might preach their coining nakedness to all
the revi-lh-ra : tliat it miL,'ht .show their future outline of bone,
wlun called to l:iy .aside the llej<hly garment, laocd iuid interhwed
with so divine a mystery of uer\*c8 that, subtle aa light, conveys
the bliss of being. And so was a skull made a moralist ; and
aolenui were the mute exhorUitioim fjdling from its grinning jaws;
j)rofou!id its comic teaching. For, ai»:u-t from ajsaociation, the
expression of a bare skriU has, to ourselves at Icajst, little in it
Herious : nay, there ha.M alw.nys seemed to us a quaint cheerfulness
in it. The cheik-l»ones look still puckeretl with a smile, :is though
contracteil when it tlung a.sidu the luask of life, and caught a
gliMi|ise of the on-<Mniing glory.

And the KL'\-]>ti.ins are lauded for their dinner skeleton. Indeed,
at the fii-st thought, it seems a notable way of teaching sobriety
and good manners. Yet, could wi- come at the truth — could we
know the very heaii. of the b.-ui(juet, throbbing at'ler lui hour or
so with hot wint', we should know, p;ujt dispute, how gi-ievously
the great IVeueher lione had failed in his puii>ose. We should
Lear of quick-witted Egypti.-uis nudcing unseendy jokes at hLs
gaunt nakedness ; we should see one reprobate idolatt-r of leeks
capping death's-hca*! with au empty bowl, even as a boy ventures
a joke upon his sleeping schooluKister. We should see another —
a tine young Theban — spirting wine in the cavernous eyelioles of
Death, bidiling him look double for the libation. But of these
jests we hear nothing ; we only hear of the wisdom of the where-
about of the skeleton, and nothing of the atlVonts that — we would
almost sweai* to the fact — its liuuili;u-ity with the living di-ew
upon it.

And therefore— oh, legislators I — remove city chtirchyards from
the shop-doors of citizens. Your goo<lly purjxise hiis altogether
failed. By huddling the dead with the living, it was doubtless
your benign intention to pl.ace a les-son continually in the eyes of
tnuling men — to show them how vjun and fleeting was eveu a cent.
j*er cent, profit — to prove that, however thumping the balance on
the books, Death, with his dirty, grave-yard lingers, might any
minut« come and wipe it out. The tiling has not prospered. How
many hackney-coach stands have with the best intention been
established near churchyards ! For hours and houi-s the drivers
sit and sit, with one eye upon the gi"ave, and another on the
pavement. And yet these men, so open to daily meditation — ao

ITS ST. GILES AND ST. JAME=l

AppMdcd to by tomlvatone eloquence — tlu-sc iiu'ii areacarcely to be
trusted with unweiglie*! bullion. We RjK'ak within measure whea
we 8uy tlmt ni>t alH)Vo a hiimln'*! tinifs have we hcanl of a luu'kney-
coachtnan ri-turiiinf,' Boven-ij^ai.s wliich — in a niuuient of vinous
enthu.sia.sm — ha»l Ix-en uu^aitle«lly tomliToil fur iJullings. No:
we could .swear it. Not above a hundreil times.

And still St. Giles stood, listening,' to the burial 8t*r>'ice, when be
felt 8<jmfthing ])ullinfj at his cuat-skirt. He luokt-d rouu'l, and
■aw his half-brother, the precocimis Jingo, lauded by Tom blikst,
at hirt side. " I .say," criotl the un-hiii, witli a wink, and iMiinting
t<jw;inU a .spot in the churchyard, "that '« where we put the old
'oman."

" Wh.-vt,— mother ? Wliero ? " cri.il St. (Jiles.

Jingu piikiil up a piece of broken tobaccopipe from the lave-
ment. " Ik't you a jxjund," said the boy, " I '11 hit the place.
Why, jist there ;" and unemngly he pitchetl the fnv},'meut on a
distant fjrave. Thin d"ine, Jini,'o mxlde^l in s«'lf-appn>val.

Without a Word, St. Giles entennl the churchyanl, and ap-
proached the gnive ; Jingo running' like a doij at hi^ side. " Pi>or
»<)ul I jHxir Soul I " cried St. (iiles ; and then, lookiuj^ r.arnesitly
duwn UJK^u the clay, he added, ''after ;ill. it 's a better place than
the I Ant — a l)etter place."

" IiU>s8 your 'art," said the Imjv, " that \s what mother said
afure bhe come here. She called me to her, and said she w.as
a-goin' to be 'appy at hist — and then there was a man as read to
her two or three times out ot a book, and would reaeinj,' appy, the man s-iid she was a wicked
crctur to think o' sich a thing. And then ditln't the old 'oman
wring lier hand-s, ainl call Tom Wast sich names — and didn't she
hug me like uothi:.'. aid 8 .n am out, and ;tsk who'd Uike care
o' mo ? "

" I'll take care of you," crieil St. Giles, and he ])lace<l an nrra
about the boy's neck. " be a good child, and 1 11 take care of
you : I promise it — here I promise it ; here, where \ywr mother
lies. And you will be a goo<l boy, won't you ? " asked St. Giles
affectionately, ami tears came into his eyes.

"Oh, won't I though !" cried Jingo, pdainly expecting some
reward for his ready promise.

"I know you will — I'm sure you will," 8.iid St. Giles, patting
the boy's he.-ul ; " and now go home, and you and I '11 meet again
afore long. Here 's a shilling for you ; and mind you take no more
handknchers." Jingo seized the money — ducked his he.id up
and duwn — and in a moment disappeared in Hog L.'ine. " I'll save
bim ti'oni that devil, — as God 's in heaven 1 will," cried St. Giles ;

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 179

Riid x<< tlimiul' ii'TVi'il witli ai,'<»'<l ]>uijM>se, he w.-ilked sharj)ly un.
Ue li:i(l suiMeiily fmincl in life a new resjion.sihility, and witli it
new (ieteniiliiatiuu. AVith this tliuuyht lie |)Ui-sue<l liia rapid way
towards the mansion of .St. Jann's. Witli trembling liaud he
struck the Iniftcker: a<,'ain aiul a^'ain, harder aud harder. Still
the dix>r rem.aiued clo.se<l : and then, to the faiicy of St. CJiles, the
lion'h head looke<l sneerinj^dy at him, nux-king his eri-and. " There's
nobody at home," said St. tJiles de.sixtiidiiigly, and at the winie
niomi*nt the door was opene<l l>y a footl.uy, a mont bright mulatto
of about fifteen There wjis an ease, a self-assurance in the youth,
that ]ir<ivid him to have Ix'en Ixmi f^>r the brilliant liverv that
aiiiirned him. lie seemed to have ci»me into the world, like a
paiT<M{uet, to disjiort in gaudy covering. Antl thus, a very
nestliuL,', he had been fledgetl with the St. James's livery ; fur
when seareely six years ol<l, he had licen prem.ntvtl an a sort of
doll footlKjy to one of the Mjirquesa'a dau;,'htei"s : like her j>et pug,
he wjLS such a curiou.-* little wretch — such a jiretty little monster.
H'm colour waj< so bri;^ht — his nose so dat — his eyes so sharj) —
and he h.id this advantage of the pug, his hair w.'uj so woolly.
Had he been made of the beat Nankin china — and not coiupounde<l
of Saxon and negro blootl — he ha«l seanvly l»*en more precious.
Still, human toy aa he was, he hatl this drawback from his'
humanity: Il:ilph — suoli wjls his name — grew out of the curious ;
he shot up from the .sijuab Indi:ui image into the lanky, loose-
jointed youth. Could he have remained all his life under four
feet, he would have continued a trea:5ure ; but he grew, and
growing, was lowered from the eminence of his chiltlhood to the
*flat walk of tliC servant.s'-hall. It wa.s so pretty to B«^e htm — like
an ellin dwarf from some Indian mine — tnj)ping with prayer-
book at his young lady's heels : but nxiture, with her old vulgarity,
would have her way, and so, Rilph, the son of Cesar Gum, who
was duly miuried to Kilty Muggs, who in good time duly buried
her African lord, — Pfalph, we say, was fast spindling into the
mere footman. And he had ever had a quick sense of the righta
of livery. It was a garb that, placing him in ne;ir and dear
communication with the noble, by consequence elevated him to a
height, not measurable by any moral bjirometer, above common
people. He lo<->ked from under his goid-laced hat, as from a kwlder,
down ujK>n the ^-^llgar. His mother, the widowed Gum, would in
her mild, maternal way remonstrate with her beloved child, on
his unchristi.m pride ; and when in tuni rebuked, as she never
failed to be, with exorbitant interest, she would comfort herself
by declaring, " that it was just so with his blessed father, who
was gone to a better place. He, too, had such a spirit." Little
thought St. Giles, as hj stood confronted with that young mulatto

» 2

180 ST. GILE3 AND ST. JAMES.

— at tlio time with all hid thoughts half-bune*l iu a pottK', fi-om
which lie hshwl up btrawK>rry after strawhcrry, conveying the
fruit with a juilicial aniack to his mouth, — little tiiought St. (Jileu
tliat he stood befun- the only child of the nejjro C'o.sar who, in
Covent (larden watch-hou.se, hail lH>me witness agjun.*»t him. As
yet St. Giles h-nd ventured no syllable of incjuiry, when young
Ralph, in hi.H own ni.isterly manner, iK-gan the dialogue.

" 1 say, if it isn't an uncivil thing to put to a gentlemiui, — how
much might you have give the Marqueus for this house ? You
couldn't tell u.s, nohow, could you ?" and master lijiiph sucked a
gtrawbtrry Ix-tween hi.s white, paternal teeth.

" Wliat do you mean, mate ? " aske<l St. tiiles, witli a stare.

llalph returned an astoni-shwl look at the fanuliarity, and then
sjMit a strawberry- -stalk on St. (.liles's foot. He then coniinueti
*' Whv, in coui^ie you ve bought tlie hous«>, or else yi>u M never
have made such a hullabaloo with the knocker. As I said afore,
how much might y<>u have give for it ?"

" I ask your pardon, I'm sure," said St. Gilea, " I thought at
last ever}-lKKly was out."

" KveniKxly but me — fur kitchen-maids go for nothing — is. But
what did you give for the house, I say ?" again repeated the
•witty Kal|'h. laughing at his own indomitable humour.

" L*>r, Ilalpli," crio«I a female head, hanging over the banister ;
*' lor, I^lph, why don't you answer the jxxir man ? " Saying
this, tlie head for a moment «lLsa]i]>eared, and then again showed
itself on the sliouldurs of a fat little woman, who bustled dowu
into the l\all.

" Now, I tell you what it is," said the youthful footman, glowing
very yellow, and holding up his fore-finger at the intruder, " if
you don't let me mind my busines-s, you sha'u't come here when
they're out at all, — now mind that,"

" Ha ! if only your dear father oould hear you, wouldn't it
break his heart ! For the seven years we lived together he never
said a crooked word to mc, and lialph, you know it. He wai a
man," said the widow in that earnest tone with which widows
Vould sometimes fjvin convey a sense of value of the i>ast
iuv.duable. " He was a man ! "

"I s'pose he was" — replied the filial Ealph — "you've said ao
such a many times : all I know is, I know nothing about him —
and I don't want to know nothing."

" AVell, if ever I thought to hear svioh words come out of tliat
livery ! Don't you expect that something will happ)en to you ?
Know notliing about your ot^ti father ! "When — only you 're a
shade or two lighter, for your dear father wasn't a-shamed of what
God give him to cover him with — only a shade or two, and you 'r©

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 181

as like liim as one crow 's like auolher." This ^Irs. Gum erapha-
tically flfiiclifd with — " Aiul you know you are."

Miistcr Rili>li Ciuiu turned a deeper and deeper yellow, a.s his
mother spoke.^ His indignation, however, at his avowed similitude
to his dejt.irtetl sire, wa-s too larj,'e t<> be v<ilulile through a human
mouth. He therefore turne«l abruptly fmm liis widowed parent,
and angrily shoutetl at St. Giles — " What do you want ] "

" I want his young lord.sliip," answeretl St. Giles. " He told
me to bring this," and St. (Jiles pre-sented the card.

" Well, I can read this plain enough," tsiid l{.dph,

"And if you can," cried Mrs. (turn, " who have you to tliank
for the l)K'K«ing but your de.ir father? Till his dying day, he
couldn't read, sweet fellow ; but he nia<le you a gentleman, and
yet you know nothing about him."

'• Vou shan't come here at all, if you can't behave yourself,"
cried M:i>ter ll;\lpli to his mother, evidently meaning to keep his
word. Then turning to St. Giles, he s;iid — " You'd better take
this to Mr. Tangle."

" Tangle — a — lawyer ? " crie<l St. Giles, with a quick recollec-
tion of that wise man of Newgate.

" He 's at the Committee at the Cocoa-Tree : I dare say it 's
■'lection busine.ss, and he'll send you down — if you 're worth the
money — with tlie other eliajts. I ilon't know nothing more alnjut
it," cried Master Ralph, perceiving that St. Giles was about to
make further eiKjuiry — " all I can sjiy t^ you is, the Cocoa-Tree."

" T 'm a going a little that way, yomig man," sjiid Mrs. Gum,
" and I '11 show you."

" And mind what I say," cried Ralph to his mother, closing
the door, and speaking with his face almost jammed K'tween it
and the po.<tern, '" mind what I say ; if you ciui't behave yourself,
you don't come no more here." And then he shut the door.

" Ha ! he doesn't mean it — not a bit of it," said Mrs. Gum.
" He '9 such a goo<l cretur ; so like his father — only a little more
lively."

" A Jill he 's dead ?" said St. Giles, not knowing well what to say.

" And I 'm jdone," sighed Mi-s. Gum. " His father was a
flower, that cretur was : he 'd a kissed the stones I walk upon.
He w.as too honest for this world. He caught his death — nothing
shall ever pei-suade me out of it — upon principle."

" After what fiishion ? " asked St. Giles.

" Why you see it was in a hard frost ; and poor soul ! if there
was a thing he couldn't 'bide in the world, it was frost. He
hate<l it worser than any snake ; and it was nat'ral, for he was
bom in a hot place, where monkeys and cocoa-nuts come from —
this is the way to the Cocoa-Tree. Well, it was a hard frost, and

182 ST. GILES AND i>T. JAMES.

he was out with the ciirri.iLjf at a statf l>iili at thi- Palar-e. He
wa« in full-<liv?>.H <tf cunk^^ — with those <lrL'a<if'ul nilk stockingn.
All the otluT HervantH put on their gait^re ; but he wouMu't — he
wan fV) {vxrtic'Lu- to oiilt-rH. Wrll, tlic (•••M lU-w t<» the ralvi* of
his le^^H, aiid then up into his Htoniach, and then — oh, youn^ man !
I 've never lookeil at silk rtt<tckinp» that I hav'n't «hiver»^^i a:;ain.
Tliat 8 the way to the Cocoa-Tree !" — And with thin, Mra. (Iun»,
possibly to hide her eiuutiun, HUildeuly tume*! a corner, and loft
8t. (iih'.H alone.

Hut he neetleU no pilotage : the Cocoa-Tree was well known to
hitu ; and with his Iwst haste he njado his way to its h<>.MpitaIity.
ArriviNl, he en<iuircd f'T Mr. TiUigle, and w.uj iniiue«lialfly shown
into the presence of that very active legalixt, who sat at the
h<-.id of a t-'ihle with a heap of ikijhts Wfirc him. ^n each siile
of the table Mit a mw of tiiou^htt'id int-n, each with a ^h\.-*» at his
haml, all convoke«l t<> pmtect the Hriti-nh Constitution, niinno-d a.s
it was in its nnwt vitjvl jwirt — a i>art, by the way, neldoin a;,'n'»-«l
ujxin by th<«<e who talk most aUiut it — by a camlidate for the
representation of the Ixirou^'h of Liijuorish ; an intruder u|K»n the
pn)|H'rty of the Manpietw of St. JanieM. The K>r«>ugh, time out of
mind, had In-cu the pn-jK-rty of tlie family : t«>atttnipt to wr^-st it
from the family ^nusp wiu-* little less felonious tli;in an atUii'k u|M»n
the family plate-chest. Twice or thrice there ha«l lieen munuurs
of a threatened contt-st ; but n<>w,on the retiremetit of Sir Cieorj^
Warmini;t<>n from the s«at, that his younj; lordship might gnu-e-
fuily drop himself into it, a pleUiiui cJUididate, with an alarming
amount of money, had al«s<ilutely declariil himself. Such audaeity
had stirred fnmi its depths the very purest patriotism of Mr.
T;u»gle, who lost no time in waiting u|H>n Mr. K<<lder — witii whom
since the first Sabl>ath inter% iew in Hetl I.,ion Square, he had kept
uj> a running ac<^uaint!iucei>hip, — anil immediately offering himself,
IkkIv and the precious soul the bo<ly conUtined, at the s«-rviee of
the Marquess. Mr. Fohler ha«l just the oitler of mind t*> |>erceive
and value the merits of Tangle ; and the lawyer was inst.vntly
appointcil as the head and heait of the committee sitting at the
Coc<xi-Tree, for his young Lordship's return for — in the wonls of
Tangle — his own sacred j>ro}H.*rty of Liquorish.

" Well, my goo<l young man," said Tangle to St. Giles, " you
of course are one of the right sort \ Vou come to give us a vote ?
To be sure you do. Well, there 's a post-chaise for you, dinuers
on the ri*ad — hot suppei-s, and a bottle of generous wine to send
you hapi)y to bed. His lordship seonis to give a bril>e ; Vjut every
honest voter has a right to exiject the c-ommon necessaries ot life."

" 1 've never a vote," said St. Giles, " nothing of the 8ort. I
wioL I had."

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 18!^

** You wish you lm<l, imlceil ! " cried Taiij^le. " None of your
inil>uili'iu-i', f'.ll.iw. What iirinps yini liero, tlien ?"

" I 'vf Ik-i'm to IiIh liinJMliiji'H Inmst', hikI tlioy sent me here.
ITis i(ii-<lNlil|i told uiu to come to him in I^jndon, and give me thia
cnj'd. He foliT nit' JUS how hf'd tiiku nu' into liis st-rvice," added
St. (Jilc'S willi a sli^dit bliuddor, fur a-t 'J'angle looked full upon
him, lie renienihered all the horrors of Newjjate — all bi-ouyht to
his nu'inorv hy that lf;.'a! st^ire. Years had |ia.sst'd over Tjuigle,
RU'l save that the lines iu his face were cut a little deeper, and
niarkfil a little blacker, liis were the same fe;itures — the very siuue
— that frowned on the l>oy horee-stcaler in tlie condemned cell.

*' Well, hi.s lonlsliip '.s not lure," tuiid Tan>,de ; "and he's too
buriV now to attend to such nitf jus you. Away with you."

" Sto|», Htoj>," cried a low, wlii.slling voice ; and a gentleman
with i very white, tliistlolown kind of hair, a Hinall, withered face,
and remarkably little eyes, called back 8t. (Jile.s. " I 8uj)|H)Se,
my man," sjiid the ftgwi Mr. Folder, putting on his be«t possible
hnik of vigour, and enileavouring to nnike the mo.st of hi.s shrunk
anatomy, " I 8up|KMse, my line fcilow, you c;ui fight i Eh 1 You
look as if yitu eould fight ?" And then the querist chuckletl, aiS
though he talketl of an enjoyment peculiarly adapted to man.
■ " Why, yes, sir," s.-iid St. Uile*i, " I cjui tight a little, I hope, in
a gocxl cause."

" \J\K>ii my life, Mr. Folder," said Tangle, " the world 's come
to sniiu-tliing when such jus he is to judge of causes."

'• Jiiit lies a stout fcilow — a very stout fellow," whispered
Folder to the lawyer ; " and as I 'm credibly informed that the
other side lia\e hiix*d an army of ruthans — I even know the very
carjiMitcr who Ikus made the bludgeons — why, we mu.stn't be
taken by surprise. I "m never for \'iuleuce ; but when our blessed
Constitution is threatened by a rabble, we can't be too strong."

Mr. Tangle noilded sagaciously at this, and again addressed
St. tiilcs. " Well, then, fellow, if you 're not above earning an
honest bit of bi-ead, we '11 find employment for you. Besides, you
may then see his lunlsliip, and he may have an opportunity of
knowing what you re woith."

" I 11 <lo anything for his lordsliip, bless him ! " cried St. Giles.

'* There, now, none of your blessings. We 're too old birds to be
caught with such chaff a^? that. Your duty a^ an honest man will
W to knock down everybo<ly that weai-s a yellow riband, and to
ask no questions." Such were the instructions of Tangle ; and
St. Giles, who had no other hope than to see his lordship, bowed
a seeming acquiescence.

" You may get some refi-eshment," whiffled Folder, " and so be
readv to &tiul with the next batch, ilind, however, at least until

184 ST. OILFS AND ST. JAMES.

the day of nomination, to ket'p yourself ?<il>fr ; on that day, why
evprvtliiiij; 's '/'/ /jAi'/wm. Wh»'n I say nil Uhilum, I iiK-nn that
you will l>o exjNi-twl to takf tin* U-st nifutiM totii'ftnd our hitmsej
oonittitutioiL And when I nay the l»e«t nietanji — "

" H«' knowii, Mr. Fi>i«lf«r ; \\v knows," int>'rni|>t<-d Tancrle.
" He'll drink like a fiHli.and ti^rlit like a cock ; I can tell itby th«
looks of him:" and with this coin|iliment the attorney wavctl
St. Gilea fr»)jn the ajtartmont ; a waiter taking' po>tw.s.^ii>n of him,
and nhowinu him to a smaller n>om wherein were conj^^-pitod al>out
a dor.en miimtrelH, enjH«cially hin<l l»y Taiij^lo to play away the
heartM and voice« of the votcni of Liquomh. Our MesHod consti-
tution wa« to W BU|ij»«»rte<l by a hicdnmi, two nr thn-e tnimjK'ts,
as many clarionets, an oUh>, a lidtlle or two, and a m<Hi.!*t triangle.
"There was nothing like music to bring folks uj»tn "the |Mdl," wa«
the avowal of Tant;le. " F<m.1.'« were always IihI by the ears.
When they heard ' Hearts of oiik,' th -y always thought they had
the commo<lity in their own breasts — an<l never j»aus*Hl at the
hnberk* oath, when ' Hritons .ntrike home ' was thnn<lering beside
'om. He'd carrie<l many an elertion with nothinv; but music,
eating an«l drinkin;j, and plenty of money. Miiuic was only
invented to gammon human n.iture ; aJid that wiis one of the
reasons Wi'im-n were iki fonil of it." And juiiniated by this
forlorn cr>t^l, Mr. Tangle h.id onlere*! the nfore?»aid min^tr^ds to
meet that day at the C<ic<v»-Tree that ihey might be duly trans-
porte<i to the Uirough of I,i There was no doubt th:it

niusici.'UH might have In'en eu^..^ ; ■:» or near the B{>ot ; but there
waa something ta.Htoful and generous in hiring harmony at the
mart of all luxuries — I/ondon. All the minstrels — A[)ollo is so
often half-brother to Ilacchua — were ver^* dnink ; and therefore
gave an upn^u-ioua wele..mc to St. (Jilea. Itrief, however, w.na
the greeting; for in a few minntes the waiter returned with
the inteIliL.'.'n<'e that " the van was at the d<K>r ; and th.it Mr.
Tangle's onier was that they should drive otTdin-ctly ; otherwio©
they wouldn't be at Liquorish that blej«e«l night." HereujKin
there was a clamorous onler for a gl.'v>cs all round ; the min.<»treU
being unanimous in their detcnnination not to stir a fi>ot or gtnke
a note in defence of the glorious con.stitution without it. Mr.
Tangle knew his mercenaries too well to oppotte such jiatrioti.sra ;
therefore the liquor was brought and fiwallowe«l, and the band,
with St. Giles among them, ellinlte*! into tlie strange, roomy vehicle
at the door ; the driver, with the tiame of Vtrandy burning in his face,
taking the reins. The horse.-^, employed on the occw^ion, ha«J evi-
dently Wen «legnule<l for the nonce. Tlioy were large, sleek,
gpirited creatures, prematurely remove*! from a carriage^ to whirl
a plebeian vehicle thirty miles from lyjudou, at the quickest speed.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMEIS. iP.S

Tlioro seoinoil ft hjuI, an omiiidus contrast between the driver and
tlio K-usLs. lie niij;lit continuf to liold tlie reins l>etween his
fiunliliu;:; fiiij^oj-H ; hi- ini;;ht nmintairi his seat ; the liorse.s mi^ht
not, conteniplimus of the liuinnn hnite alxive tlieni, c.ist off liia
government. Such were evidently the thoiightn of the waiter as
ho cast an eye {\\>m the irttv«lrt to the <h-iv»M-, and tlicn lant^heil aa
the wiokithieiw of hinnan nature will HnMi«'tinns lauj^h at its
inward propheey of nn8ehief. In that leer, the wait<»r foresaw
til" driver and the contentv of the eitnivau Kudd< nly weltering
like froj^s in a iliteh.

"All ready, j,'ennnen ?" hiocupj>ed the driver, trj'ing to li><>k
round at his li:a-ni<>nions huui.

" Wait a niinnte," criinl the firnt elarionet, wlio wa^ also the
leader ; " je«t a minute," juid then he muile his insiruin< nt give a
horrible Bcreatu luid grunt, whereu|Hju he cried "all ri;;ht," and
burst into "Stc the cunijUfring hem coiutH," his e<>-ni:it«'S fnllnw-
ing him witli all tin- pn-eihion jH.Tiuilt«d by rotigh-riding and hanl
drinking. And so they took their way from the Gicoa-Tree,
playing U-yund Slic)iv<litoh an ajitiei|»:it.irv stniin of triumph — a
glorifyint; niea-^ure that w.-ts to In ni!d the ctJUciuebt of young St.
Jiune.s in the causo of purity ajid tnith.

** I think we 'vo given 'em their iK-lly-fuIl now," at l<Migth said
the hautl».>y, ivmoving the in-aei'-brfakcr fit>m his liits. " We
medn'l play to the gri'on busht-M," and the musii-ian l<M>ke<l about
him at the ojtening country. " I say," anil he cjilled to the driver,
'• 1 do hear that the othi*r si<lo ian't a going to have no music at
all ; no flags ; no <tj>en hou-ses for indt'jiendent voters. A gorni
deal he knows altout the want« of the people. Bless his in-
nocence ! Thinks t<> get into Parliament witlmut music I"

*• Willi, it is wonderful," okscrved one of the tiddlers, an old,
thin-facwl, 8omnolent-l<K»king uuu\, with the tip of his noge like
oit old j)en dyed with red ink — " it is rMld to consider what igno-
nimu.ses they are that think to go into Parliament. Why you can
no more make a member witlmut music than bricks without
straw ; it is'nt to l»e done. Sjieechifjing's ver}' well ; but there's
nothing that stirs the hearts of the people, and makes 'em think
o' their right*, like a jolly kmd."

" One hiws of niv drum," observed the humble advocate of that
instrument, " sometimes goes more to make a Member of Parlia-
ment than all hia tine savinirs. Bless vour souls I if we c<juld only
come to the iHittom of the matter, we should tind that it was in
fact our instruments that very often made the law-makers, and not
the folks a-s vote for 'em : my big diiim 's represented in Par-
liament, though I dare be sworu there 's not a member that 'wiU
stoop to own It.''

186 ST. r.FLES AND ST. JAMES.

" An'l my rlarionut 's rcjuvsjeuteiJ too," cried the leader, advo-
catiii).; lii.» cl.iiin.

" Vrs, and my triangle," exclaimed the player of that three-
Ride<l iiistruiiieiit, wholly uncouHcioun of the s:itiric truth that fell
from him.

" Caj'itid ale here !" cried the driver, witli increasing thickness
of speech, nn he drew up at an uui-d<K)r. It wa.M jdain that the
county of I'i««ix — i)r at h-a-sl that p.irt of it that !v<l fmrn Ix)ndon
to Liijiiorish — wa-s peculiarly hlcsstd with jjoud ale : for at eveiy
inn, the driver pulletl up short, and proclainied the hcart-cheerinj?
news — " Capital ale here I" They were the oidy wnrdshe uttere<l
from th*? time he hatl f)a!vse«l Shoredilch-ohurch. Indee<l ho
8e«*me<l incajtable of any other sjH.'fch : he Bt-enieil a sort of human
jmrri't, n-ariMl and taujiht in a hrewerj", endowc<l vcith no other
HvllaUh's th.ui " Capital ah- hfie I " And still, as wo have hintwl,
the w-.nLs tjrt'w ihiokt-r ami thifker in Id."* mouth ; too thick to
droj) from his lip.s and so they nnnhK-il in his jaws, wliilst he oast
a ho|Kh~« look altout him, <li-sj>airiii;; to jfot tlu-m f)Ut ; VM at
eviiy mw h<>sl<lri nuikiii;^a sound that plainly m<-ant — "' Cajatal
ale here." Happily for him, acconlinj; to his dim idt^a of felicity,
he mundthil to <juirk intvrjtit'tera. Ilencf, ere half the jounjey
was aocompti.slu-<l, the drivi-r s^'enuil jM»ssesstMl of no nioi-e intel-
lii;enie than a lump of re»kini,' clay. He twiddled the reins
]>etween his tin^jers, ami sometimes ojioniil his eyea, that saw not
the hai-ks of the liors«-s they trie<l to hnik down U[>on. Hut
the hrutes wei-e intejli^'ent ; they, it npiH'ared, knew the roa/l ;
knew, it almost seemed so, the filthy ind»eeility of the driver ; and
so, with either a pity or contempt for the infinnity of human
nature, they took care v( their charioteer and hi.i hesoited ]>as-
sengers. True it is, St. Giles at times cjist anxious liKtks alK>ut
him ; at times, venturetl to hint a doubt of the sobriety of the
driver, whereujM.n, he was called a f<Mil, a cowanl, and a nincom-
|ioop, by his coiiijanions, who considennl his anxiety for the s^ifety
of his bones as an extreme j>iece of conceit, very «iffensive to the
rest of the company. "You won't break S4v>ner than any of u.s,
will you ? " a.-ked the first tiddle. " IV.side.s, you're too <lnuik
for any harm to come to you." St. Giles was sober as a water-
go*l. " A good deal too dnink ; for if you knew anytlwng — I say,
that wxs a jolt, wa.sn't it?" — (for the vehicle had bouuce«l so
violently against a milest<jne, that the shock half-opened the eyea
of the driver) — "you'd know that a man who's properly drunk
never comes to no sort of harm. There 's a good angel always
living in a bottle ; you 've only to empty it, and the angij takes
can^ of you directly : sees you home, if it's ever so dark, and
tinds the keyhole for you, if your hand is ever so unsteady. No ;

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 187

it 's only yniir sneak-uj) chaps, that are afiaid of the gla«s that
get into tmuhlo, break thtir Ixtiu-.s, and (/atcli rheiunatiz, ami all
that. \Vherea.s, if your skin 'a :us full of liquor as a grape 's full
of juice, you may lay yourself down in a ditch, like a little baby in
hia mother's I»j), and wake in the moniiug for all the world like a
oj>enini; lily."

The latter part of this sentence waa scarcely heard by St. Giles,
for the horses had .suildcniy bui-st into a galloj) ; the vehicle
8wayt?d to and fro, flew round u turning of the road, and striking
against the projecting roots of n huge tree, threw all its human
contents uilo a green-mantled pond on the otht-r side of the nnrrow
highway, one wheel rolling indt-pcndfuiiy olf. St Giles, uidiuit,
but ilrenched to the skin, immediately set about rescuing Ids all
but helpless com]>anion.-4. lie tugged au<l tugged at the inert
mass, the driver, and at len^tii sueceethd in dra^'i:ing him from
the pond, and sttting him against a b.ink. lie groaned, and his
lips moved, and then he gruntwl — "Capital ale here." The firet
clarionot scramblnl from the jk»oI. and seizim,' Ids inslrunifnt, that
had rolled into the nuid, immediattdy struck up " J>ee the con-
quering hero comes ! " The fii"st drum, inspircl by the melixiious
courage of his companion, banged away at the parchment, but
Alas I for ihe tii-st lidille : the bacchanal gooil angel, of which
he had but a ndimte since so loudly vaunted, had forsaken him
at his worst netnl ; and that ])rime Cremona wjis rescueil from
water, mud, and duchweeil with a broken arm. He wa.s, how-
ever, unconscious of the injury ; anil before he was well out of the
pond, assured St. Giles that if he would only have the kindnes.s
» and good-fellowship to let him alone, he could sleep where he was
like an angel.

It w.-is about ten o'clock at night, but for the season very dark.
St. CJiles, from the time that he couKl see the milestones, knew
that he must be near the wished-for borough. It was in vain to
talk to his companions. Some were senseless and stupiil ; some
roaring bravado, and some trying to give vent to the most hoirid
music. Again and again St. tides hallooed, but the louder he
ci"ied, the stronger the big di-um bt-at — the more demoniacally the
clarionet screamefl. There was no other way : he woukl instantly
seek the tii-st habitation, that he might return with succour to
the wet, the «liunk, and the wounded.

188 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

CHAPTER XVITI.

Sr. GiLRB \ihA run pretty briskly f<»r some quarter of nn hour,
^lu'ii lie ili.s<<.vcn*<l ui the distjince — glowim; amid tre<s — a gj>eok
ol' li^'ht. It woM plain, there wiu> a liuiiiaii hahitation, though
AAHV from the main ruad. He {mu.Heil fur a niunient : should he
fi lliiw the hii,'hway, or strike citf in the diriTtiun of that ta|H>r ?
Anulher niuineiit, luul he had lejipt the he«l;;e, and wad making
fa»t fur the iK-aeon. lie criMUk-tl two or three lields, and then
fuund hiniKelf in a winding gri*en hme : now, aa he ran on, he
lost the lij,'ht ; ajid now again, like hojx? renewed, it beamed upon
hini. At len^'th he came full u|K>n the homestead. It wa.i an
old circular dwelling ; so thronge«i al>out by tree and bush, that it
Boemeil imjootsible that any light within could manifest itj^elf' to
the «li.st;uit wayfarer. A tyj)e this, a.s it will ap[>iar, of the heart
of tlie moiiter. He nffecteil a solitude from the world : he believed
that he w.-us hidilen from his felluw-miui.and yet the inextinguish-
able giMxlness that glowed within him, made him a coni<tant niitrk
for the weary an«l wretche»J. For a brief space, St. Giles con-
sidered the cottage. It waa plastered with rough-ca«t ; at the
first glance, seemingly a i)oor, Hi|ualid n(M>k. IJut a closer 8ur\'»y
sliKWed it to lye a phu>e where the household go<ls fare<l not up>n
black breiul and mere water. The ganlen patch before it wia
HlUtI with choicest tlowers ; not a wee«l intruded its iiUe life upon
them. It witf a place where neatnes.s and comfort seemed t^
have met in happii«t society. St. Giles listened, and heard lew
voices within. At length, he knocked.

" Who 's there ? " said the master of the house. " If it 's for
the taxes, come in the morning."

" It's a ti-aveller," answere<l St. Giles, " that wants help for a
lot of j»oor souls that 's tumbled in a <litch."

In a moment the dour was opened, and a grey-headed, large-
fttcetl, burly man, with a candle in his hand, stood at the thres-
hold. He warily pl;iced the light Wtween the speaker and
himself shading it, and with a suspicious glance looked hard
upon St. Giles ; whose eager soul was in a moment in his eyes ;
and then, trembling from head to foot, he cried, " God be bleaeed,
«»ir — and is it indeed you ? "

" My name, traveller, is Cap.stick," said the man, bending hia
brows upon St. Giles, and looking determined to be too much for
the straujjer at hi:3 door ; a new comer, it was very likely, come

ST. GTLKS AND ST. JAMES. 18»

to trick him. " My name is UaiKstick, \vh;it may be yours ? IJere,
Jem, you slug — do you I^tiow tlii.s |)il;,'rim i "

Another moment, and Jem — oKl I'.right Jem, with grey grizzled
head, sliruiik face, and low hent shoulders — .stood in the door-way.
Ere Jem could speak, St. Giles discovered him : "And you, too,
here ! I>ord, whoM have hoiK'tl it ? "

" Don't know a feather ou him," said Jem, "but be seema to
know us, wet !us he is."

" \Vhy, that 's it, you see. A fellow from a horse-jiond will
know anylKKly who 's a sui>i)er and a betl to give him. It 's the
bawe part of our base nature." And then the misjinthrnpe turned
to St. (.JileM. " Well, my wet friend, jus yuu know my name and
Jem's, what mark may you carry in the world ? What name
have you been ruddled with f "

St. Gilt a paustnl a moment ; iuid then stammering said, "You
shall know that by-aiid-bye."

" Very well," cried C'a|>stick, "we can wait." Saying this, he
again su'pped 'oack into the cuttjige, and was about to close the
dour.

" Oh, never mind nie," cried St. Giles ; " I'll get on as I can ;
all I ask of you is to come and help the i>oor cretur» ; some of
'em dying with their hurts fur what 1 know."

"Jem," said Capstick, "we're fools to do it ; but it 's clear,
we wore born to be fools. So, get the lantern, that we may go
and bury the dead. Do make haste, Jem," urged Capstick with
strange mi.sjuithropy ; aUx'it Jem moved about with all the vigour
time had left him. " How you do crawl — though, after all, I
don't see why you .shouldn't. What 's people in a ditch to them
who 've a warm bed and a snug roof over 'em ? Then as for
dying, death 's every man's own business ; quite a private affair,
in which, as 1 see, nolxxly else has any right to ti'ouble himself.
Now, do come along, you old cateri)illiu-," and Capstick, staff in
hand, stept forth, Jem limping after him.

Whilst Cajistick leads the way — a shorter one than that
traversed by St. Giles — into the m;dn road, we may ex])lain to
the reader the combined causes that have presented the muffin-
maker and linkman as little other than eremites on the skirts of
the borough of Liijuorish. !Mr. Cajwtick had turned his muffins
into a sufficient number of guineas for the rest of his days, and
therefore determined to retire from Seven Dials to the coimtry.
Mrs. Capstick woidd never hear of going to be buried alive from
London ; and therefore resolved upon nothing more remote than
a suburban whereabout. Hackney, or Pimlico, or Islington, she
mi;^ht be brought to endure ; but no, if she knew herself, nothing
ghould make her go and live, as she pathetically put it, like an owl

190 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

in a husli. Capstick met lUl these f)l>jewtioii« in hia nsually K.f\y
wav : " she wius a fui>Uhi» woiuiui, Imt wtmlil Irani better." 'I'U'ia,
ugiiiii lUtd <igaiii he avuweti ; though no man had le^s faith iu the
avowal tlian himself. Slill, it kept up his ilii,Tiil_v continu.iliy to
c;iU hi.s wife a foolish wuinau ; all>eit, he wjia generally compelled
to yield to the folly he im|»erioii.sly condemned. Mattel's* were
at this cmiH, when suddenly Mrs Cajwlick fell .sick and died.
" She Would have been an e.vcellent creature," Capstiik .s:iid, " if
it had not been her misfortune to lie a woman. However, poor
soul ! she could not help that ; luul theix-fore, why should he
blame lier ?" Very often, Capstick woidd smj deliver himself', hiii
eyes tillin<i with teiu^ as he tried to twitch his li|»s into a cynicjil
smile at all womankind, and at the late Mi's. Capstick in jxirti-
cuhir. " Still," he wouM .s;iy, " she ha<l her virtue* Kvery day
of her life wouhl she walk round every one of his hhirl-bultons
that no one of them mi^^ht be misfling. He Luted all tomUitone
tiourishes, otherwise he would have had that siK-cial virtue — he
me:int the button.s — sjieciolly named m lur ejuWiph. One comfort,
however, he always had t^j tlunk of: whatever his love was for
lier, he never let her know it. Oh dear no I It w;us like showing
the weak part of a fortress to all comers : some tluy or the other
'twoulil he sure to Ik* Uiken adv;uitag»J of."

And the death of Mrs. Cjijwtick — the murtin-maker wouhl never
c»>nfess that for months he pined like a 8<dit:u-y dove at the losa —
lel\ him free to chowe his al»o«le. Whereuixm he quitte<l London,
and built him.self a house almost buried in a wood some two miles
from LiijuorLsh ; and this house, or hut, setting himself up ajs a
sort of Diogeni>s — kind, butter luarted im{Mjstor 1 — he called with
a tlourish. The Tub ! The satire was lost up-jD n«iarly all the
inhabitants of Liquorish, uumy of whom discovered, aa they
believed, a very natunJ cause for so stran<,'e a name. There waa
no tloubt — it was urged by many — that Capntick had, in his day,
made large suuls of money by smuggling : hence, out of pui-e
gratitude to the source of his fortune, he had ciUled his cottjige a
Tub. Indeed, two or three of the shrewder s<jrt dropt mystic
hints about the possibility of tiuding, somehow attached to the
Tub, an unlawful stilL People — this apothegm clenched the
suspicion in the hearts of some — jieople did not live iu a wood for
nothing I

Bright Jem had lost his cordial, good-natured mate, some four
or tive years before the death of Mi-s. Capstick. He would, iu his
de.^pair, tell the mulhu-maker that " his poor Susan hatl somehow
carried away his heart into her grave with her ; he had no mind
to do nothing." Sometimes, Uhx he would borrow a melancholy
similitude fiom the akittle-giound, and shaking his head, would

ST. GILKS AVD ST. JAMKS. 191

exclaim tliut " ho w;us u down pin." To tliis sorrow, the nniffiii-
mukcr woiiM apply what he thought a sharp pliih-sopliy !)}■ way
of cure. He wouhi mean to drop gall and vinegar into the hurts
of his jKwr and juHiror neiichhour — for, as Jeiu would often decLire,
Susan seenietl. to have taken away all his luck with lier — hut he
could ileal in nougiit sjive oil anil honey. C'apstick flourished, jind
Bright Jem faded. (Jreat and incre;L-;ing was the fame of the
niulHns ; hut the link waned, ami w.med, and Bright Jem,
weakened hy sickness, almost crippled by the effects of cold,
■would have heen p;ussed to the workhouse, Jis he would often s;iy,
to "j)ick oakuuk ;uid wait for the gi-ave-digger." This fate,
hov/ever,W!is wait led fii>ni him by the stony-hearletl mis;uitIiro|>e,
Capstiek ; by the nuitiin-maker, who, deehiring that all men were
wolvi-s and tigei-s, would, at their leju;t need, tend the carnivoi-a,
as though they wei-e brui.seil and wounded lambs, lle.ar him talk,
and he Would heap burning iishes on the he;ul of weak hum;uiity.
Watch liis doingx, and with moistened eyes he wouM pour a jtre-
cious ointment tliere. For yeai-s it was the weekly practice of
Capstiek to visit Jem in his lonely room in Short's Gardens, to
enjoy a fling at the world : to find out the Iwid marks of the
monster, or, ;is he wouM .-^ly, "to count the spots on the leopards
.coat." Every Friday, he would come and take his pipe with Jem,
that he might call all men wretches without having his wife to
contradict him ; when, having easeil his bile and lai<l Jem's
weekly jieiision on the nwuiteljiicce, he would return home with
lightened heart to busines.s. " The world 's a bad lot, Jem ; a
verv bad lot : how it 's l>een sutrere<l to grow as old as it is, it 's
more than I can tell. Like an old bK>ek of wood, it's tit for
nothing but burning : God bless you, Jem." And with this
opinion, with this benisou, would the muflin-maker commonly
depart.

Capstiek, however, when his wife died, resolved to carry Briglit
Jem into the country with hira. " Voull be a good deal of use
there. Jem," said the mufRn-maker, when he broke the business.

" Not a raoi-sel in the world," answered the humble ILnknian.
" I 've been used to nothing but London streets. I knows nothing
that live*! or grows in the country. Poor dear Susiin couM ne\ er
teach me primroses from polyjmtliuses, though she kuowed all
about 'em. I 'm a sinner, if I think I ever saw a cock-robin in all
my life. "Wliat can I do in the country ? "

" You shall IcuTi to gaiden, Jem. That 's the grand, the true
employment of man," cried the mufiin-maker, warming. " Why,
here have I been for years an old rasc;d, grinning, and bowing,
and ducking behind my counter to make money out of two-legged
things as tike a;> mybclf, — and do you call that the difirnity oi

192 ST. GILES AN'D ST. J.VMK3.

life f Do you call it tnUh, Jem ? Now, real iligrjity 'a in a real
Bpade ; real truth 'a in tlie eartlj. She gives U8 protitK — if we
onlv tU'-scrve Vin — a Iiuiwlrnl ami a huiidrLMlfulil, ami there's no
telling lies, no cheating <>no another to have V-ni. They 're a little
tlitVorent, Jem, to the profits we get uix>n 'Change. The earth,
liki- ilc.nr oitl Kve, \» always a mother to us ; wherea-s when men
tl.-al with men, how often ilu they go to work like so many Cains
and Abels, only they use thumping lies instead of clulw. I tell
you. Jem, you shall be my ganlener."

"I don't know an inion from a carmt, afore it's out o' the
ground," said I5right Jem, showing, as he tlionght, goo«l cause
iur:iiu8t the ap|K)intment. Capstick, however, overnded the
objection, and so, in <hie 8oa.«<on, Jem wjw housed in the Tub.

A.Mil thus, journeying :ici-o»w the tidds to the scene of .St. (Jiles's
disaster, have we e.xplaine<l to the reader the why and the
wlicrefure of the sudden ajijMiarauce of the njuflin-maker and his
frieml.

Arrivetl at the place of accident, not a soul was to be found.
The onlv evidence of the truth of St. Giles's storv w;us discover-
able in the overturned cai-avan, and the jmrtcil whe«'l. The
horses tin well as j>assengers had been taken on. Capstick took
the lantern from Jem, juul lookcil suspiciously around him. He
then belli the liglit to St. CiKa, trying to read his face ; and then
lie shiMik his head, as though baidked by what the mis.inthrope
Would call, the "brute-human hieroglyphs; the monkey, and owl,
and dog, and fox. that livinl in ever>- counteuance." St. (Jiles — he
w:ui wet JLS a fish — gave a slight shiver.

" It isn't above three miles to the Kose," said Capstirk.

" Tliank 'ee, sir ; is it straight on, sir ? I can run there in no
time, and a run won't do me no harm," said .St. Cile.H.

"The road's narrow; the hedges are high, there's no moon,
an»l you can't run verj' fast with a liuiteru," obsei-ved C'aj>8tick.

" I "11 lind my w.ay, sir, I 've no doubt on it — straight on ?" and
St. (jilos prep.oi-ed to start.

Capstick laid his hand upon St. Giles's arm, and then said aside
to Jem — " The ptwr \*Tetch is wet as water. He may miss his
road ; m.iy take a fever ; not that that would much matter, for
there 's vagabouils a plenty in the world. Still — there isn't a great
de:il of you, Jem ; and he 's a slimmish chap — and, if you ar'n't
very much afniid of your throat, I think for one night the fellow
might tuni in with you. "We're wrong in doing it," said Capstick
emj>hritically.

" Not ai all," said Jem, in a louder note.

'•Well, you sir," cried Capstick to St. Giles, "let's go back
again • yi. u "11 find this a neai-er road to bed than along the high-

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 193

way." Saying this, tlie uiastor of thu Tul> tunied back towards
his dwelling I'lace. "I can walk faater than you, Jem ; so I'll
pusli on ;" and tlie mutfin-iuaker raended his pace.

" "We live here quite by ourselves, just like a brace o' erniits,"
Baid Uright Jijii.

" All alone ! " crie<l St. Giles, "where 'a your wife, then ?"

" My wife ! I don't know how you know'd I ever had one —
n>Y wife, dear cretur ! is in one of them stars above us," s;iid Jem.
" luid whichever one it is, this I know, it isn't the woi-se for her
being in it." Jem ]iaused a moment ; and then, somewhat sadly,
asked, " How did \\>n know I ever had a wife I"

"Why," replied .St. (jiles, "you li>ok as if you had ; there's a
sort of marricil mark uix>n some people."

" And so there is ; a sort of wiMldin'-nng mark, just like the
mark of a collar. I didn't know I had it, though ; but here we
are," — and Bright Jem paused at the Tub, ami Capstick imme-
diately came to the door.

" After all, I've lH>en tliinking you may lo.se your way, an<l as
you 're a little wet, why iRriiajw you 'd better come in, and when
we've ha<l a pij>e or so, we'll see what's to be done." Such was
the hosjiitable invitation of Capstick. St. Giles pauseil a moment ;
whervui>on CajKstiek caught him by the arm, :uul crying — "Don't
Btay there, w;vsting the candle," pulled him in. "Now, as we
can't have :uiy of your wet r:\gs drowning the ))lace to give us all
cold, you '11 just go in there, and put on what comes to hand."
"With this, Cajvstick i>ointed to an inner room, which St. Giles
obediently entered, and finding there various articles of dress — all
.of thorn more tluui a thought too vast for him — he straightway
relieved himself of his well-soaked ajiparel, Bright Jem assisting
at the change.

" You might jump out on 'em," said Jem ; " but never mind
that ; a bad fit 's nothin' to a bad cold : I know that, for
I've had colds o' all sorts, and ought to be allowed to speak
en 'em."

" Jem, get the supper," cried Capstick. " You sometimes eat,
I suppose ? You 're not a cherub, quite ? " and the c}'nic of the
Tub ti-ied to smile very severely at his guest.

" Thank'ee, sir," said St. Giles, his heart warming towards his
old benefactor ; " I c;u: eat up an}-thing.''

" Bad as our slugs, Jem," observed Capstick ; " and they do
crawl fuid crawl over our cabbages, like the world's slander over
a good name. You may kill 'em, it's time ; but there's the slime,
Jem ; the slime."

" Here 's the bread and cheese, and all that 's left o' the
gammon o' bacon," remarked Jem, turning from the metaphorical

VOL. t o

U4 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

to tlie real. "Tlun-'s ono comfort, howsuiuever ; tlie ale isn't
out.'' Ami Jem authenticated hi.s speccli by s|ieLHlily producing
a large brown jug, crowned, as he said, "with a noble wig o'
fi-oth. There Lsu't a lawyer in all the land," added Jem, " with a
wi;; like that."

" No," said Capstick, who had by this time lighted his pipe ;
"nor with an%-thinj,' like it under it."

St. Gile.M, havin;; eaten, and tested the nieritH of the ale below
the wi;,' — which to his taate covered nothinj; fal.-^e or vapid^
looked around hira with a look of lai-ge content. The hospitable
cynic cau^^Jit the glance, and despite of himself, sniihMl lKMii'.,aily.

*• If you please, sir," said St. Giles, who could have fallen at
Capstick's feet, " I should like to tell you who I am."

'• Not to-night," s;iid Caj^tick, '" I don't want to Ijcar it. We're
early people here, and the cock always calls us out of bed. Take
another horn of ale ; or one, or two, or three, and then supjiose
you go to rest."

St. Giles filled the horn ; and then looking at Cajwtick in a way
that made liiui turn round and round in his ch:iir, for there was
an famestne>« in the m;ui that he could not, by his own theory
of liunian wickedness, account for, St. ( Jiles cried, " God bl-^^ja
you, sir !"

• Thank'ee, — that can do nobody any harm, whoever says it,
ail I whoever it 's said to. ITic same to you, and g*xKl ni^'ht," and
(Jji}»8tick rose U^) retire to his sleep. As he w:us leaving the room,
lie panseil at the door, and sjiid in a very louil voice, " You 've
lo:uled my pistols, of course, Jem ?"

" Pistols I " cried Jem, with all his face all wonder.
" For," said Cajistick, coughing, " I know the heart of man ;
and in a lonely place like this, pist<3ls — double-loatled- — ar'n't
si>mctimes the worst thin;;8 to have a^'ainst it. Good night,"
and shaking St. Giles by the hand, Cai>stick stalked from the
room looking tremendous sagacity.

" Shall I tell you who I am I " aske<l St. Giles, placing his hand
ou Jem's knee.

" Not to-night," said Jem. " It 's the only thing that my dear
Susan and me ever ijuarrelied aV>out — not that we ever quarrelled
— she was too good a soul fur that — but I never could be c»iri:)ii.s.
Now, somehow, women are so. If there 's only a mouse-hole iu
the house, it 's a relief to their mind to know where it is. Lor !
when we talk of quarrelling ! When she was alive, I .-ilwaj-B
thought she begim it — not, as I say, we ever quarrelled — but now
Elie's gO!.e, it 's me that seems the brute."

" Ai:l the wives of both of yon is dead ?" said St. Gile.s.

*' lioth Lu heaven," said Jem, with beautit'ul cojitideucj. '• Mis,

ST. GILES AND ST. J.XMES. 3W

Cap.stick usotl to keep hei-self a good tleal above Susan when she
wa.s here ; but, poor thing ! I dare say she 's found out her luia-
take now."

"Tli.it's a plaee, depend upon it," said St. Giles, " where we
make all t lie.se* niattei-s <iuite straight."

" No doubt on it," answered Jeiu ; " but after all, it 's a pity we
don't make 'em a little straightor here. 'Twoidd bring heaven a
little nearer this world, wouldn't it ?"

" Wull," crie.l St. Cliles, " 't will be all right ;it last."

" In course it will," said Jt-ni. " Nevei-tliele.>vs, n»y good feller
- — for I think you are a good feller — why should we wait for the
Ixst to begin it ? Will you have any more ale ? It isn't often a
stranger eonies here."

"Not a dro]) : I'm full; and my heart's fuller than all my
body. I,et 's go to be<l," s;vi(l St. (Jiles ; and immeiliately Jem
ro.se, and showed him to their ehanilKT.

Hours p:\sseil, and St. Giles could not sleep. All the scenes of
his long lit'e — for how does misery lengthen life, making grey-
headed men of mere maturity, comjxlling el:i!ilhoud, that should
have beautiful visions, foreshadowing VK?autiful truths around it
— to keep a <lay-book of the wrongs connnitteil on it ! — all these
Bcenes pjussi'd before the •waixlerer. Sueh a nature knows the
amount of life only by the balance of injury against it. And
such — nee<l we say so to the reader ? — was St. Giles. Hence,
young a.s he w:us, he was hoary in the haul e.xperience of a
soi'did wurlil. He lay, and counted year by year, nay, week by
week, of his life — as fii-st lighted by meniory — and was melted by
* gratitude, by wonder, at the accident that had >»rought him
lienealh the protection of those who, in all his after Wee, and
after misery, had still made in him a belief in goodness ; in
the world's charity : iu the inextinguishable kindness of the
human heart. All his cai'es — all his an.xieties for the future —
'cmed to p;iss away in the great assurance of his present
fortune. And so he lay sleepless, bewildered with happiness. At
length he slept.

The sun shone reproachfully into his room, as he was
arouse 1 by Bright Jem. " I say,"' said Jem, "will you come up,
or will you take another pull atween the sheets ? It 's nicer in
the garden, if you can only think so."

" To be sure," said St. Giles, " I 'm with you in a minute."
Hurrying on his clothes — he found them already dried and place*'
by his bed — he soon joined Jem in the garden.

" I can't do much of the rough work," said Jem, as he feebly
managed his spade ; " 'out it's wonderful how I 've taken to the
business for all that. Wlien I think o' the yeai-s and years I

o 2

196 ST. GILKS AXD ST. JAMES.

livL'il ill Sljnrt'.s (f.-ink'iw, never knowinj^ uliich siile o' tlie worltl
the auu got uj>^iujVL'r Bt-eing hiiu get uj» — uever heuring ii lui"d
whistle excej)t in a cage — thinking there \v;i^ hju-<Ily anytliing upou
the eartlj l)ut hricklayers" and car|H.'ntei->i' wurk, — wull, I «lo feel
it a ble.tsing in my <jK1 age, that 1 can seti the trees uf a summer
inurning waving about me. I do feel happy with all things,
seeing them to be so bright and beautiful, and brimuiing over, as
I may say, with Goil's gtHHlnesa."

" That *s true, Jem — very true," said St, Giles ; " and, I 'm ghid
to see it, you lo<jk hap{)y."

" As a butterfly," cried Jem, "Anil, Ixnl love you! when 1
Sometimes think what I w;is iii Ijondun ; when I tljink o' the i)oor
folks that 's there now — the poor creturs that 's as fine as may-
bugs for a year or so, and then tumble, ojh 1 may sar, in the nnid,
and got trod on by anyb<xly, till tlay die and are no more thought
on than pi.suned rats, — well, I am thankful that I 've Iteen biought
into this place to feel myself, as I niay say, somewhat cleaned from
London mud, and my hwirt opcnod by the sweet and pretty ihingg
ulKjut me."

" And you djihj't know nothing of ganlening, Jem, when you
firet come ? " s;ud St. Giles.

" I tell y<iu, not a bit. But you 've no thouglit on't how soon
A man with the will In him, leanis. I shall uever forget what
Mr. CijKHliok said to me, when we first come, and I diil n't tliink I
Could tjike to it, 'Jem,' says he to me, 'a gjirden is a beautiful
IxHik, writ by thu finger of God ; every flower and every leaf's a
letter; you've only to learn 'em — -and he's a poor dunce that
ftui't, if he will, tlo that — to learn 'cm, and join 'em, and then to
go on reading and reading, and you 'U tind youi-self c:uTie<l away
fi-om the earth to the skies by the beautiful story you 're going
through.' "

'' Mr,Capetlck ! He 's a kind, humane cretur," said St. Giles.

" He 's not a mjin," said Jem with emphasis ; " he 's a lump o'
Jiouey that would pass Itself otf for bitter aljys. A lump o' honey !
I often say the bees made him. Yes," and Jem returned to hla
garden — " you don't know what beautiful thoughts — for they 're
nothing short — grow out o' the ground, and se^m to talk to a man.
And then there 's sonyi flowei-s, they 8,lways seem to me like over-
dutiful children : tend 'em ever so little, fuid they come up, and
flourish, and show, as I may say, their bright and happy faces to
you. Now, look here," and Jem pointed to a flower at his foot.
" I sowed this last year— jist flung it in the mould — and yon 'd
hariily believe it, it's come up agin by itself. You wouldn't think
now," — anil Jem looked suddenly professorial — " you ii^ouldn^^
think it Wiis a Fimiico specUsiino tulipum hvJLluin^''^

ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMES. 197

" What '8 that iii English 1 " asked St. Giles.

"Ain't gut iiij othei" name, ;is I know of; but there is ui>
doubt it's a tulup. 1 ilidn't think I couKl do it," said Jem, with
tJ»e smallest touch of seit-comijlacency, " but I know the Latin
names of half Ihe tlowei-s you »ee."

" Well, they dou't smell no sweeter for that, do they ? " cried
St. (J ilea.

Bri^'lit Jera paused a moment ; and then, with a half-serioua
iace, answered, " i don't know that they don't."

St. Giles felt no disposition to argue the point ; therefore
Buddeidy changed his giouud. " Isn't Mr. Capstick late ? " he
asked.

" Late ! he 's never late," cried Bright Jem. " He 's left the
Tub these two hours. Gone Jbr a walk."

" The Tub ! What Tub I " askeil St. Giles.

"Why, the house. It's called the Tub, after a tub that some
wise man — aa Mr. Capstick tells me he was — livi-d in a niajiy
thou.>;and yeai-s ago. Mr. Uaj>stick swears it wjus a vinegar tub."

" Well, that's droll," said St. Giles. " Call a hou.-^e a tub ? "

" Why not ? But if you 've an^lhing to say agjuust it, here
conies the master." And as Bright Jem spoke, the early misan-
thrope entered the garden.

CHAPTER XIX.

Mr. CAreriCK, however, came not alone. A pace or two behind
him followed an old m;ui, whose kind, familiar greeting of Bright
Jem showeil him to be no stranger at the hermitage. " Well,
James," said the visitor, " and how is all your blooming family ?"
Kingctip and he looked beniguantly at the shrubs and flowers.

" Why, thank 'ee, sir, as you see," said Bright Jem, .smiling
paternally, aiul with his spade tenderly patting a lump of eartli,
as thougli he loved it. " My family 's jist like any other chil-
dren ; some back'.ard, some for'ard- Some will run up, and bnuich
out like this Unapsis JS'iffger — "

" 1 perceive," said the \Tsitor, with his best gravity — " it is the
common mustard."

"Ji.st so," affirmed Jem very stolidly, "and some will grow
jist as you trim 'em, like this buckshoiise semperwiruu/s."

" Very true ; the box-plant is obedient," said the new-comer,
with continued deference to Jem's scholarship. "The box iu
obedient."

l»S ST. GILE3 AS'D ST. J.\ME3.

" The \xix, or, as we cill it, the buclsIiouM semperwiringt, \m
a;;oo<l (leal like a 'oniaii." saiil Ji-in, very contidoutly.

Cajwtick trum|K>te«l a loud, slmrt cou^'h ; his fretjuent manuer,
whf n aKtonushed or offciidt'd by aiiy huiuaii assM-rtiuii.

" Like a 'oman," repi-ate*! Join, at once uiulcrxtaiiding the
ohjection of hiit ]Mitroii. " Aud I "11 prove it. You 've only p»t to
tiiin it into a sli.ijte at first, and what a little truulile makes it
alwavH ket'p to it I"

" Tliere may l»e something in the giuiile," said Cajwtick, with
his ln-st iiiali;,'nity ; " fur I have seni the Irw cut int«> a |»eacoek.'*

" Weil, tliat waa all the choice o' the garvlciier. You '11 own it,
Mr. Ca|wtitk ; it mij^'ht have Ih'cu cut into a dove ?" crieil Jem.

" It nii^'ht, oriptially," ajwwere«l Cn]ieitick : " hut I know the
nature of the thinj,'. Twould have beefi certain to branch into a
|H.'rtCock. To l»e Hure, there 'h thi.s to Iw tviid for tlie ^'ardeiier,
p<jur fool ! though the thing Bhould grow with a tail lut long vk» a
kite, livcauHe he ouce thought it a dove, he M thiuk it a dove
for ever."

" It couldn't Ije — imjxKwihle," Kaid Jem.

" Why, hn.k there," crie«l C'a|«<tick, |Mjinting to a yew fantaA-
tically niutilatvd, " look at tluit dmgon."

" I>nigon I " crie«l .lem, " it "« a ajigcl, with it« outspread
wings. I cut it mywlf ; it '« my own angel."

" Hajipy, fonil humanity I " Kiid Caj*liok, turning and laving
his hand u|>on the visitor's shuuMer. "II<>w many a dragon to
all the World beside, secma a bleji.H«Ml angel to its owner ! Who
Would di.sturb so comfirting a faith ?" And then he added to
Jem, " It i.s an ruigel. 'Tis a pity he hadn't a trumiH't."

•* It 's a gmwin," said Jem ; " it 's there, though nobody but
myself caji »ee it."

" 'Tis sometimes so with the trum|>eLs of men," obsen'e.l
Cajjstick. " And now we'll to breakf;tst."

" Aud you '11 own," said Jem, determined U|K)n conquest,
"that the luciJiouse tevipfrwiriiujt is like the 'oman fij)ecees ?
To W sure it Ls. LcM>k at it even in a border ; :uid dot«n't it
remind you of a quiet, tidy little cretur that keeps her house so
nice and clean, .and lets nothing dirty in it ? You '11 agree — "

" Is the breakfast ready I " asked Cai*stick.

" It b," answered Jem, " all but the eggst The fowls have
been very go^xl Uj us, though ; there 'a twenty on em."

"The breakfast r»»ady ! Then the beast that is raging within
me," 8;ud Capstic4c, "will own to anything. Twenty eggs I 'Tia
wonderful how hunger sharpens arithmetic. It is but five a-piece,"
ainl the mi.s;inthro|>o for the tii-st time tumetl to St. (Jiles ; and
tiicu straightway pjissed into the cottage. A breakfaat, solid aud

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 199

vnrious, l.iy upon the boanl. " There 's no whet to the nppKit>\"
wii.l (".ipstick, "like early «le\v. Notliini; fur the stomach like
iivnsH anil fieUl-dowers, taken with a f:u<tin<,' eye at five in tlie
nii>riiiii^. 'Tvv;ls Aflam'rt own salatl, and that's why he lived to
niiH- Iminired mui tliiity."

"Think you," said the visitor, chipi>ing an egg-shell, "think
you that Adam, l)elore tlie fall, ate e«:j,'a ?"

•'I ean't 8ay,"(«iid Cajtstick ; "'out recollecting the thinirs I
liave read, the question wuuld make ."i very jiretty book. 'Tis a
jiity the matter wasn't stirred two or three huniire«l yeanj ago.
llow many thousiind thmats miL'ht have Ik-cu cut u|hiii it ! lluw
many men an<l wonuii ro.iwlctl like live oysters ! F«>r the wisduiu
of humanity, 'tis a gre^at niisA. liuw ]hi|m.>s might have thun-
dered aliout it! What TV Dfums have l^een chanted; what
lualedictii'us — juid all with the nielted-butler voice of a ChrLsti:ui
— pronounce<i ! The world has h;id a great loaa — a very great
loss.' And CajHtick sighed.

" I c;ui hardly see that," says Jem. " It s.vms to me that tliLi
blessed world will never want something to (juarrel about, so long
as thei'e's two straws ujxin it."

" Why, theiv have Ihcu the Rattles of the Straws," observed
.Capstick, "although for cert;»in purjM>ses they 've l)een called alter
otlui names." And then, for a time, the breakfast was silently
Coiitiinied ; when siiddeidy ('a|i8tick cried out, "Beast thai I
am I I have foi-gutten Velvet ! "

" Velvet ! Who is lie ?" asketi the visitor.

"An excellent fellow, Mjuiter Kingcup," said Capstick: "a

k Worthy creature after my own heart. We became ac(jur»inted la.st

frost ; it was a road-f<ide meeting, .and I brought him here to the

Tub. You would hardly thuik it ; but though I saved him from

a wintn*' death, and have conifoiled him like my own flesh and

bkK.Kl "

" He isn't a bit like it," cried Jem.

" Like my owni flesh and V)lood," repeated Capstick, with a
reju'oving look, " he luus neither bitten nor slandered me, nor
lifte<l niv latch to uiitluifrht thieves, nor in fact done anythin;' that
a friend you have benefited should do." At these words, bl.
Giles, forgetful of the misanthi-opic drolling of his host, shifted
somewhat une^a-sily in his seat, lie thought of the muthns
Wstowed uixm his boyhood, ainl of the discomtiture he had after-
wanl^ inflicted on liis lienefactor. " Here, Velvet — Velvet," cried
Caj>stick ; and Bright Jem sat with a grave smile enjoWng the
expectation of Mr. Kingcup. " With all the coaxing bestowed
upon him, 'tis such a humble soul I" said Capstick. "He never
puts himself foiwanl — uever. 1 '11 wager ye, now, one of these

200 ST, GILES AND ST. JAMES

cgg-sluUs," and Capstick rose and looked about him, "that 1
shjdl lincl him ijuiL-tly curltd up in a cornel". I knew it — tliere
he is." With this, Capstick t<.)ok two steps from liis chair,
8too})ed, and in a moment returning to his seat, placed a heilgehog
on the tal>le.

" Humph ! " said Kingcup, " 'tis an odd creature for a bosom
friend."

" Give me all lx)Som friends like him," cried Capstick. " For
then there 'd be no deceit in 'em : you M see the woi-st of 'em at
the beginning. Now, look at this fine honest fellow. What
jilain, straiiT;htforward truth.s he bears about him ! You .«;ee at
once that he is a living pineu.^hion with the j)ins" jx^inLs upwards,
and instantly you treat him after his open nature. You know
ho 's not to be played at ball with : you take in with a glance all
that his exterior .signifies, and ought to Inve hiiu fur his fiai)kncss.
Poor wretch ! 'tis a thousand and a thousand times the ruin of
him. lie h.'is, it is true, an outside of thnni.s — lieaven made him
with them — but a heart of honey. A meek, patient thing I And
yet, because of his covering, the world casts all soils of slanders
upon him ; accuses him of wickeilness he coul<l not, if he would,
conmiit. And so he is kicked and cudgelled, ami made tlie
cruellest sport of; his periecutors all the while thinking them-
selves the best of people for their worst of treatment. He beai-g
a )>lain exterior ; he shows so m.any pricking truths to the world,
tli.it the World, in revenge, couples evrry outside i>oint with au
interior devil. He is made a martyr for this hiiquity — he hides
nothing. Poor Velvet ! " and Capstick very gently strokc<l the
hedgehog, and protTercd it a slice of apple and a piece of bread.

" 'Tis a l)ity." said Kingcup, " that all hedgehogs ar'n't trans-
lat<:^l after your fashion."

" Wliat a better world 'twould make of it ! " answered the
cynic. " But no, sir, no ; that 's the sort of thing the world
loves," and Cajistick pointed to a handsome tortoi.seshell cat,
stretched at her fullest length uf)on the hearth. " What a meek,
co.sy face she has ; a placid, quiet sort of grandmother look — may
all grandmothers forgive me ! Then, to see her lap milk, why
you \\ think a drop of blood of any sort would poison lier. The
wretch ! 'twa;* only last week, she killed and ate one of my doves,
and aftei-wards sat wiping her whiskers with her left paw, as
comfortably as any dowager at a tea-party. I nursed her before
she had any eyes to look at her V)enefactor, and she has sat and
purred upon my knee, as thousrh she knew all she owed me, and
was trying to pay the debt with her best singing. And for all
this, look here — this is what she did only yesterday," and Capstick
showed tlu-ee long line scratches ou his right hand.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 201

"That's nothing," said Mr. Kingcup. "You know thut cats
will scnittli."

"To be sure I do," replied Ca]>stick ; "and all the world
knows it ; but the worKl don't think the woi-se of 'em for it, and
for this re;i.s<)ii ; they can, when tliey like, so well hide their claws.
Now, ])0()r little Velvet here — jxjor vennin martyr ! — he can't
disguise wliat he h:is ; and so he 's hunted and worried for being,
as I may .say, jtlain-s])uken ; when jiuss is i)etted and may sleep
all day long at the fire because in faith she's so glossy, and looks
so imiocent. And all tlie while, has she not murderous teeth and
talons ? "

" And so I hope," cried Kingcup, " ends your sermon on
hedgehogs. Let us talk of more serious mattei-s."

" Ay, if properly thought of, you can fin<l them," said Ca]\«tick.
"For my part, little Velvet here carries a text for serious matter,
as you have it, in every prickle. Look at liim."

But the ])liiloso])her was interruptetl in his tlieme by ,i knock
at the door, which, ere an invitation to enter could be delivereil,
was opened, an«l Mr. Tangle, Mr. Folder, and three of the iidia-
bitants of Li(iuorish — votei-s for that iniuiaculate borough —
crowded themselves into the sm.ill apartment. Mr. Capstiek mse
in his best dignity. He seemed suddenly to divine the cause of
the abrupt visit,and prepared himself to meet it accordingly. Bright
Jem st;ued peri)lexedly in the face of Tangle, ."is tlu'iigh picking
out an old acquaintance from his features ; whilst St Giles shrank
unseen into a corner, not caring to confront the lawyer and agent.

" Mr. C'ap.'^tick, gooil morning, sir. We knew your early liabits
— nothing like them, sir, as your face declares — and therefore, we
were up 1 may say by cock-crow, to do ourselves the honour of
calling upon you." Thus spoke Tangle.

" We also know, Mr. Capstiek, your attachment to our blessed
con— con — " but here Mr. Folder was seized with an obstinate
coutrli. He, nevertlieless, whilst li>rhtin<i atraiust it, motioned with
his right hand, as much as to say, you understand perfectly well
what I mean.

" Anil we likewise know'd," observed an indei)endent freeholder,
name imknown, " how yo\i hates the yellow party."'

"His lordship, Mr. Capstiek, will ])ei-soniUly do himself the
great delight of waiting upon you. In the meantime, I, his humble
friend, Mr. Tangle, of Red Lion Square — "

Here Capstiek, looking dead in the face of the lawyer, gave a
long, loud whistle. He then said, in a low voice of suppressed
astonishment, — " And so it is ! Bless my soul ! Well, no doubt,
Providence is very good. Still who 'd have thought you 'd have
lasted to this time 1 "

2(12 ST. GILr^ AND ST. JAMES.

Here T.nu;,'le suiyol the Imml of C'.ipstiek, who suffered hi.«) palm
to lay like a dead tish in the hand of that very fen'ent niau.
"Siuvlv — yi'9, it niu.st be— surely we have met before ? ^Vhere
could it have lieen f "

" Newi^ate," answered Capstick, aa thou^jh proud of the place.
This frankut-as, however, 84>niewhat puzzlod tlie ciiniinal lawyer.
He ktu'W not what the antouut of C'.ipsticks olilji^ation.s might Ih)
to liiiu ; could not, on the in.stant, rtroIU-ct whetlior the tenant of
the Tub, the freehohler of Li(|Uori8h, had \n^n a hou8ebre;iker, a
lii'.;li\v!iyni:in, or simple pick|H)cket, Mr. Tan:;le"3 jKi-sonal ac-
»|U.iiiiianci-.sliip with so many men, thuii vjiriuu.sly inclined, had
l>ei'n Bu great, it was inijnissible for him to recollect tlie benefits,
th.it. for certain iucon.sitleratile fees, he had from time to time
conrerri><l. Tliu.s, in hi.s uncertainty, he meri-ly .sjiidj " Bless me I
N'Wgale I "' .smiling blandly, jw though he sjRjke of Araby the
H.i|>py, or the Fortunate Islea.

" Certainly, Newgate," rejK'ated Capstick. " I wonder you
should forget the ciuse."

" Why, the fact is, Mr. Ca]»stick, I have a sort of dim recol-
lection that — but the truth i.s, when I k-.ive Ix>ndon, I always
like to leave Newgate behind me. AN'hatever our small atlair
was— "

" Nothing but a little m.itter of horse stealing," said Capstick,
\(ithan iiig«nuou.^ness that even a.stonishi'«l Tangle, whilst Mr.
Folilcr ami the three inhabitants of Liquorish lookeil very blank
ijideed. It wa.s but for a moment, for they sank the h<»r»e-stealer,
a.^ they deemed Ca]istick,in the freeholder, and suiile«l as vigorously
a.-* before.

" Now, I recollect ven,- well," said Tangle, " perfectly well. It
M'as a ca.se of con.spinicy agaiiust you. I remeinl>er, Mr. Cai>f*tick,
the affecting compliment the Judge paid you when you (juitted
the ilock — the cheers that nuig through the court — and the very
handsome supper we had on the night of your acquittal. It was
a black case, sir ; a very black case. Nevertheles-s, it is a sweet
Kitisfactiou to recollect that we in<licte<l the witnes.ses, and that
one of 'em, pi-oved guilty of j>erjury, was nearly killed iii the
pillory. I felt the cii.se so strongly, that I remend>er it — ay. as
though it w;is but yesterday — I rememl)er that I gave my clerks
a holiday to see the fellow punished, telling them at the same time
that they might do as they like<l."

" Humph : " s;iid Capstick, " you don't keep your memorj' in
quite a.s good order as the Newgate Calendar. There wjis no
ac<iuittal in the case I talk of; none at all. Sentence was passed,
and execution ordere<l. "

Tanule iooketl silently but intently in the face of Capstick,

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 203

as though mentally inquiring, '• which horse-stcaler he coukl
be?"

"Execution onlered," — repeated Cajistick — "but it wasn't to
be. Instcail of hanging, there was trajirtj)ort;ition for life."

" And so th«re wiis — I recollect i>erfectly well. I aiu always
glad to welcome back an erring man to the paths of virtue," said
Tangle. " Of coui-ae you have obtaiue<l your pardon ? "

" Pardon ! Oh de;ir no — not at all," siiid Capstick.

"Why — bless me ! " — gaspe«l Mr. Folder — "you don't mean to
8JIV, fellow — vou hav'n't the effrontery to declare it to the faces of
hone-st men, that you are an e.scai)eil transiKul ?"

Capstick maile no answer, but smiled resignolly. Tlie inference,
however, was too nmeh for bright Jem, who crieil out — " Wliy, in
coui-se not ; and jis lor talking nlniut honest faces, I should think
them ;is cctuldu't soe the houe-stest that is, here " — and Jem laid
his h;ind .-iffectionately on Cai)8tick'8 shoulder — "ought to put on
their sjH'ctacles."

" He (juiet, Jem," said Capstick, mihlly.

"I can't ; it wouM make that dumb cretur speak if it could,"
said Jem, pointing to the pet he<lgehog, "to hear sieh rubbish.
You ou'dit to recollect, Mr. Tangle, all altout it: for w.xsn't you
well paid for doin' next-<lo<)r to nothin' ( The bright guinea}
Mr. Capstick give you to take the j>art o' that jM.or littl-i
chilli — and ater all, didn't you leave him to be hanged like u
dog ?"

Tande's face broke into exces.sive radiance. "Bless my heart
— bless mv heart I " he cried, anil was again about to seize th<3
♦ hand of Capstick, when the cynic suddenly lifted the hedgehog
from the table, giving a marked preference to that object.
Mr. Tau'de wivs of a too generous nature to be offended by such
partiality — he had too much true humility. Therefore, in no way
confused, he turneil to Mr. Folder, sjiying — " 1 think, sir, if there
were auv doubt of our cause, this would be a good omen for it."
Mr. Folder smiled and lussented, though in evident ignorance of
Tangle's meaning. " To think that the tirst man we should have
cauvsuised, should have been this gotxl — I will say it — this righteous
pei'son ! You recollect Mr. Cajjstick ; of course, you recollect
%h\ Cajistick ? "

Mr. Folder, feeling, from the lawyer's manner, that he ought to
recollect our mutfin-maker, shutHeil forwanl, and with all alacrity
prepareil to take his haml : but the misjinthrope, leeiin^' at that
atiable old man, continued to p.it his heilgehog.

"You remember the ca.se of that wretched boy," said Tangle,
"that born bad thing, young S». Giles, who stole his lordsliip's
pony ? " Ml-. Folder was immediately impressed — we miglit say

204 ST. GILES AXD ST. JAMES.

opprosscd — with a. remembrance of the case. " And of course,
you rfmi'inber the l>enevolence of thi.s excellent man, who" —

" Tol de rol lol, tol lol lol lol," saug Cai^tick. with Ida best
energy.

" liut he 's a true Christian, and you pemeive will liear nothing
about it.," said Tangle. " I '11 say no more, sir ; you have your
rcw.inl — tlu-re, sir, there" — .■uid Tan^de p<>inte<l his fnvfinjjer
t<jwanl.s that ]>art of Capstick's anatomy where in men, as he
had heard, re«idc<l the heart. " Nevertheless, sir, for that
young St. (Jiles — hallo ! my friend," cried Tangle, for tlie first
time observing the owner of that name, who, agitJited by what
he h.ul heanl, and furtlier terrified by the sudden recoi,nutiou
of Tangle, was jKile and trembling — " hallo ! what brought you
here 1"

" Do you know the young man ? " aske<l Capstick.

" Know him, sir ! I should think I did. He 's one of our men,
hircil to shout for u«," wiid Tangle.

"To tight for us, too," adde«l Mr. Folder, "if ne€<i be, in
defence of our blesse*! constitution."

" Well, frieml," sjiid Capstick to St. Giles, " your clothes are
diy, and I 1iojk> your Inlly 's fidl. That way to the right lea«U to
the Rose."

Caiwtick's manner told St. tiiles to Ik? gone. It was no time
for explanation ; tlierefore, rU-termining to return in the evening
to the hermitage, and make himself known to his benefactor,
St. (Jiles nioveil towanla tlie door. *' Go<l bless you, sir," he said
** for all the goo«l you 've done to me." With these words he
crossed the threshold, ami w;is in a moment out of sight.

" What," crie<l Tangle, struck by the blessing of St. Giles upon
Captick, "what, sir, at your old kindness again ?"

'' There was no kindness at all in the matter," said Jem ; " he
was spilt in a jxtud, and come here with a wet skin."

" Oh, I see I The accidi-nt tliat hapjHjnetl to the baml. Poor
devils!" cried Tangle, "'twas a mercy none of them were
drownetl, for the time 's getting close, and, Mr. Ca{)stick, you who
know life, know that an election without music, why it 's like a
contest witliout — "

"Money," added Capstick, with a grim smil-,

" Exactly so. But I perceive in the hospitality you have vouch-
eafed to his lordship's servant, your ilevotion to his cause. Ha, sir !
En'rland hiU> need of such men, now. A few such as lie would
put us to rights, sir, in no time ; for all the times want, sir, is the
strong arm — nothing like the strong arm. However. U> the imme-
diate purjxise of our visit ; as 1 say, hLs lordship will himself call
ui>on you. In the meautime " — and Tangle's face looked like old

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 2oj

parchment in the sun — " in the meantime, I trust we may count
upon your vote ami iiitt-re^t ?"

Ciii)stick c;tst his eye.s uj)<)U the ground, tlien upwards, as thouffh
Buddfuly rapt by calculatioiu He then asked, " Is his lord.ship
fond of hi'dgfhugs ? "

" I had the riappiness and the honour," piped Folder, " of open-
ing his vuulhful mind ; and knowing, a.s 1 do, how attentively he
was wont to listen to my exhortations of not only considering tlie
wants of the lower ordei-s, hut of especially feeling consideration
towards the lower animal kingdom, I tliink I can contidently say
— though I never heanl his lordship declare his preference — that
be is decidedly fond of hedgehogs."

" I am very hajipy to hear it," said Capstick, " 'tis a great thing
to know."

" Von don't feel dispoeed — should his lordship take a fancy to
the creature — to sell that hedgehog T' asked Tangle.

"How could I refuse his lordship anything ?" answered Cap-
stick. " It 's an odd thing : but you 've heioxl of what they cidl
the transmigration of souls I"

" Of course," answered the scholar, Folder.

" Well, tlien, it 's tlroll enough ; and I never thought it. But
until the election is over, I feel that my soul is in tliis hedge-
bog."

Tangle put his forefinger to his nose, and said — " Good ! I
undei-stand you. A njan of the world, Mr. Cai)stick — a man who
knows life." Whereujwn Tiuigle, ere dipstick was aware of it,
caught him by the hand, sipieeziug it mitil its knuckles cracked
again. " God bless you ! We may de]>end upon all your interest ?
Good bye."

The cimvassing party then quitted the cottage. Mr. Tangle
walked on with Mr. Folder ; and was no sooner in the lane that
led to the main road, where they had left their chaise, than he
indulged his pent-up wrath with the freest explosion. " Now,
sij', that 's oae of the scoundrels that make the world what
It is ! "

" Shocking ! " said Mr. Folder.

" That 's one of the men who pollute the pure source of par-
liamentary representation."

" It 's dreadful," remarked Folder.

" Without such vagabonds, a seat in the house would be cheap
enough. But isn't it dreadful to think what a gentleman must
disburse to buy such scum ! "

" Notwithstanding," urged Mr. Folder, "we must protect our
blessed constitution. And if the other party will offer money fojr
the commodity, we mustn't stop at any price to outbid 'em I "

205 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

"I know that, Mr. FuMer ; I kiiuw wliat is due to our (ru6
interests. And the uoble house of St. James has not forgotteu
tliat. The Ikjx of gold at the Olive Bnuich will tt-jstify to the
patriotism of that house. Nevertlalcss, a^ a Christian it shucks
me — as a Christian, I say — but here 's the co;ich. Fellow, drive
back to the Olive Branch." Whcreupun the canviussing party
retunied to their head-quarters of the pure and independent
borough-

CHAPTER XX,

As yet the noble candidate of the house of St. James had not
presente<l himself to the voters of Li({uorish. To s.iy the truth,
his lord.ship h;id not that reverence for those small l>egs of the
glorious machine of the constitution — the freeholiiei-s — that, in
his Wrgin address to his constituency, he deemed it oidy decent to
a.<sume. Perhaji^, indee<l, he tliought the .s.iid m.ichine minht do
all the better without them. But tiiis heresy hjwl been so deeply
cut into the biirk of his youthful mind, that it grew and enl:irge<l
•with it. He luid been taught to look upon a voter of Licjuorisli ;uj
a sort of two-legged hound, the property of his noble house; no
less its goods, because the creature ilid not wear a collar rr)nnd
liis neck. No : fortunately, men are so made, that tlumtrh seem-
ing free, their souls may now and then be made fast to an owner,
who can buy the manacles at the Mint : wonderful chains ; in-
\-isible t<j the worM ; of tiner temper than any hammereil at fairy
smithies. It was this good, wholesome prejudice — as ^Ir. FoMer
called it — that imjjarted to young St. James the serenest sense ot
security : the voters of Liquorish were the live stock of his house:
their souls stami)e<l, like the Marquess's sheej), with his own noble
mark. Hence, our youthful lord had ilel.tyed until the Uitest
nuiinent the drudgery of jjersonal canvass. Hence, had he post-
pOTied the praeticiU waggery of s<tliciting a vote wliere no vote
could be refused. Nevertheless, guided bj' the patriotic experience
of hi.s noble father, he would present himself to the people. The
time, the place, had l>een selected with the happitast sense of pro-
priety. Young St. James, the gu,e.st of iJoctor Ciilead — the humble,
ze^dous coUege-fiiend of the Marque.ss — would meekly exhibit
himself in the doctor's pew at the [larish church : the doctor
himself, on tliat eventful occasion. ] "reaching an appropriate dis-
CoiU"ae. Doubtless, the doctor felt that oraclet> to be respected miUit

ST. GILES AND ST. J.\MES. 207

be \ocal only at long iuterval.s ; lience, Doctor Gilead preach M hut
rarely to his Hiuiple tlock. Hisyoutiilul curate — a spiritual shep-
berd Iwy — was all-sufKcieut to Iwul them to the waler-coui-S'^s
and the pa.sture : it wa.s only now and then that the elder piistor
would shake Uet'ore thoui a mouthful or so of sweet herbs, culled
from the dainty garden of his own theology. Doctor Gilead was
a learned ni;ui ; a j/ious man. Neither his coachman, his buthr
uor either of his three footnu-n, doubted his wisdom or his ortho-
doxy. He was a man, too, of practical patience. Thrice had he
expected a bishopric; and thrice had the mitre vanished from the
tips of his fingers. Whereujion, he meekly folded his hands, and
smiling down the gout that each time with burning nipjK^-s
seized upon him, he thanked heaven for his felicitous escape.
Excellent man ! He could no more hide the humility ra-ing
within hhu, than he couhl have disguised the small-po.\. It would
1 ireak out. He had ouce preached V>efore George the Third ; and
then fntm his pulpit, jus from the Mountain, did he see the I^md
of rrumise, the U.-use i>f I^onl-s. Still, the utilk and honey were
unta-sted ; and .still, with patient, smiling lips, he praiseil the
providence that would have it so.

Such Wius the owner of I-iiziuiis Hall, the rectory ; an aboile
esj)ecially j)repared for the reception of young St. James, who, two
iiights at le;ist, would bless the roof-tree of his father's luuubl(!
friend. The house was rich and odorous as nest of phienix.
Yet w;is there no golden display ; no velvet hangings ; no flaunting
tapestries ; but luxury in evei-y shai)e, took the guise of simiilieity,
and made every corner of the house a cosy nook for swan-<lown
Christianity. Then everything was so radiantly clean, it seemed
no pai-t of this dusty earth, but fresh from some brighter jilanet.
Had Doctor Gilead been arrayed from head to heel in episcopal
lawn, there was nought within the Hall of Lazarus to smudge it.
The veiy flies, from habit, would have respected it. Saints aii i
hermits would not have dared to sit upon the chair-covciS.

It wa.s Satunlay, about five in the afternoon. Doctor Gilead sat
in his librai-y, garnished about with his wife and three daughtej-s.
Tlie doctor was black and glossy as a newly-bathed raven. As for
the ladies, they might have been taken as specimens of Brobdignag
china : so creamy and motionless were their faces, so prim and
well-definetl their flowing gowns. Not a word was said ; not a
sound was heard, save that the doctor's watch ticked feverishly in
his fob, and a big,bluuderingblue flykept bouncing and battering its
head against a window-pane, doubtless puzzled to know why, with
all so veiy clear before it, it could not get out. And now the doctor
looked reproachfully at the noisy insect ; and now subsided to his
cubtomaiy meekness. Ouce or twice, he strangled a sigh at his

HOe ST. GILKS AND ST. JAME^?.

very lips. Haply — but who shall sound the depths of man's
silt-nt soul ? — liajjly he thought of the turbot macerating in the
kettle, haply of the haunch scorching on the s])it. Say what we
will, it tries the spirit of man, to think serenely of his boileil and
roa.st, and of the Lite-coniing guest peiilliug them both. Doctor
Gilead breatheil heavily ; then, taking his watch from his fob, he
said with a smile of gliastly resignation, " It 's getting rather
late.'

And what said the doctor's wife ? ^Vhy precisely what every
marrit'd dau'^hter of Kve woidd say. She, in tlie naturalest manner,
observed — "I shouldn't wonder if he doesn't come at all." The
daugliters — meek things ! — said nothhig ; but they looked doN^Ti
and alK>ut them at their j>retty gowns, and slightly bit their lips,
and sliglitly sighed.

" I don't tlunk, my dear," 8ai<l Mrs. Gilead, " it 's any use
waiting for his lordship, now. Hadn't they better serve the
dinner ]"

Now, had the doctor assented to this, Mrs. Gilead would have
been pathetically eloquent on the inhospit;dity of the measure.
She h.itl no such mcming ; all she wanted wjia the tliscour.se of
her husband. She talked to make him talk. In the like way
that, when a pump is dry, men pour water into it to set it flowing.
"The dinner will be totally spoilt, my dear," added Mi-s. (Jilead,
smiling as tiiough she communicated sweetest intelligence. The
doctor sjKjke not, but sutTered an abdominal shudder. " In fact,
my deiir," contiuueil the wife, " now, we ought rather to hoi>e that
his lordship will not come. There will be nothing fit to set before
xiim — nothing whatever." It was strange — she did not mean it —
yet did Mrs. Gilead talk with a certain gust, as though .she talked
of a special treat : to have nothing fit f'>r his lordship seemed to
be the ver}- thing desii-able. " ^Vhat did you say, my dear ?"
asked Mrs. Gilead.

The doctor had not uttered a syllable. However, again he looked
it his watch, and then s;ud, " It is very late." We can find no
other parallel to this heroic calmness save in the life of St. Law-
rence ; who when turned, like a half-<lone steak, upon his gridiron,
merely observed to an acquaintance wlio chanced to V)e near, — " It
is very warm." In botli cases, cooking was the source of pain,
and the test of resignation : for Dr. Gilead thought of his
liannch as if it had been a part of him. And still the doctor sat,
looking fiercely jjatient. Mrs. Gilead, the partner of liLs bosom,
knew well what that bosom felt, and therefore in her own feminine
way remarked, " Now I certainly give his lordship np."

It was a great pity that Mi's. Gilead had not spoken tlius before
or surely the same eli'ect would have followed the syllables. For

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 209

EO sooner had she uttered them th;ui there was a whiri of wheels,
and suddenly a carrijige in a cloud of dust stopt at Lazarus Hall.
]\Ir.s. Gilead junijKHl ; h*?r <laughtej-s gave a sharp, short, joyful
scrwuu ; whilst tlve doctor himself — Iwjt, reader, did yoii ever in
broad day mark the night-laniiJ of mau-uiidwife 1 It is dull\-,
darkly red. The sun sinks, night conies ; and that dark
glass burns like a ruliy, liijuid with glowing light. Such was
Doctor Gilead's couateuance ; such the change ; now sulky
coloured, and now flaming witli joy. A moment, and he was at
tJie carri:ige-door ; another, and young St. James — the son of his
patron and fi"ieud — stood, with both i>;uids seized by the grasping,,
throbbing palms of the aliectiouate doctor. The doctor was in
si)<isms of delight : Mrs. Gilcad, full of smiles, opened and folded
her face like a fan ; and the young hulies, before so statue-like,
that had tliey sat in the open air, the birds had perched upon
tliem, swam about and arched their necks like cygnets, taking a
May-moming bath. And now wejump the dinner-t<ilk, sjmrkhug
and brilliiuit, as a mounteb:uik jumps through fireworks, and
iiliift the scene.

We leave the whole household to tlieir dreams. Ijet Doctor
Giieail think himself a bishop ; let him iji his slumbei-s rehearse
his fii"st parliamentary speech — let his wife di-eam of her gown
for coui-t — let each of the young ladies see and feel herself a
blushing, stammering bride at church — let St. James di'eam, — he
camiot help it — of poor Clarissa, It is Saturday night. Labour
has Hung do\\'n his working tools, and sleeps a deep and happy
slei-'p ; for the next ilay is a holy breathing-time — a day of rest —
Sunday.

It may be remembered that the band and minor merce-
uai'ies of St. James were posted at the Rose, a hostelry of
modest character compared to the dignified pretensions of the
Olive Branch, made still more imiwrtant by the judgment t)f
Mr. Tangle, who had selected that tavern as the head-quarters of
the noble candidate. The Rose, in the agent's own words, did
very well for the rabble always necessary on such occasions ; but
for himself, he could not at all feel himself a gentleman in any
meaner phice than the Olive Bi-anch. Indeed, now and then he
was compelled to remember the national and patriotic importance
of the cause in which he was engaged, to reconcile him heai-tily to
the inconvenience of even that abidiug-place. " There was no real
life oft" the stones of London ; but then the condition of the country
demanded some sacrifice of every man : why, then, should he com-
plain ( Ko : he would stick to the constitution whilst a plank of it
held together. If the shijj — he meant the constitution — was doomed
to go down, why, he would give thi-ee cheers, and go down witli it."
VOL. L f

210 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

It waa Sunday inorniug, ami breakfiist bciii;,' over, the two
patriots — full of meat ami ilriuk autl the gixtd of their ctHnitry —
sank back in their chairs, and looked sjerenely in each other's face.

" We shall have a fine congrej^ation to-day ; all the ia^hion and
re.sj>ect«ibility of the nei;,'hb<>urhoo<l, no doubt ] "

"They can't do less," reiuai-ke<I Mr. Tangle, " 'tvrlll be only a
proper compliment to his lonbhip."

" Nevertheless," dwerved the ancient tutor, speaking slowly,
gravely, " I am a little dis-ipjiointeil. I did think that ou his
lonlship's arrival, they would at least have rung the duirch bells.
Nor wa-s there even a bonfii-e."

" Parilon me ; I have my scruples : all men have, or shoal J
have. Touching the cliiuvh belU, I must confess I do not thiuk
they ought ever to be employ etl in any usea that are secuhu-. I
have my prejuiiices," contiiiue<l Tangle, with the air of a man
very proud of the comnjodity, " and church btUa are one. Bonfires
are altogether another matter.''

" A.nd fireworks," ailded folder.

"And fireworks," absented Tangle. "Though I «iid nothing
at tlie time, I mu.st own with you, that the a^l^eTlce of so small a
mark of res|>ect as a bonfire on the arrivjU of his lordship, speaks
very many volumes agaixiat the people. A few years ago, and
there 'd lieen a bhize <t a .>»<:ho<jll>oy but would
have had his cap ami i^"cket.>< 8turt'e<l with crackers. Now, painful
as it is to a m^ui who loves the constitution, still the trnth ciuuint
be disguiseil, there was not a single s<iuib — not a single 8<\uib,"
and Tangle re|)eato<l the words with jKithetic emphasis.

" I heard none, " s;ud Mr. Folder, with the air of a man who,
nevertheless, forlondy hopes that he may be mistaken.

"Oh no ! We must not deceive ourselves. We must l<x>k the
trutli full in the f;ue, ugly as the truth may be ; it 's tiie only way
to browl^eiit it. I leanit that maxim, Mr. Folder, from practice
in the couils of law. There, it only wants a brassy look and a
big voice, to make an ugly-looking truth seem a shameful impostor.
Nothing, sir, like learning to boldly face truth, if you want to get
the best of it. And so, sir, though the omission of the bonfires
and the fireworks did pain me — how could it be otherwise ? —
nevertheless, 1 feel all the stronger in our cause for knowing the
revolutionary principles that, as I have more than once observefl,
are now arrayed against all that is great and titled in the
country ! "

"Don't you think, Mr. Tangle," said Frdder, "that we had
better \isit our toilets, to be ready for church ? We can then
walk gt ntly over the fields."

" Walk ! " echoed Tangle, looking glumly.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 211

* CerUiinly. Ou the prejsfiit occxsiuu, it will look better to
the people ; more ooudeijceudijig ; more like themselves. His
lordship, depeml upoii it, will uot ride to-tlay. No : I think
my principles will bear a little better iVuit;" and Folder smiled
securely.

" Of course uot : I had forgotten : to be sure not ; " answered
Tangle. " Undoubtedly, we walk — undoubtedly."

This jtoiut nsolveil, the gentlcmiu retired to their adjoining
chambers to attire themselves for their devotions. The \'illage
church on a high lull, its b;uie girted with magnificent trees,
was seen from either winduw ; a simple, rustic, snow-white
buildmg shining in the sun, autl standing clearly, purely out from
the deep l)lue summer heaven. " A charming view, this," said
Tangle tuj, having iUTaye<J himself, he was about to quit the room,
when his companion appeJired in the pjtssiige.

" A beautiful landscaj>e ! " said Folder, entering the chamber.
"I wa-s thinking so, as I looked from my own window. How
very nicely the church there shows itself upon the hill ! "

" Quite right — nothing but proper ; " observed Tangle, with a
sudden touch of soleumity. 1 'd have every church ujion a hill ;
I would, indeed, sir. And for this reiisou ; when ujxju a hill,
everybody can see it. When upon a hill, it seems to stand like a
monitor, an adviser to every body. It preaches, as I may say,
from a high pulpit to the world below ; and so, you will perceive,
it 's apt to make men pause iii their sinful, shabby courses. Many
a time — I don't mind confessing so much to you, Mr. Folder — but
many a time, that is, sometimes, when I 've felt my soul a little
slack, for the best of us can't always be braced up like drums —
well, when, as I say, I 've been a httle slack, the very sight of a
church has pulled me up again, and made me think of virtue just
as I did before."

" Nobody can dispute it," remarked Mr. Folder. " A church,
as somebody has obsei-ved, is sermons in stones."

" My opinion to a letter," observed Tangle ; " though it 's odd
that anybody should have thought the same as myself. Come
along. Stay. When I come here, I always look once to see if
all be right." ^\^lereupon Mr. Tangle approached a closet, un-
locked the door, and pointing to :m iron-bound box, observed —
"All's safe. All new, Mr. Folder, all sparkling and burning
from the Mint. Wliat a beautiful substance gold is only to look
at," cried Tangle with enthusiasm ; at the same moment, unlocking
the box and lifting the lid. " There 's a blaze ! " he cried, with
a voluptuous smacking of the mouth. " How they twinkle ! '" he
added : wheieupon the parUamentary agent clutched a handful
of bright guineas, and poured them from hand to hand, his eyt

r 2

212 ST. gil;;s and st. james,

catching yellow lustre from tl»e goMen shower. And thua for
Bome brief minute or two ili<l T;ingie play with minted gold.

We ai"e told that the snake-charm era of the East are wont to
ensnare the reptiles witli dulcet music. The snake Apollo plays a
melody uj)on some magic pipe ; whert'UjKiu torpiil snakes cniled in
holes and crannies gradually untwist themselves, and feel their
blood quicken, and their scales rustle, and they glide and undu-
late t«wai-<l3 the sound, — readily as school-girls run to a ball.
Great is the voice of gold ! What a range, too, it h.-ts I Now,
Vjreathing the profoundest notes of persuasion — deep and earnest
as a hermit's homily — and now, earning away the heart and
8eu::His with its light and laughing trills, — delicious, fjutcinating as
the voice of bacchante. Gold, too, is the earth's great ventrilo-
quist ; speaking from and to the l>elly of immortal man, and
enslaving and juggling him with its m.'uiy voices.

And gold worketl its vocal wonders in Tangle's bed-chamWr.
For no sooner did it sound, tiian like the pijte of the charmer, it
drew forth a little human reptile — a gutter-snake — a noxious
creature, hatchetl in a L<jndon lane to sting the world. Ay, it
was even so. No sooner, we say, diil Tangle rattle the gold, than
a little ragged head was thinist from beneath the bed's foot ; a
head, with eyes bright and snake like ; sparkling the more, the
more the metal chinked. That little head — what a world of
wicked knowledge was packed within it ! — w.is the property of
St. Giles's liali-brother, and it was said, of Tom Blast's whole
son, young Jingo, the hero of the pocket-handkerchief; tho
petted genius of IJog-I^ne. How that adroit youngling had
g;uned the eminence of Tangle's bed-chamber, we wUl not pause
to explain ! Of that in due season.

Our whole business is for the present -mih Tangle and his com-
panion. As the old war-horse pricks his ears at the murderous
music of the trumpet — as some retired luad erewhile sharp attorney,
reading some successful juggle juggled in the name of justice, feels
his heart trickle as it ran red iiiK, and dreams himself again in
court — so did the sound of the gold, as it fell from hand to hand,
awaken in the soul of Tangle all its metallic strength. Nay, his
soul for a moment left him, and ducked and dived and took its fill
of liquid pleasure in that golden river — that Pactolus endjanked
in a box — like Triton wallowing in the foamy seju He felt
he was in his true element ; and elotjuence flowed from his
lips, free as a silver thread of rivulet from some old granite-
hearted rock.

" Wonderful invention, gold coin, sir ! Wonderful thing ! If
there "s anything, sir, that shows man to be tlie creature tliat he
ia, — it 's this. Schokus, when they want to raise man above the

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 213

monkey — heaven forgive the atheists — call him a laughiug animal,
a tool-making animal, a cooking auimaL Sir, they Ve all missed
the true description ; tliey should call him a coining animal. I 've
thought of the matter much, JSIr. Folder; and this " — and Tangle
rattled the coin — " this is the true weapon against the atheists,
8ir — and nearly all scholars are every bit the same as atheists —
just as toadstools are very near to mushrooms. No, sir, no ;
they may call men what they Uke, — but I see proofs of the im-
mortality of the soul in this, sir. No unbelief — T 'm sure of it,
Mr. Folder — no unbelief can stand against this," and Tangle
again laid Ids hand ujx)nthe gold.

" The theory is uigeiuous — perhajjs true," said Folder.

" A glorious invention, coining, sir," again cried Tangle, ex-
panding with his subject. "Now, look here; tliese guineas are,
I may say, nothing more than the representatives of the voters of
Liquorish. Here we have 'em ! Here I take 'em up with my
haniL, any number of 'em, body and soul." "NVliereupon, Tangle
scooped up the guuieas in hus }>alm and poured them down again,
young Jingo still looking from beneath the bed, and grinning, and
twitching his lips as the music continued. " Here they are —
men, women, ;unl children — ;dl p:icked close ; all snug. Sir, a
man who carries th&jc, carries heaps of his fellow-creatures with
him. A tremendous art, sir, coining. They talk about the inven-
tion of printing : why, what was coining but printing, — that is,
the better paii; of printing ; the soul, I may say of it, without
its wickedness ? There' s no dangerous notions in these, sir ; no
false iilea^s ; no stutf to dizzy the heads of fools ; making them
tliink themselves as good as their betters ; no treason, sir ; but
all plain and above boiu'd — plain and above board." And again.
Tangle took up the coin, and dropt it — and took it up, and dropt
it again, his heart-strings vibrating to the music.

And the church bell rang out its summons to the world. And,
for some moments, the eloquent man heard it not ; he only listened
to his church bells — the rmgiug that sounded of his heaven. Still
he plays with the gold : still the church bell sounds.

Toll — toll — chi)ik — chink — toR — chink — toll — chink !

" Is not that the church bell ? " at length asked ^Mr. Folder.

" Bless me ! so it is. I 'd forgotten — nothing secular to-day ; "
and Tangle closed the box ; locked it : closed the closet-door ;
locked it too. " Stop a minute," he observed. He then went to
his trunk, and took therefrom a large prayer-book, bound in
morocco, scarlet as blood, and daubed with gold. " Never travel,
Air. Folder, without this," said Tangle, dropping his eyelids, and
tenderly pressing the book with his fingers, — " never sir. Now

214 ST. GILES AND ST, JAMES.

if you j)lea.se." FoLJer stept from the room, and Tangle v'goroo'^ly
locked the door ; tried it once, twice, and i>utling the key in his
pocket, descended the stairs.

It was a lovely day ; there seemed a SaWiath peace on all
tilings. The dnidged horse stood meek aiul p;issive iji the field,
j>atiently eyeing the passer-by, as though it felt secure of one day's
liolidav ; the cows, with their large, kind liMjks, lay unmoved u]>on
the grass ; all things seemed takuig rest beneath the brooding
wings of heaven.

We have climbed the hill — have gained the churchyard ; the
dust of the living dust of generations. The U-U is swinging still ;
and turning on every side, from di.stant hamlets we .see men,
v/omen, and children — age with its staff, and l)abyhoo<l warm at tlie
breast — all coming upward — upward — to the church. Still they
climb, and still from twenty opjxtsite paths they cuine, to strengthen
and rejoice their souls in one common centre. liy bigotry's good
leave, a fore-shadowing of that tremendous Sabb.ith of the universe
when all men from all paths shall meet in I'aradise.

Long ere the bell hatl ceased to summon the congregation, the
church was filled. There were, however, two causes for this
Christian alacrity ; although, it is our Ixdief that few even to
themselves acknowle<lged either. Nevertheless, it was plain from
the eager, half-anxious looks of the people, that they expected
something beyond the usual Sabbath comforting : that they had
come to see some interesting novelty, as well a.s ti hear the cus-
tomary promise of go<3d tidings. Suddenly the rustic bea<lle — he
Las but little external glors* t<> mark his functi<m — gives a short
significant cough, and hun-ies towards the door. All heads turn
with him, and in a few moments, there b a low murmur, a hush-
ing sound of surprise and satisfaction, as the handsome candidate,
the young Lord St. James, M-ith Mrs.Giload an<l her two daughters,
enter the church, and ushered by the beadle, glide to the
family ]k w.

The church, we say, was thronged. A beautiful sight, doul»t-
less, to behold in that small A^i'lage temple, men of all conditions
gathered together to confess their common infirmities, to supplicate
for common blessings : to appear for a time, as in the ve.stilmle of
eternity, in common adoration of tlie Eternal; all distinctions ami
disguises of earth cast aside, and all in nakedness of soul bending
before God. A beautiful sight ! And yet, the devil priile will
foUow some folks to cliurch, to play unsightly pranks even before
the altar. He will not be left at the church door, even for a poor
two houi-s : but with hj-pocritical demureness moves up the aisle,
and enters a pew, all the better to mutter deep devotion. Look
down the middle aisle. It is filled with the common people — with

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. "i5

God's commonest earth: farming men, lubourei-s, artbaus : tlie
drudges of the world, who are nevertheless told by the good man
in the pulpit that they have, every one witliin them, an immortal
angel. Tiiey are assured that all wealth is vanity : they are pas-
sionately desii^d to look upon pride and arrogance as deadly sins ;
and with these lovely precepts touching their heart-strings, they
look on each side and see ladies and gentleman — called by the
clergyman their fellow-creatures — shut up in pews, set apart in
closets ; as, though in the presence of their Maker, and whilst
denouncing themselves miserable sinners, they would vindicate
their right of money, and buy of heaven itself the privilege of first
consideration. Poverty and humbleness of station may sit upon
the middle benches: but wealth ami what is mouthed for respect-
ability must have cribs ap;irt tor themselves : mu.st be considered
Christian jewels to be kept in velvet boxes ; lest they should catch
the disease of lowliness by contact with the N-ulgar. Surely there
are other masquerades than masqueraxles in h;Uls ajid play-houses.
For ai-e there not Sabbath miiskings, with naked faces for masks ?
How many a man has himself rolled to church, ad thougli, like
Elijah, he would go even to heaven in a carriage ?

The church was full. Faces, f:uuili:a- to tlie reader, were there.
Capstick and Bright Jem sat on the middle benches ; whilst St-
Oiles, at the extreme end of the churcli, fixed in a comer, had
anxiously watched for the appearance of St. James ; and when he
again beheld him, appeared to give ferv-ent thanks for the blessing.
Mr. Kingcup with about twenty red-feced little boys,— -Kingcup,
be it known, was a schoolmaster — sat in the gallery. Mr. Tangle
and Mr. Folder were, of course, provided with comfoilable seats
in a most comfortable pew.

Doctor Gilead preached the sermon. Possibly the doctor himself
was ignorant of the bias, nevertheless he was a paity parson. Hence
— he could not help it — he selected a text from which he evolved
the social necessity of the many trusting the few. AVe may not
transcribe to our profane page the sacred text and solemn discourse
delivered on the occasion. All we may do, is to assure the reader
that the excellent doctor preached with his best earnestness.
Again he bade his hearers live in the days of the patriarchs ;
again he conjured them to put away conceit, and faith in their own
weak judgments, and disobedience to their betters happily ap-
pointed to guide and protect them. (Here — all unconsciously—
the doctor turned towards SL James's pew, and looked benignly
down upon his lordship.) It was plain that the doctor thought
liiraself a shepherd of the patriarchal times ; and it was no less
plain that he thought all his heai-ers merely sheep. He made a
deep impression upon many. At least two old dames — farmers'

215 ST. GILES AXD ST. JAMES.

wives in red cloaks — wept ; whilst half a dozen gv^y heads were
seen to nod ai){>rovingly. Capstick, it was eTident, had a cold ;
hence, twice he coughed so lo«dly, tliat l>oth tlie beadle and
Bright Jem looked anxiously at him, whilst two or three
others seemed to siiy, " people with such a cold should not come
to church."

It was, in 3o</th, no wonder tliAt I>octo» Gilead meked hi*
hearers. His words ^rere so soft, so flowing ; they fell like sum-
mer honey-<lew. Tlten his aspect was so calm — eo very comfort-
able. He hail the cure of, we know not how many thousand soulsv
Ilehail souls in Oxfordshir* — souls in Norfolk — souls in Middlesex
— nay, souk in at least half-a-dozen counties-: good Mother
Churdi hail srv bountifully endowe<l her pet son ; and yet there
was not a wriukk- in his cheek to tell the anxiety of so tremendous
a responsrbility. II:id the tho<i*iands of souls been so many
thou.«i:in<l chickens, Doctor Gilead could not have looked more
self-complacent nmler his charge.

But the senrico is otct. The small organ peals its farewell notea.
The organ, be it known, given by the house of St. Jam£s for a
political purjMise ; thus aih-citly blendiug tli« nuisic of ptirty vitlk
the music of reLigiL>ii. What a world* hannony 1

CHAPTER XXI.

*He *s grown a fine joxmg man," said Bright Jem, whose talk
was of St. James.

" Why, he '3 tall enough fbr a member of Parliament," said
Mr. Capstick.

"He's a good trn, too, I know it," said Jem. "I 'm sure, if
he didn't look as meek and as humble, and wasn't Jis attentive to
the discourse ! And it was a nice sermon, wasn't it > Perhaps a
little too much o' putting peopte over people's heads ; bi>t still it
was comfortable ; though now and then to be sure, the doctor did,
as I think, take a Kttle too much upon himself. How he did give
it to 'em who be said were out of the palings of the Church ! How
he did dress 'em to be sure ! And how, upon his own authority,
lie said they 'd suffer."

" James/ said Capstick — for so be dignified Jem when wishing
to be solMnn — " James, do you recollect the words, ' And God
said. Let us make man in om- image, after our likeness ?'"

" I should think I did," said Jem, \mconsciously pulling orff
))i&hat

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 217

"Ha! that's beautiful aiid consoling, isn't it? And wlL-it a
fine creature is Man, so long as he Jilways has these words before
his eyes, and .so tries to do nothing but what shall be soiuo way
worthy of his likeness ! To do this, James, is to make this world
a pleasant plj^oe — and to have everybody happy about us. ' And
God said, Let us make man in our image ! ' This is beautiful: but
it 's sad, it 's melancholy work, Jem, when Man says, 'Let us make
God in our image ! '"

" 1 beg your pardon," said Jem, " it 's utterly unpossible.
'Tisn't to be done, no how."

" Jem, it 's been done for thousands of years ; it 's being done
every day." Jem stared. " Yes, Jem ; for when man, in
spiritual matters, persecutes man — when in the name of religion,
and OS he says, vindicating God, he commits violence and cruelty
upon his fellow-creatures, then does he in his own ignorance make
for a time his Midcer after his own erring and revengeful nature —
then does he make God in his own imaire I Look at the burnin"B
and roastings uf poor human flesh — its hangings and quarterings,
its imprisonment and exile in the name of rehgion. What are all
these, but that man does all this wickedness in the name of
God ; that is, he thinks Gud is ple^'ised with what pleases his own
vile, vindictive nature ; and as I take it — and it can't be denied
— after such fashion it is, that man makes God after his own
image. Many folks — jwor souls — think this the best religion.
Jem, it 's nothing more nor less than worst blasphemy."

Saying this, Mr. Cai>stick rose from the grave-stone, where-
upon in summer time he was wont to sit for half-an-hour or so
after the service, talking with his old companion and enjoying the
lovely prospect below and around him. " Now, Jem, to dinner ;"
and Capstick was proceecUng in laudable pursuit of that object of
man's daily cru-es, when he paused and pointed towards St. Giles,
who was loitering in the chui'chyai-d. " Jem, isn't that our wet
fi-iend 1 "

" In coui-se it is," said Jem. '• Didu't rou see him in the
church ? There 's a strangeness about him, but for all that I
don't know that I don't like him."

" I don't know that I do," said the misanthrope. " But it 's
plain that he's been dodging hereabout after us." With this,
Capstick advanced towards St. Giles. " Glad to see you here,"
he said. " Reading the tombstones, eh ? Ha ! they 're books
that now and then we all ought to read, seeing that one day we
shall all have our names in 'em."

" All as can aiford 'em," said Jem, with a literalness that
Bometimes tried the temper of his patron.

" I don't care for stones," answered Capstick. " Show me a bit

21? ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

of green turf ; wTiy. sometimes 1 can fancy written in the grass as
nice an epitaph :is was ever chipped by stone-cutter."

" I wanted, sir, to see you," said St. Giles to Capstick. " I lefl
you in a manner so sudden. I wanted to say something."

" Speak out," cried Capstick. " A man can't speak the truth
— whether it be sweet or sour — in a better place."

Still St. Giles hesitated. Looking full at Capstick, at length
he asked with an earnest voice, — "And you don't know me, sir?"
Capstick, after a fiill stare, shook his head. " You ought, sir ;
indeed, you ought ; for you did me a deal of good I 've a secret
about me, that if known would hang me : but I 'm safe in telling
you."

" I don't know that," said Capstick. " I wouldn't answer for
myself at all. It might be my duty to hang you : as an honest
and respectable man, as the world goes, I might consider it a
praiseworthy thing to strangle you. Mind what you 're about,"
cried the misanthrope, moving gi-adually away. — "I'm rather
given to hanging ; I am indeed, young man."

" I 'd trust a thousand lives witli you, sir," said St. Giles,
approaching him. " And so, sir, you must know" —

" Well ] What ? " cried Cajistick, alarmed at the terrible news
about to be revealed. " I shall hang you ; but if you will,
speak — speak."

St. Giles looked round ; then suddenly, as though death-struck,
turned ghastly pale. He stammered out — " Not now, sir ;
another time," and walked swiftly from the churchyard.

" Jem," said Capstick, " we shall hear of burglary, perhaps
murder, before to-morrow. That 's a desperate fellow, Jem."

" Not a bit on it," answered Jem. " Poor soul ! he looks as
if he was deeper in trouble than in wickedness." In truth, this
was Capstick's own opinion, albeit he chose not so to deliver it.
He had to keep up a character for suspicion and misanthropy,
and therefore would see, as he called them, hanging lines in every
other human countenance.

However, leaN-ing the pair to pursue their way to the Tub, we
may at once narrate to the reader the cause that startled St. Giles
from his pui-pose, making him sUnk " like a guilty thing away."
When, in a preceding chapter, St. Giles quitted Hog Lane, he
was, it may be remembered, followed to the buri: 1-ground by his
half-brother. It was the hope of S .. Giles that he had taken final
leave of his old destroyer, Tom Blast. However, that master of
iniquity would not have it so. Hence, he commanded the ready
imp Jingo stealthily to follow St. Giles — to watch wheresoever he
might go, and straightway return with the news. Jingo faith-
fully performed the bidding. At the Cocoa Tree Tom learnt the

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 219

wliole s-tory of the election. He also picked up the grateful
intelligence that the Yellow party had need of fighting patriots ;
and though Tom's character was more of Ulysses than Achilles,
he nevertheless scrupled not to take the wages of a warrior in
the cause of jjurity of election. And then, ardent in the cause, it
appeared to him that the talents of his son — as on occasion lie
ingenuously declared Jingo to be — would potently assist the noble
struggle. " The boy piped like any nightingal, and would sing
'em all to sticks in ballads." Whereupon, young Jingo received
an appointment as minstrel to the cause ; and with his father was
dispatched straight to Liquorish.

Now the vehicle that contained T(^m Blast and his singing-boy,
also carried some dozen other humble Yellows. The merits of the
opposing candidates were discussed with that freedom which is
one of the happy privileges of our constitution. Whereupon it
came out iu tUscourse that the agent for the Blues had taken with
him a chest filled with gold ; more than enough to bribe every
honest man in the kingilom. This news sank into the heart of
Blast like water in sand. All the remainder of the way, he
thought of that chest of gold devoted to corrupt honest men, and
thought how sweet, how justifiable it would be could he save
• honesty from such temptation by making the pelf his own. St.
Giles was of the Blue party : somewhat, no doubt of it, in the
confidence of the agent of St. James. It was only to hang on to
St. (riles, to work upon the terrors of the transport, to obtain a
potent ally in the felony. Already, Bhist saw himself the master
of a golden treasure ; and perhaps his first luck might so come
back to him, things might so be managed, that St. Giles alone
might be left to pay the penalty. It was plain that chance
had intended the chicken-hearted fool tlie gull for wiser fellows,
and Tom was determhied not to forego his priAiJege.

Arrived at Liquorish, Tom in vain sought St. Giles. Never-
theless, he had made all use of the boy. The ui-chin beiug shown
the abode of Tangle, hung about the house, until he discovered
the sleeping-room of that sagacious man. Such discovery was
soon made, Mr. Tangle appearing at the window of his bed-
chamber. Tangle was a cautious man : it was his reputation — his
pride. It has been seen with what especial care he locked the closet
— locked the chest that contained his gold — blocked the chamber-
door : but — by one of those accidents with which Beelzebub
delights himself to cheat his best fnends — Mr. Tangle forgot,
when he descended to breakf;ist, to close his chamber window.
This tremendous eiTor was not miobserved by Jingo and his
paternal tutor, both being on the watch for accidents. The win-
dow, we say, was open ; and chance seemed to offer a glorious

221 ST. GILKS AND ST. J.VMES.

means of success ; for an old vine, growing at tlie wall, offered to
tlie agile limbs of Jingo a nmst acconiiuodating ladder. lie
watched his moment. It was early Sunday moruiug ; and nobody
was in the street. In a couple of nunute.s the boy had ninunteil
tlie topmost bnmch of the vine, waa in at the window, and in a
second was under the bed of Tangle. Here he lay a few minutes,
taking breath : he then stole forth, and apjjroaching the cjisc-
nient, announced by signs to his anxious father in the street, that
all was right. Whereupon, his parent, with few but signilicaut
gestures, replied to the boy. We are fortunately enabled to anti-
ci]iate to the reader the meaning of this pantominje. It was, that
Jingo should keep close until night ; and tlu-n pt-rform a feat
that would gild him with renowni. Jingo felt the importance of
the part put upon him l)y his adventurous yet ean-ful father : for
Tom Bhust had provided the boy wilii a))ples and biscuits in his
pockets, that he might solace and sust^iin himself the while he
lay in wait. And Jingo showed himself worthy of his early
tniining. True it is, that Molly the luaid — ha\-ing for a short
time beggeil the key of Mr. Tangle — entered the chamber, yet
Jingo, braced for the occasion, silently munched his biscuit
and tremblcil not. Molly made the be<l, singing a rustic ditty
the while, ami Jingo, cosy and quiet, rather enjoyed the melody
than fe!ire«I the singer. Could Mr. Blast have known the com-
jKisetl heroi.sm of his child, he would have felt in all its fulnes.s,
the jiaternal pride ! He, however, continued his search for
St. Giles. At length he gathered at the Rose, that his friend — as
he hatl denominated him — had gone to church. He had caused
some merriment among the band and others by such eccentricity
— nevertheless, he had gone to his tlcvotions. Bl.-ist cai-ed not to
follow him inside the edifice, but lingered alwut the churchyard,
watching the congregation depart. Alrejuly he sjiw St. Giles
approach ; but seeing him about to accost Cajistick, shnmk behind
a tomb-stone : and thus it wa.s, whilst watching from this posi-
tion, that he was recognised by the quick eye of St. Giles, who
flcil as from a wild l)e:»st.

We have now to return to Tangle and Folder. To their
astonishment and delight they had, even at the church porch,
been invited to dine at Lazanis Hall. Tliere was a condescen-
sion, an urbanity, about dear Doctor Gilead, that was not to be
refused ; and the doctor's can-iage being sent to the Olive Branch,
the haj)py couple dejiaited for the rectory. The diimer was mag-
nificent. Of this we feel assiu'ed ; for Tangle on his progress
back to the inn, at least fifty times declared as much. " What
wine too ! " he cric<l — " the man, sir, who can give wine like that
ought to be a bishop — a bLshop, sir ; cei-tainly, a bishop." Tliia

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 221

opinion Mr. Tangle emphasised by again and again slapping the
knee of Mr. Folder, who in vain endeavoured to moderate Tangle's
admiration, by feebly answering — "My dear sir," — "My very
dear sir," — but it availed not.

It was evident from the condition of Mr. Tiingle that he did not
place wine among secular things : otherwise he had not on such a
day meddled so busily with the rector's port. For Mr. Tangle was a
particularly sober man. It was the boast of Mrs. Tangle that he
had never been seen intoxicated : a boast that has with it a certain
equivocation. But — it is a truism — every man has his weak
moments. Had he not, what an awful pei-son would he be — ^liow
set apai-t, how distantly remove<l from his fellow-men — frail, daily
sinnere ! No ; it is because great men have their weaknesses,
that we may a.ssert our common nature with them. "We should
be ab.oshed, indeed utterly confounded, by theii- heads of glittering
metiJ, did we not espy their little toes of clay, that reconcile us
by the assurance, that they have about them our fatiier Adam's
common loam Hence, our reverence may be softened into love.
Common weakness breeds common affection.

But — we owe the palliation to Tangle — sure we are, had the
patriot not been so strong, the man would not have been so
drunk. He had been so animated, so rapt by the prospect of
Lord St. James's success, so inexpressibly indignant towards the
■ corrupt tuid villanous machinations of the Yellows, that when he
wante<l words, as he so very often did, to express the intensity of
his feelings, he invariably applied himself to his wine-glaxs. At
a very early hour of the evening, he had got drunk out of pure
admiration of the English Constitution. Nor, let the truth be
said, was Mr. Folder imiocent of liquor. But, he had this saving
clause for himself, — if he was drunk, he was drunk like a gentle-
man. That is, he neither sang, nor roared, nor slapt his comrade
on his knee or shoulder ; but sat silently winking his eyes like an
owl in the sun, and now and then performing a slight cough, as it
appeai-ed to him to set right his dignity.

What change of climate often is to a sick man, change of
house is to a drunken one. He feels the stronger for the removal,
and therefore drinks again. It was thus with Mr. Tangle. Hence,
when safely seated in the Olive Branch, he declared that he
must have " one glass more— only one " — the glass, that shows
the tippler "many more." Briefly — for why should we linger
with the bacchanal? — Mr. Tangle was led by the Boots and
Chambermaid to his bed-room, Mr. Folder, with a hard struggle
for seeming sobriety, carrying a candle which in liis imsteady
hand let fall anointing drops of tallow on the head of the vinous
and patriotic lawyer. Arrived at the top of the stairs, Tangle

222 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

insisted upon being left to his ovm guvJance. Did they want to
insult him ? Did they think him drunk ? He knew the way to
his own room ; and would have no spies upon his doings. A dim
sense of the treasure in his donuitory seemed to steal upon him,
and make him of a sudden savcigely res(jlute. He tried at three
or four doors, insisting that each was his proper door ; and then
gradually giving it up as in no way belonging to him. Then he
burst into a loud laugh, and declared it was droll — ilevilish
droU. " This reminds me of anotlier uin I once slept at,"
he cried — " another tavern, where all the doors always changed
places after twelve o'clock." At length, he was half-.shuflled,
half-guide<l into his own apartment ; where, forbidding any
one on pain of death to follow him, he was left alone. He
cautiously locked the door, and taking therefrom the key, proceeded
with de\-iou3 steps to place it under his pillow. He then stag-
geretl to the door of the closet that contained his treasure ;
and grinned, ami pawed and stroked it up and down as though
he was caressing some animate thuig. By the dim twinkling of
the rushlight, young Jingo, his head protruded from the bed's
foot — like the heail of a tortoise from beneath its shell — watched
the drunkard ; and, it must be owned, felt something hke a sense
of contempt for his condition. It was plain the urchin
thought the glory of the robber)- greatly lessened by the helpless
state of the victim to be robbed. The boy, in the vivacity of
youthful bloo<l, had expected to see the gentleman gagged at
least and tied to the bed-post ; and now he would be made to
render up his gold patiently as a sheep its wool. Leaving the
closet, Tangle approached the bed, and still smiling at his won-
drous cunning, placed his watch under the mattress. He next
drew from his waistcoat a small pair of pistols which, having eyed
with a look of maudlin tenderness, and addressed as his dear pre-
servers, he attempted to place in the watch-pocket at the head of
the bed. Unfortunately, they shpped from his fingers, fell at the
bed-side, and were instantly secured by yoimg Jingo. Tangle
paused ; stooped ; fumbled about the floor, then with a grunt of
resignation, gave up the search. " He shouldn't want 'em^no ;
he knew he shouldn't want 'era." At length Mr. Tangle found
himself between the sheets. His head fell hke a lump of dead
clay upon the pillow ; and in two or three minutes, he was sunk
fathoms deep in drunken oblivion.

Jingo — hopeful child ! — had a quick eye for business. Mr.
Tangle had divested himself of his wardrobe at the bedside ;
and it was a pretty sight, it would in sooth have warmed the
paternal bosom of Tom Blast, could he have beheld Jingo seize
garment by giirment, and with unerring sagacity, instantly apply

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 2-2-3

liimself to every pocket. PuKse, handkerchief, pocket-book — nay,
even a curious okl steel tobacco-stopper, a Tangle heir-loom — was
quickly in the possession of young Jingo. And so, ending the
present chapter, we leave theiu — Tangle in his bed dreaming of
triumph ; and Jingo under it, really tasting the delicious fruits of
plunder.

CHAPTER XXIL

Jingo was bom for greatness. He had in his character the great
element of a great general, a great statesman ; marvellous self-
possession. Meaner boys would have been in a flutter of impa-
tience ; not so with the pupil of Tom Blast. Hence, he sat under
the bed, with critical ear, listening to the hard breathing of the
dnmken man, who soon began to snore with sucli discordant
vehemence that Jingo feared the sleeper might awaken his bottle
friend, Mr. Folder. (Jingo knew it not ; but his testimony would
have been very valuable to Mrs. Tangle : for the snoring of her
husband was one of the disquietudes of that all-sutfering woman ;
the rather, too, that the man constantly denied his tendency to the
habit. He never snored. Nobody ever does.)

With knowing, delicate ear, the child continued to listen to the
stertorous agent. At length, the boy crept from beneath the bed,
and treading lightly as a fairy at a bridal couch, he made his way
to the window. Now, had anybody attempted to open it for any
honest purpose — had Molly, the maid, for instance, sought to
raise it merely to give her opinion of the moon and the night
to any rustic astronomer below — it is very certain, that the window
would have stuck, or jarred, or rattled ; it was too old and crazy
to be made a comfortable confidant in any such foohsh busi-
ness. Ten to one, but it had awakened the mistress of the Olive
Branch, who would inequitably have nudged the master. And now
— a robbery was to be done — a most tremendous robbery, perhaps,
to be further solemnised by homicide — for who should say that
the Parcae who wove the red tape of the hfe of Tangle, attomey-
at-law, were not about to snip it : who shall say that so awful a
crisis did not at that moment impend ? — and yet silently went
the window up ; easily, smoothly, as though greased by some
witch ; yes, smeared with fat " from murderer's gibbet." Thus
does the devU so oft make wickedness so very easy to the meanest
imderstanding.

224 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

Two or three minutes jta-iso*!, not more, ami Tom Blast thrust
his heuil aJi<l one i>f Win Icj^'s into the chaml>er. There was a grim
smile ujKMi his face, a murderous simjMir at his mouth, a bniasy
brif;litn''.H8 in his eyes, thiit showe<l him to be ujK»n a lalxmr of love.
No solilier ever scale^l a wall — 1<» receive it uiuy l>e a bullet or a
bayonet, with the after-leaf of laurel that the Gazette punctually
leti< fall u|Hin his j^rave — no Iktu, we say, hw nerves stninjj by
shout-s hi.s heart beating to the lx«ating drum-s, his bloo<l lioiling
at slaugljter heat, his whole soul breathing tire and giinjM>wder,
and all to glori'iusly slay and sack, and bum — no such adven-
turous pluni«*<l bi|K'd ever looked more grindy Wautiful th.-ui did
that low-thoughte*! burglar, that leprou.H-minded thief. Strange
and mournful this to think of! For what wius there good or noble
to make hin mu.ncles iron ? What holy flame of jiatriotism ra^'f^l
in his heart, retiiiing its groaaneiw — what laurel could he hojK- inr,
wet with a nation's tears — nations always weeping when the
private soldier faib T He had none of thitte • ' !ii'.'nt*< to

Bubliuiate him, for a time, into an immortal , ^ ry. His

motive was gold : bnitalising gold. His enemy, if he came tv
close ijuarters, a weak, win<'-!*<Hl<lene«l old man. His fate, if he
should fciil, no laurel wreath, but sutTo^'ating rojie. And yet,
alas, fi»r the conceit of p«x)r humanity I Thomas P>la«t, prtpare<l
for robbery, and it might be, bloodshetl, lookini as horribly ani-
m.atol, as fer ' . happy, as though he ha<l m^ :" * ' -oine

Indi;ui ramp > a and there gr.aoiously comi. 1 to

slay man, woman, and chil<l ; to piihigc aiid to bum, and all
for glor)' — all for the everl.usting fame — of \ " II c<junt how

many years, or months, or tlays i How very t the picture

— the fate of the two men I And then, again, there is no Old
Kailcy (at least in this world) for the mighty men of the bully
burgl.ar, M.\rs I

Whilst writing this piece of villany, as, should it perchance
find ita way into any barrack, it will be called, we have not kept
Tom Blast astride upon the window-sill. Oh no ! he has busi-
ness to J perform — stem, worldly business, as he deems it — and
he has entered the chamber ; and with much composure, a
placiility which it has l>een seen he has transmitt^xl to his son,
he gazes at the sleeping, hard-breathing T.mgle. Mr. Blast was
not a man, in any way, above his profession. He never neglected,
however i>etty they might be, any of the details of his art. This
feeling of precision was, possibly, bom with him ; any way,
long custom had brought the principle, or whatever it was, as
near to perfection as may be allowed to any achievement of
fallible humanity. Had destiny put Blast in the respectable
position of the attorney in the bed. sure we are, it would have

ST. fill.KS AND ST. .lAMES. 225

been the same with him. Cortaiii we are he wouM liave been
as particular with his iukhum, liis jiarchimnt, liis ferret, us he
now was with his eijuipiueiits of (hirk lantern, crowbar, and rope.

For some moments, lihtst, by the Jiid of his lanteni, looked
meditatinirly ui>i>n Taufjle. I'ossibly lie felt such a deep seii.se of
K<v'»uiiy that ne liked t<» dally with his subjei-t, to coquet with
robluMV. to jjently sport with sin, to give it a sweeter flavour.
Fur tiiis is a trii-k of huuianity : in evidence of which, we could
and we would ijuole rosy exauii>l<-s : but no; we will not treat
the re;wler — in tliis liistory we have never yet done so — as though
his bj.som wjis stulfed, dolMike, with lu-an : we believe that lie
Inui a lieait beatin;^ within it, :uul to that interpreter, we write,
as we should s;iy, many things in short-haiul ; sonu-tinies we may
lose by it ; nevertlieless, we disdain to sjwll every jwussion with its
every Utter.

" lie 'd never be stole for his beauty, would he, Jingo ? " a.qked
BliLst, in a loud whisjier, blandly smiling.

" Anil whatever Inauty he h.-is, he shuts it uj) wlicii he g'"- to
skvp," replii-tl the child. " Oh. isn't he drunk :" the boy addcJ,
with consith-rable zest,

" lie is," s;ud lil.ist, who still looked contemjilative. Then
shading the huiteni, to catch the best view of T:uigle's face, he
continue^l — " What a horrible pictur ! He looks :\s if he 'd come
from Indy in a cask of spirits, and wjvs jest laid out, afore he was
to W buried. Jingo, my boy," — and the paternal h.ind wa.s
gently laid upon the boy's head — " Jingo, your poor father may
have his faults, like other men ; T can't say he ma\Ti't ; no ; but
lie isn't a tlninkanl. Jingo ; dse he hadn't got on the little he
li.is in the worKl— he hadn't, indce«l And so, take wai-ning by
what you see — by what you see," and Blaijt stretching his arm
towards the sleej>er, s.aid this in a low voice — touchiiigly, pater-
nally. " And now. Jingo," asked the man of business, "' where 's
the shiners ? "

A thoughtless reader may deem it strange, unnatural, that a
man aUnit to ]>erj)etrate gibbet-work should thus coolly delay,
and after his owni f;ishion, moralise. But then such reader mast
ponder on the effect of long habit. In his first battle — though
common history says nothing of it — Julius Cajsar, not from
cowanlice, but from a strange inward perturbation, bled at the
nose : similar accidents may have happened to other heroes when
they have drawn what with an odd gallantry is called their maiden
sword. Still the reader may not yet comprehend the composure
ot Tom Blast. The more his loss. But then, probably the reader
has never been a housebreaker.

lleturn we to our colloquy " Jingo, where 's the .shiner? 1 "
Vol. 1. Q

226 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

"There !" said the boy, pointiiif^ to the closet : "aiul see," ho
■wliispered, with a proud look, at the time produciug Tangle's
pistiila — "see, I Ve got his pops ! "

Tliia touch of eiirly pnidence and sagacity was too much for
a f;ither'3 heart. Turn f<.lt himself melted, as witli imdisj^'uised
t>ndenie.ss he siiid, taking an oath to the fact — " Well, you are a
bloomer, you are ! "

At this moment, Tangle rolled upon his side, g.abbling some-
thing in his sleep. On the in.stant. Jingo w;us at the couch, with
both his pistols presented at the sleeper's he:id. The eyes of the
little wretch glittered like a snake's — his lip.s were compressed —
Ids eyebrows knit — Im nostrils swelling. At a thought, he looked
an imp of murder.

"There's a beauty," said the encouraging Blast, "don't let
him wag ; if he should" — it was needle--w fur I'laat to lini.s]i the
injunction ; a terrible grin, juid a nml fi-oiu Jingo, showed that he
clearly understooil the fatherly wish.

'"This is the closet, eh ? " s:ud Bla.st, with a ven.- c'lni.iiiptuous
look at the ft-ail i>artiti(>n between him ai>d El Dorado. Theu
Blast took a small crowlxu* from his pcn-ket ; a remarkably ueat,
piirtabh' in.'^tniment. For some seconds he stood twirling it in
his li.and with tlie comjK>8ed air (<( a professor. Had he been a
fiL><)'ionable fiddler, he could not have fondled his alchemic
Cremona more tenderly, more lovingly.

(,>ne moment lie looks at the door. Ha ! tiiat was the t<iuch of
a master ! How it was done, we know not. By what sleight,
wh:it dexterity of hand, we cuinot guess, but in a few secondii,
the door yicKling to the instrununt, ojxt..s with a dull, sudden
siiund ; and Tom r.l.ist survey.s Tangle's chest of gold, Ll.xst's sou
anil heir still presenting two pistols at T.ingle's drunken he.ul.

At the opening of the door, Jingo looked round ;uid laughed.
B'^fore. his eyes were bent upon the sleeping man ; and it was
phiin, from the workijig of the boy's face, that he was fighting
with some horrid thought — some damnable temj)tatiou. There
was he with death in his two little hands ; there was he with a
teiTible curiosity growing in his features : his lii>s trembled, and
he shifted uneasily on his feet ; he breathed hard ; he glanced,
for an instant, do'wn the muzzle of each j)i&tol. There w;us thg
in.m — sleeping — still alive, though seethed in drink, and looking
like death. There he was — the dreaming man with his dreaming
murderer. For should the devil — and the boy felt him at his side
■ — should the demon only jog his ellx)W, crook his dnger — and how
odd, how strange, how very curious it would be, to see that
p'pepin!^ face, with a flash, a-sleep in death ; to catch the look—
the orief one look — as the soul shot into dai'kuess !

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 227

P>iit Tom Blast saddenly burst the door, and the boy laughed
and tremljled. Ho thouglit it very strange — very odd — he could
Lave \vei)t.

" AH light," said Tom, " we 're lords for life ! " He then
laid hands upun the U>x — pau.s.^d — and looked suddonly blank.
"Waywaiil, obstinate Plutu.s ! The god would not be lifted — no,
in his heavy divinity, he would not be made to budge. Again
qnd again Tom Bhust essayed to stir the god — to take him
in his loving arms, and, hugging liira to hi.s breast, to bear hira
to some sweet solitude, and make liun all his own. Provokiu",
wa.s it not, that tiiat which added to the treasnre, added to the
didifulty ? Tom could have cm-sed the patriotism of the voters
of Li<iuon.-<li, that — the immovable bo.x deel.u-ed it — bore so high
a price. He had no l>elief that their virtue could have been so
very valuable to themselves. T<>m, however, would not be
b.kiHed. No ; a voice i.ssued from the Ix'X, that, like the voice 0£
jeering beauty, at once pique<i ajid animated him. And ntiw he
w.-us resolved. His sinews might crack — liis Adam's clay mi<dit
be tlawed beneath the load — nevertheless, he would lift it.

"Jingo," whi.spered Tom, "don't move a foot. Tlie damned
box " — in this way tlocs ungrateful man too often treat his sujier-
flux of wealth I — " crui't be lowered out of window ; 'twould go
■ ema.sli. 1 '11 eix-ep down and unI>olt the door, ;uid then " — Blast
had said enough ; Jingo nodded his perfect comprehension of his
father's plan ; and the robber, silently ius a shadow glides al<.ini'
the rioor, passed tVom the room. Jingo was alone — alone, with
liLs munlerous to)-s — for to him they were very plaj-things — and
the sleeping sot. Ag:iin, did stnuige thoughts tingle in that
miitaught little bi*ain ; again did a de^'illsh spirit of mischief
begin to posses him ; when his paternal monitor returned, with
a hghtenod, a pleased look.

It was, doubtless, a charming sight — a spectacle hugely enjoyed
by the few select spectators — to behold Hercules m:dce his Mual
muscuUir prepai'ation for the achievement of jiny one of his
labom-s. The majesty of ynW — that mond reg;ility of man —
must have so beamed and flashed around his brows, that even the
gods may have looked from the windows of heaven, pleased with
a royalty that seemed a shadow of their own. And so be of
good heai-t, ye many sons of Herculi?s, lighting, wrestling with
the monstei-s of advei-se fate — be of good faith, though ye combat
in the solitude of a desert ; nevertheless, believe it, if ye fight
courageously, there are kind looks from heaven always beaming
on you.

We incline to the belief that Tom Blast had never heard of
Hercules ; or it' indeed he had, the ucuue was so associated wilU

228 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

the Pillars, tliat if lie ever consiJered the matter at all, he may
percliauce have thought Ilorcules some very famo\i.s tai)ster, and
that cert:un Lomlou hostelries knowii as Hercules' Pilhii-s merely
etenused his reputation. We forget, too, the name of the anti-
fiunrv who wrote a very thick book, proving that the jiillars set
up liy llerculfs — vulgarly suppwed to commemorate hi.s labours
— were no otlier than a very cl.ussic pjiblic-house, whereui, alter
hi.s last thiy'a work, he drained hi.s cool tjinkard. IJe this an it
may, lihust wa-s in no way strcngthenetl by the thought of the
refonning Hercules, when he prejiared himself to lift upon his
Hhiiidiler th.nt bittersweet — that " hoavy lightnetw, gerious vanity"
— that sustaining, crushing weight of gold. Nevertheless, the
preparition of Bhust waa worthy of the best scoundrel hero of the
world's old Jigo and weakness. He looked at the Iwx with fl.ush-
ing resolution — set his teeth— fixed his feet — and put forth hiii
arms, Jis though he would i*oot up an oak.

And now shout, ye imps ! Scream, ye devilkina — for it is
done ! The gold is on the thief'.s shoulder ! Hi.s knees quiver
beneath the sudden wealth — his chest laboura — his face grows
purple as grapes — and the veins in his gibbet brow sUirt thick
and l)lack with bloiwl, — yet a i)roud smile j)lay3 about his iron
xnoutli, and he looks a Newgate hero !

Breathing hanl, in hozu^e whispers, the robber gives directions
to the boy — " Jingo — good fellow— tlon't stir — only a minute —
only a minute — when I 'ra clear otf — then — you know." And
with this broken counsel, Blast, his strength strained to the
utmost, turned to the door — and staggere«l from the room. Young
Jingo's face ilarkened, and now lie glanced towards the window,
to secure himself a retreat, now he listened to cjiteh tlie sounds
of his father's footsteps. To trip — to stumble but an inch — and
what a cni' ' - to the whole L ' M would Vuirst

from th.'it r.i . , ^ id ! Still Jing" 1, and still he

felt re-assured ! Tlie robber made silent ami successful progi-ess. It
was a difficult j>as.s;itje — that narrow, crooked staircase ; and as
the thief accommoilated his burthen to its winding way, thoughts
of mortality would come into the thiefs brain ; for he nian'clled
how when anybo<ly die<l — and it was an old, old house— they
carried the coffin down that confined, sinuous path ! But gold — •
heart-strengthening gold — is on his shouUlers, and h« beara up
with Atlantean will, the whilst he moves along noiselessly as the
liare Uraps on the greensward. He has crossed the threshnlii —
closed the door behind hira — he is in the wide world, w itli his
fortune on his shoulders. "Wliither shall he go ?

Direct, assist him, ye good genii that, all unseen, favour ard
Btreugtheu the mere mongj'-ijiak^r j the man, who o^ly eats, and

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 229

drinks, nnd takes his teinpenfte rest, tliat he may he keener at a
V)HrL,'aiii, sharper for prorlt. Uow luany, — save that tlieir goMen
bun lens are hiwfiil gains ; that is, obtaiued by no gross violation
ot" the statute — iire, like Tom Bhist, puzzled, coufouuiled, by the
very troaaure they have toiled for ? AV'hat a hard, ungrateful
w>i^ht, their monstrous wealth ! Somehow, with all the ble.s.s-
ings mingled with it, they cannot extract heiu't's ease from it.
Tliey sweat :uid toil under the load, when — though tliey know not
how to secure the hajipiness — they would fain sit themselves down
on some green, ple:isant spot, and enjoy their loug-toiled-for
di'liglit. No, it may not be. The spirit — tlie sole posses.sing
Bjiirit that, day and night, made thorn subdue all gentler, softer
iiitltienees, to the one exhausting jmrpose, wealth — the spirit is
still their despot, and rules them ixs tynumously when in cloth of
irold, as when in frieze. Thev have worked — sweated for the
previous hiad ; and, when obtained, it is hung about with fears.
How many have crawled, bnite-like, on all-foui-s through dirty,
windinir wavs to wealth, with the sweet unction at their soula
that, arrived at the glorious bourne, they would then walk vciy
erect ; would cleanse themselves of the inevitable detilement« of
the road : woulil, in sooth, become very sweet men indeed. "Well,
they have ivaehed the shrine ; they have learned the true " Open
Se-same ! " — they are rich, past all their morning dreams of
■wealth — but somehow, there is the trick of old habit, — they
cannot well stiuid ujii-iglit ; and their hands have been so ilu'tied,
feeling their way to Plutus, it seems to them a foolish t;isk to try
to whiten and purify them. This, however, they can do. They
c.-ui, somehow, blind the world : yes, they can put on very white
gloves.

T.-ike fi-om Tom Blast the spot of felony, and — as he staggera
onwanl in darkness and micertaiuty, almost crushed with his
weight of wealth, — knowing not where to tiud repose — he is no
other than your monstrously rich man, who haa excluuiged his
hejirt at the Mint for coined pieces.

Fatigued, perplexed with i-ising feare, the robber goes on his
unknown way. He strikes wide from the vill;ige — goes down
lanes, crosses tields. And then he pauses ; and casting his loatl
upon the earth, he sits upon it, t;ikes otf his hat, and wijies the
streaming sweat from his brow, a m}Ti;ul of unthought-of stai-s
looking downi upon his felon head.

Yes ; he has taken the good resolution. He will hencefoilh be
an honest, respectable man. Let fate be only so kind as to assure
him his present spoil, and he will wash his hands of all such work
for the rest of his days. He will, he thinks, leave London.
Yes ; he will discipline his soul to forego the sweet allurements.

230 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

the magic wiles of that city of Comus. He will go into the
country, and lie very good to the poor. He will change his name.
With such change, he cannot but slough much of the bad repu-
tion that the pi-ejudice of society has fixed ujwn him. He will
become a country gentleman. He will give away a bullock and
blankets at C'hristma.s. He will go regularly to church. Yes ;
Vie will show that he can be truly religious ; for he will have a
pew as fine, if not finer, than any pew he had pee]>cd into
ye.stenhiy. If fate for this once, this last time, be only kind to
ivim ! This viiluous determination so befooled the felon, that he
felt his heart o]x;ned ; felt all liis nature soft«ne<l to receive the
best and kimlliest imprc-^sions. Though, in his various crooked
ways, Tom Bl.ust had gulled many, many men, yet hail he never
8o completely duped any man, as, at that moment, Tom duped
Tom. He felt himself mightily comforted. He looked around
liini at the hidges, the ti-ees ; as though carefully noting their
pailicidar whereabout. He rose blithely, with some new resolu-
tion. With renewed strength he swinig the box upon his
shoulder, and in a few minutes he had hidden it. He would
come back at a pr(>j)er season, and with proper means, to take
pure jxt.^session of it.

Return we to Tangle's chamber. Oh, innocent sleep ! There
was the j)arl lament a i-y jigent — the man with the golden key to
oj)en the door of St. StLpl\en's to young St. James — there was
he, still in poi-t-wine slumbei"s — still sunk in the ruby sea!
Beautiful wa-s the morning ! The nimble air frolicked in at the
open window, for the mercurial Jingo had not closed it when he
tKi^ai-tcd with Tangle's trea-sures. The glorious sun rose blu.shing
at the ways of slothful man. The sparrows, tenants of the
eaves, flew from distant fields, many a one proving, by tlie early
worm that writhed about its bill, the truthfulness of proverb lore.
And still the attorney slept I Sleep on, poor imiocence ! * Thou
knowest not the gashes cut in thy pocket : thou knowest not how
that is bleeding mortal drojjs of coined blood ; for how much
seeming gold is there, tliat, looked upon aright, is aught other
substance ? Sleep on.

And Tangle sleeps and dreams. A delicious ^•ision creases
and wrinkles his jellow face like folds in parchment. Yes ;
Tangle dreams ! And we know the particular dream, and — sweet
is the privilege ! — we may and wiU tell it. Soninus did not
kindly send to the lawyer a visionary courier to apprise him of
his loss ; and so to break the atiliction to his sleep that, waking,
be might perhaps the better enduie it. Oh no ! there would have
been no sjiort in that. Contrast is the soul of whim ; and Somnua
was inclined to a joke with the attorney.

ST GILE=! AND ST. JAMES. 231

\y)iereupou, Tangle dreamt that lie was ou his death bed ; md
ncverllioless, bed to him had never ))een so deliciuus. He knew
his hour w;us come : a suiiUng angel, all eii'ulgence, had told
liiiu so. And Tjoigle, calling up a decent look of regret at Ids
wife and children, standing about him, told them to be comforted,
as he was going immediately to heaven. This he knew ; and it
showed their ignorance to look any doubt of the matter. That
chest of gohl — the gold once taken to pay the electors of Liquor-
i.sh — was, after the majmer of dreams, somehow his own property.
And therefore, he ordereil the cliest to be placed on the foot of
his bed, and opened. The lid was raised ; and oh, what a glory !
It vv;is fdled to the edge with bright, bright guineas, all bearing
the benevolent face — a wonderful likeness ; in fact, Jis every face
on gold is, a speaking likeness, for it talks every tongue — ot
George the Third ! When Tangle saw them he smiled a smile — •
ay, could we have followed it — to the very roots of hLs heart,
'• 1 am going to heaven," said he ; "I have toiled all my
life for that goodly end ; I have scraped and scraped tho.se
blessed things together, kuowmg that if I had enough of them
to bear my weight, they would carry me straight to Para-
dise. No, my dear wife, my dai'ling children, thiidv not my bnun
. is wandering ; think me not light-headed ; for at this solemn
time, tliis awful moment, I oidy hope to consummate the great
object of my life. I liave made money in tliis world, that, by its*
means, I might make .sure of heaven in the next. And they " —
and Tangle ag:un pointed to the guinea.s — " those bright celestials
will c;ury me there ! " And now comes the wonderful part of
the dreiuu. When Tangle had ceaaed speaking, every guinea
rose, as upon tiny wiiigs from the box; and, like a swai-m of
bees, lilled the death-chamber with a humming sound. And
then gradually every King Geoi-ge the Third face upon the
guinea grew and rounded into a cherub head of glittering gold,
the wings extending and expanding. And who shall count the
number of the cherubim glorifying the chamber with their
etiulgence, and making it resound with their tremendous music !
A short time, and then Tangle dreamt that the cherubim vf-.ve
bearing him from his bed — all Ufting, all supporting him, all
tending him in his upward flight. And then again he smiled at
his worldly wisdom, for he felt that every guinea he had made — •
no matter how, upon earth — was become an angel, helping him
to heaven. And still in his dream — smiling and smiling, he went
up — up — up !

Now, if any cavUling reader disputes the authenticity of tins
di-eam — if, pushing it aside, he caUs it extravagant ami ridiculous,
we are, without fuither preparation, ready to prove it a very

232 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

rea.<?onable and likely dream ; a dream that is no otlier than a
viHioiiary einl»>dinieiit of the wakiii;^ thoui^hls of many fi niiin,
■who hoard.s and hoard.s, as though every bit of fr<»ld was, as the
lawyers have it, seizin of PiUTidise. When (:uid it dues some-
times lia[ij)en,) a hiifh dij^niUirv of th'.' C-'hureli dies with a cutler of
some hundred ainl forty thousand pounds, who shall say that the
good man has not hoarded them, in the belief that every pound
will serve him as an angel to help him to bliss ? He knows he
cannot take thciu to heaven ; but, with a wistlom unknown to
mueii of the ignonmt laity, he evidently luliuves that they e;ui
carry him thei-e. Hence, even Church avarice, properly con-
sidered, may be excellent religion ; hence, a crawling, cater-
l)illar miser maj only crawl to .s.>;ir the higher — a triumpluuit
Psyclie !

And still Tangle, in las dream, \v;is ascending to the stai-s.
— \\';is ever man brought back to this e:u-th with so terrible a
8hi>ck ?

" ILUlo ! Bless me ! My good frii-nd ! "Well, you have a con-
Btitution ! Sleep with the window open I"

iSuch Were the exclamations of ^Ir. Folder, up and ajrayed for
an early walk. Though by no means unwell from the last night —
certainly not, for he w.is never «obirer in his life — he thought he
Would t;ike a randile in the lields just 1o ilissipate a little dulness,
a slight be;ivines3 he felt ; and IwLng of a com|)anionable nature,
he thouglit he would hold out to ^Ir. Tangle the advant.ige of
society. Whercujion, Mr. Folder tried the att^miey's door, and,
tinding it unlockinl, with the plea&int freedom of a friend he
enteretl the chamber. The 0]>ened wimlow struck hijn with asto-
nishment. The election was not over, and Mr. Tangle might
catch his de.'ith. Again Folder gave voice to his anxiety, '"My
dear sir, — Mr. Tangle — the wimlow " —

" Ten thousand cherubs,'' s;iid Tangle, still in the clouds, —
" ten thousand, and not one less. I knew I had ten thousand ;
and all goo<l : not a pocket-piece among 'em. Cherubs I "

" Bless my soul I " said Folder, " he 's in some sweet flream :
and with the window open. Well, if I could dream at all under
such circumstances, I should certainly dream I was hi a saw-mill
with a siiw going through every joint of my body. And, what's
more, I should wake and find it all tnie. Mr. Tangle ! "

W'ith other exclamations — with still more strenuous j)ulling —
Mr. Folder saw that he was about to achieve success. There were
undeniable s}Tiiptoms of Mr. Tangle's gi-adual return to a con-
sciousness of the £ 8. d. of this world. Gnuluall}-, cherub by
cheiiib was letting him down easily to this muddy eju-th. The
attorney stretched out his legs like a spider — flung up his aima

ST. GILES -VXD ST. JAMES. 233

— and with a trememlous yawn openeil liis moulli so TTide, tliat
Mr. Folder — but lie w.us not a man of liigb couraijt' — mij(ht
])erlia])s liave seen tliat attorney's very bowels. Tangle unclosed
his .stiUiy-opening eyelids. It wa.s plain there was a nii.it — j)o.s-
sibly a cloud, fus fri)ni burnt claret — pa-ssing liefore his orbs : for
it was some niuments before the face of Mr. Folder loomed through
the vapour. At length, Tangle — with every vein in his head
beating away as though it would not beat in .such fiushion much
longer ; no, it mustbui-st — at length Tangle, resolving to be nmst
courageou.sly jolly, laughed and cried out — " Well, what's tiie
matter ? "

"Why, my dear friend,'' said Folder, " .o-s today is a bu.sy
day, I thought we could not be too fresh for work : ami .so, lus we
were a little late. I m.ay say, too, a little wild l.'i«t night " —

" Pooh, pooh; not a Vnt. I never felt better: never, in all my
life. I always know when I'm .safe, ami drink accordingly. Never
■v'a.s yet deceived, sir ; never. There 's no j>ort in the worlil I 'd
tnist like the port yon get from certain gentlemen of the
cloth : they're men alwive <leeeit, sir ; above deceit."

"Nevertheless, I do think a walk in the tield.s — just a turn
before bre:ikf:ust '" —

" No," said Tangle, turning upon his side, evidently set ujx)n
another nap : " no ; I like buttercups and daisies, and all that
sort of thing — breath of cows, and so forth — but not upon iuiemjity
stojuach."

"AVell, to be sure," said Folder, "yon economise. Vou get your
air and sleep together."

" What do you mean ? " grunted Tangle.

"Why, you sleep with your window open, don't you ? '' a-sked
Folder.

" Never," replied Tangle.

" No : then who has ojiened it for you ? "

Mr. Tangle raised himself in his bed. We will not put down
the oath which to the a.stonishment of Folder, Tangle thundered
forth, when he saw his casement open to the winds. Suddenly
he leapt from the bed ; and as suddenly Mr. Folder quitteil the
chamber.

" Eobbery ! Murder ! " cried Tangle, with amazing lungs.

Now, we have never known this confusion of terms in anyway
accounted for. True it is, Mr. Tangle saw, as he beheved, the
clearest evidence of robbery ; but there was no drop, no speck
of blood, to ationl the .slightest hint of homicido. Whereforr?,
then, should he, falling into a common error of humanity, couple
murder with theft ? Why, is it, we <isk, that intirm man, sud-
denly awakened to a loss of pelt, so often connects with the

i.W ST. CiU.E^ AND ST. JAMES.

iiiisfrnrlune. the loss of life? Are purse-striiif^ ami heart -striiijp
60 inevitaltly ijitt-rwoven ? We merely let fall this subject for
the eluciilation of the metaphysician ; aii<l so jMirsue our story.

" Ujl)bcry ! Murder!" yelled Tangle, dancing in hi.s shirt
ahout the room, like a fr;uitic Indian. Mr. Folder, at the door,
tcKik uj) the cry, and in a few minutes Landlord and landl.adv,
ch.imlxTin.aid, waiter, and UmjI-s, with half-a-dozeu tenants of the
Olive Branch, were at Tangle's d<x>r. " A minute — only a minute,"
ciied Taii_'l<>. :i>» they werealx>ut to enter — " Not dix*sse<l yet — the
uiurdei>jU3 thiev«« — nearly naked — the scoundrel malefactors
— guineas, guineas — gone — gone — where 'a my stockings?"
Very distre8.-<ing to a 9>m\ of sympathy Miia the comlition of
Mr. Tangle. As he hunted about the floor for his scattered
articles of dress, his face — he could not help it— was tumcl
towards the empty closet, a-s though in his iles|oir he thought some
pood fairy might replace the tr<.i.su re there, even while he UM>ke«l.
— Thus, looking one way, an<l svking his niiment in divers
others, he brought his head two or three times in nmghest com-
panionshi]! with the l»e»i j>ost.H. At length, very stenily reb'ikcd
by one of th«'se m<>iiitors, he made a dfsjM-i-ate etfort at tmn-
^ptillity. Hecease<l to look towanls the closet. Setting liis teeth,
and breathing like a walrus, he drew on his stockings. He then
encase<l his lower members in their customar^• covering; a?id then
the tumetlnnit jKH-keta once morenniit hisbmised soul. Jle <lroi»t
U]>on the Ih-*!. and sent forth one long, deep, piteous groan.
'• The numUu-ous villains ! Even my 'bacco-slopj>er ! " lie cried :
and then his eyelids »juivere<l ; but he repre.<vj«d the weakness,
and did not weep. '* .SoDieboily sluJl swing for this — somelxxly ! "
lit- .-i.iid ; .antl this sweet, sustaining thought seemed for a time
iiiiL'litily to c«»nifort him. And thus, the attorney contiiun il to
dress himself, his hand trembling alwut ever}' button-hole ; whil.st
the crowd at his chamber-<h)or exchanged sundry speculations jia
to the mode and extent of the robbcrv, the landlord loudlv
exclaiming that nothing of the sort had ever been known in
his house : a statement emphatically confirmed by his dutiful
helpmate.

" And now," cried Tangle, tj-ing the while his neckcloth like a
hay-wisp ; " and now, ladies and gentlemen, you may come in."
Instantly the chamber was thronged. " Look here — look here," he
eiiid, waving his hand tow;u'ds the empty closet as a tremendous
show — •' this is a pretty sight, I think, for a respecUible house ! "

"What's the matter, sir?" said the landlord. "Have you
lost anvthiiig I "

" Ix)st anything ! " exclaimed Tangle ; " only a box of goia !
Yes — I — I won't say how many guineas."

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. ?35

Tliere wns something toucliing, awful, in this intelligence ; fir
every one of the lie.-u-ei-s, in some w:iy or the other, calle'l upon
Heaven to bless him or her, ;us the citse migiit be ; everybuily also
declaring, that he or she ha<l never heard of such a thing.

"But, air," K;yil the landlord, very provokinglv, " are you sure
there's no mistake — w.ts it there wlun vuu \v»-nt to bed ?"

Tu this impertinent, insulting, unfeeling (juestion. Tangle ma<le
no verbal answer. lie merely lookid da,"/er\\nse in the face of
the querist, and laughed scornfully, hy.sterically. Tie mit,dit na
well have laughed inthe<leud face of a ilead-wiill, for the landlord
continue<l :

" liecause you know, sir, and this gentleman " — he meant Folder
— "and Molly Chambermaid, and Ixiots, and my wife, all know
that you was a little the worse or the better for liquor, as you may
think it, when you come home from I..:izju'ub Hall. You must
feel that, sir ; I 'm sure you ilo ft-el it."

" I tell you what, landloifi," said Tangle. " I tell you what,
sir ; this insolence shall not sen'c your turn — not at all. Vou
shall not rob me of my rejiutatiou to cover the robbery of my
money."

"/ rob you! / rob j'ou ! " cried the landlonl, advancing
towards Tangle, and followed by his wife, the maid, and b<Mits,

all taking \nu-t in the nmsic '' J/e rob you! Master rob

you!"

'• Look there ! I take you all to witness," crieil Tangle, i-unning
to the bed, jducking away the pillows, and showing a key — '"the
key of the closet ; of that very closet. Now, had I forgotten
myself for a moment as a gentleman or a m:ui of business, is it
likely that I should have been so ])articular \vith that key?"

" They must have come in at the winder," sjiid the boots, gaping
at the open casement.

'•Hallo! my tine fellow," cried the too subtle Tangle; "you
seem to know something about it ? "

" Acause," answered the un.shaken boots, " acause this gentle-
man said he found the ^nnder open."

The iandloi-d ai>iiroaehed the closet, looked about it as though
possibly the box might still be in some comer; then scratched his
head ; then with his thumb and finger felt the Vjolt of the lock
and then sagaciously observed ; " He was an old hand as did tins.
All the marks on it, sir ; all the mai-ks on it."

" A great consolation," answered Tangle, with a ghastly grin.
"Well, Mr. Landlord, seeing yourself in this condition — what
do you pn^pose ? " And the looks of the landlord answered—
Nothing.

"You see, sir," at length the Olive Branch made answer

23<J ST. GILES AKD ST. JAMKS.

"you «*c. sir, thi.i U 'U-«-tioii time. Now, there isn't a honenter

1. , , 1

lu, M you muirt kimw. I don't sec whnt you cnn di> ■ ■ Yen ;
1 Heml the bellinnn ruuiul with n reward fur the tidef —

" Pooh, pn«.h, fixdiiih man ! " crie«l Folder, who then drew
Tn- !<•. "l><>n'l y<»u nee, my ilear sir, huw mn-h n Btep

Won,.. ■ • iw ? l)oa'f ■ •• -^— 1. -v :> .. ...'.t ..... fi f},t.|.

ywrty I ..• ! ' I>«t, a 1»!*

' what wiuiUi they 'd tire «l ua. They d ■wear, — Umt

itiato, — that we liad brought down the );old to

" That never iitnick me," annwerwl Tangle ; ** 'tin more than

likely. H ' ' my

\K-nrH havr i . ...... \ i ;.. i» a

blow. Stript, ' in a tone of maudlin aurruw—

At t' '■ • ' •' ■ ? -ir,

and til' . for

Mr. Folder. Thm arrival, coupled with the aitenee of 'lantrle,

i.ii •■ It 111% II 1 -If .1

•aid. " What a pity I "'•onic, - How very odd ! " an«l aome, " It

wn - - - „

'■ . ; ... ;... -Hivo, *• it in

a h • fn»m hi* 1 who oi imt we m.iy as well

blend i ' wilh I Wi- '\

th.. . t.)

luo ! To me. aliovo all men ui the world ! li»w can 1 ever (ace
his* ■ • • . ! "

, • I friend, it's not no had. Tlie 1.-.sj». h''.i%-^* a.=! it i.<«."
said Folder, with a smile, "can't be ruin."

" You 're .n 1 . \f I y,-,jj ajv,"' tuu<l

Tnnple, tryinu 1... . .> .. - ...w

** For you 're n rich man, Mr. Tangle ; a very rich man, and
can make up the loss without " —

" / make up the l<*«, Mr. FoMer! / make — panlon me. my
dear sir, you n-ally K{ie:ik in total igiiornnce of juch ni.it tt-i-ji.
No, the gold being his lordship's — for his lonlship's 8|)ceial use
— if an accident has unfortunately happened to it — why, of
ci>urM' " —

"Well," replie<l Folder, catohinj^ the drift of Tangle, "that
you cuu settle with hid lunLsLip himself. lu the mean timc^

ST. OILKS AND ST. JAMES. 237

we h;ul betU-r i»re|Kire fir our visit. I Hh.i'n't be five minutes —
but you — you iieeU a •little prejKiniliou. Dou't you shave tliia
luoniiiig ? "

'■ Not for luillioiui wouKl I attempt it, Mr. Folder. In my 8t;ite
of niiml, not for millioUM. 1 cuul>ln't do it, sir — I couMn't so
provoke fate. I tell you whut I '11 do^I '11 walk »»n : in my
1' ' I. I 'd riither w:dk. I hh;ill find a barU-r in the

\ , 1 i.'UI be at llio Hall jw .sixni ;u* y..u — t. 11 liis Imd-

Mhip ipiit« n« Huou an you."

And ran.;l<', with a waml' ■, and un.>*l<-jidy liaii-l. Hnui^ht

and loiilv lii.s liat. He then i.... i the chan»ber, :uid Mr. Folder

retired to liiii own a]>;Lrtmeut.

CHArTER XXIII.

TuK iKirouyh of lJ(|Uoriah jKj»we«»o«l two barb«>rB — tudy two.
It r, the numlior wait .i to admit of deadly

i.....i. , ... .1 liiiH truth never h*.- ;-.,.>U'n — two «in hat« ti»
WfU UM twenty. Now, the hatred of Iwittp ami Flay wt-lled up
fntm their love of the Hauiu Uiing, the liriti»h CoUHtitutioii.
Mr. l:.isj. l..v.d that ■ ' • \ -' - luler and r. - ■:»1

IlAi-; li.- ;il\v.i\.-. api . • •n with a ; i,',

a swi-et coucerii. Tlie bhtish Uoiihtitutiou was the apple of
l,i, ,\,._' .. of his he.'U-t. He loved it In-yond lUU' other

til II : ap; .: :ij» to this Iove;ible earth. His wile — meek, in-

j'l 1 womaii I — h.'Mofton cousitlere«i herself slighteil and deupiscJ
by the lil)ertinf ; ace. " A married man with a fandly,"

Mi-s. h'a.-p wr ••' • '• utly obberve, and sometimes not,

"slupiillnl ti . such uoiiseiise." Oee.'usionally,

too, she would very mueh like to know^ what the Constitution, ua
they t-alltd it, h.-ul evcr ' ' >r ] And when Ka.-*}) —

in moments of ale — h:is.\, if perfectly willing, nay,

rather auxioua, to lose his head for the Coustitution, hia wife has
only plneiilly remarked, " that it waa more than he'd ever think
of doing for her."

Now, Flay loved the Constitution after a different fashion. It
was a pretty object — very pretty, indee^l ; very desinible, very
essential for the happiness, or at least for the enjoyment of man.
Flay loveii the Consiilutiou with a sort of orientid love ; it was
the ]>assion of the Cireat Turk for some fair, stag-eyed .slave ; the
at!''' tiun of (iu>' who is tlu» master, the owner, of the creature of his
dcli^litB — the tniding i-o.-j^t-sor of the lovely goods ; and therefore,

1188 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

i\lifn it sli.'ill .'*o ])li;ise liiin, ;it ["Hi-fect iVeeiloin to sell or tru'^V,
or Ixjw-.striiig, ur put in a 8;u:k or in !iny^>ther vv.iy tn turn the
|»fnny with, or (lis|M>se of the iil<»l of lii.s n<Ior:ition. Yf.s: Fl:iy
thou;,'Iit the Constitution, hke the tK'.sh-an(l-lil<>o<l jK-ad of jihareiu,
niiglit now W «leV()urinj;ly lovcl, and now be advanta'^fously
ltartcri'<L Where the man, living in tlie twilight olwciuity ot
J.,iqiu>rish, learned auch iirinciples, we know not. Certain it Is,
tiiey wt-re very far Ik^vihuI his si>in.d condition.

We liave imw to t.wk the indolLT-MU'i- of the reader to end»'.ivoiir
to renienkl>er that Mr. Tangle, dizzy and tremulous, quitted the
Olive r>i-anch, huniinoned to I>az.ini.s Hall i)y his lor<lshi|>. The
wine still «u»g in hi.H ears, and the evil spirits that men swallow
a.s angela Ui their cuj^j over night, iR'at in T.'iiigle's lieating heart,
and twitche«l his nervea, .and s«>enke<l to turn hU evi-s into huniing-
gl.xssen, as he found hiniHelf in the btreet. And then eaiui* the
loss of the gold ujHin hi.H brain — came with a crush, slupifying,
stuiming, as tlu^ngh the metal itself h.-ul faJlen u|xjn tlutt divine
welt-Work of nerves — when in Tan^de's soul, spider-like, lurkttl
for human tlies — and smitten him out of life. And then hia
Rtomaob seenuxl to hold within it one pjssessing nausea ; and he
lookt^il at the rosy ehihiren alxnit him — the r«il-face<l, Liiighinj^
neighlnniTH, and wondered what they were lujule of.

Nevertheless one thought like a star shone bj-ightly thron'jh
this fog of soul, for the said soul w.w mu-.-h olwcnred by the wine-
mists fn>m the .>itonuu-h — the thought of the l>nrl>er. Tangle must
be shave<l. It had in-en one of the prinei])l<*s of his existence-
one of the bundle of determinations with which he had set out on
the pilgrimage of life — or rather, this prim-ipie he h.ifl taken up
at the twenty-mile stage — to suHer no man to take liiiu by the
nose save himself. Li the vanity of his pliilosophy, he hatl believed
that no jxissible blow of fortune could have reiulere<l his hand
unsteady at the morning razor ; and now, with the losfs of the gold
tipon him, he shuddered at the thought of the saeriticial stecL la
the disorder of his soul and the sickness of his stom.-ich, he saw
himself shaving ; and sjiw a ver}' numerous f:uuily of imps laughing
and winking in the gUiss — auil p^jintuig their fingers at liLs throat
— ajid then grinning hard again — and uoilding, and smacking
tlieir forked tongues, an revelling in the hope of a delicious
tmgedy. And Tangle — for we choose to give the whole truth —
Tangle did for a moment sympathise with these murder-hinting
demons. It was weak — it was wicked ; but in another moment,
tlie idea was sternly banLshed. For Tangle remembered that his
life wa-s insured ; and how every dreadful it would be, shoul<l he
leave tlie world in a way to forfeit the policy! With these
thoughts, Mr. Tangle entered the shop of llyisp. He entered and

ST. GILHS AXn ST. JAME.S. 2^9

shrunk back. " ConiL' in, sir,"'ciieil the ho.spituble barln^r. *' Here,
Tim, tiiii.<h this geiitlemaii." Suviug tlii.s, li;i.sp in.slautly <)uJtteJ
the lje;u\i he wjus ulxjut ti> rea]), lor tlie chin of the new-eumer.
Tan{,'le looked about liini, and lelt himself a little wouudeil, some-
vhat di.sin'^iced l>y tlie meanness, the rustic poverty of the shop.
He IcKtked too at the man lathered to the eyes — the man ct)n.><ij;ned
to Tim, Ha-sp's little boy, wlio quickly mounted a stool, that he
might the better pus-scss liiuiself of the no.se of the cu.slomer.
KoNV, albeit the features of the m;iu were very thickly uuisked by
soap-suild, it wad the instant couvictiou of Tangle that he saw
coarse, dirty lineaments beneath ; and then-upon his piide started
at the thought of losing his beanl in such compjujy. Hail Tangle
felt himself the pi-osperous m;ui of yesterday, certainly he would
as soon have offered his neck to the axe, jls his chin to the self-
B.ame bi-u.sh that had lathered the beanl of that very vulgar man;
but advei-sity had chji.-;tised pride, and after a natural twinge or
two, Tangle sank resignedly on the wooden chair, and with lui all
but smothered .sigh, gave himself up t<> the barber. Ci rtaiidy, he
had never been shaved in such company ; but then — the thought
v;is H great support to his Ludepemlent spirit — nobody would
know it.

. (Nobody Would know it ! llow much iasult, injury — how many
hard woiils, fierce thivats — luiy, how many tweakiugs of the no.-*e
might l>e l>orue by some forgiving souls, if — nobody would know
it ! What a balm, a s;ilve, a plaster to the private hurt of a soit
of hero may the hero lind in the delicious truth that — nobody
knows it ! The nose does not burn, for nobody saw it pulled !
It is the eye of the world looking on, that, like the concentrated
rays of the sun, scorches it ; blisters it ; lights up such a tii-e
within it. that nothing jworer than human blooil CiUi quench it !
And all because everybody knows it ! )

Tangle w;is reconciled to his humiliation — for it v.as nothing
less to be handled in such a shop and by such a Ixirber — by the
belief that the world would remain in ignorance oi the de-
grading fact. And nmch, iudeetl, at the moment, did Tangle owe
to ignonuice. He knew that he w;is a crushe»l, despoiled, dt-
griuled being : he knew that with the box of gold he had lost liis
sense of self-respect. Coniitared to the Tangle of yesterday, he
•was no better thiui a Hottentot ; for he had lost his better part.
This he knew : but, ignorant sufferer, he did not know that the
man seated in lathered companionship beside him was the mid-
night burglar, the robber of his more than peace, the felonious
Tom Bhist. Now, Mr. Blast himself immediately recognised the
parhamentary agent ; but feeling that he had the advantage
of ha\ing looked upon him when Tangle could not return the

240 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

attention, the robljtr gazed very cotuywseilly through his hither:
nay more, lie was so t'ukleil by the sudden advent of Tangle that,
ill the gaiety of his b(jul, he chuekled.

" If yuu please, sir, if you laugh," said little Tim, " I must
cut yuu."

" The child has a han<l a.s light as a butteiily" — said the barber
father to Bliust — "but the boy's right; he must cut you if you
laugh. Steady, Tim."

" All right," cried Bla.st, from his sonorous chest ; and he
Btitfened the cords of his visjige.

** \'erv odd, sir " — said R:isp, ■\'igorously lathering Tangle, as
though he \s.is white-washing a dea«l wall — " vi-ry odd, sir ; when
a man's being shaveil, what a little will make him laugh. — Never
heard it properly accounted for, sir, did you i "

Tangle sjxike not ; but shivered out a long sigh, evidently pro-
vtjcalive of the mirthful lihist, for little Tim again cried, — " If
you ])le{i.se, sir, I must cut you."

'•l)<iu't blame the child, sir ; that's alL Steady, Tim" — said
the barber, who again addres-sed himself to Tangle. "tJlad to
find there 's no huigh in 3'ou, sir." Tangle made no Jinswer ; but
jigain sighetl as wilh the ague.

"There! I know'd I bhould cut you!" cried Tim. as Rk-uit
>vuice<l, and the blood came from his cheek. "I kuow'd 1 sliould
do it."

The barber turned from Tangle to take a \'iew of the mischief
done upon l!la.st, gravely observing, as he eyed the bli>od — "Not
the eliihrs fault, sir. Never cut before in his life ; never."

" Well, it 's no ust? a stifling it," cried Blast ; and gently jiuttii-g
Tim aside, he llung himself back in the chair, and roared a laugii,
all tlie louder and the deeper for its long repression. Tangle
looked round. Mo.st strange, nay, most uisulting wjis it to him —
to him with the load of allliction weighing on his brain — that
any man should laugh so vehemently, so brutally. On his way
to the barber's, Tangle had felt a little hurt that even the birds
should chirp anil twitter ; that the fluwei-s in the gardens should
look so happy Lu ihcir brightness ! The very tiueness of the day
seemed unkind to lum ; »:eveitheless he tried to bear it like a
man. But to have his solemn thoughts, deep as they were in a
lost money-chest, outniged by the vulgar merriment of a very
vuigjir man, — it was cruel, baibarous ; surely he had done nothing
to deserve it.

" It "s veiy odd," said Timgle, speaking both angrily, and
sorrowfully, " very odd that a gentleman can't be quietl}' shaved
without jieople" —

''Ax y,,ur ]»aidoii," said Blast. "Hope the barber's uct

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 241

nicked you ; but I couldn't ]\eYp it. You know wliat a little will
make a man iaui^h sometimes. All right now I 've got rid of it.
Go on. little shaver. I 11 keep a cheek as .stili' as a mile-stone."
And Mr. P.l.xst resolved to control his merriment, sorely ten)]ited
as it was hy the pro.vimity of the melancholy man he had plun-
dered, ll was a mn.st eapit;d joke, a most provoking piece of fun,
yet would the thief l)e serious. For some seconds not a sound
AviLs hcar<l, save the mowing of beard.s.

" Well, Ale.'tster Ixju-^j), here be a rumj)u.s I here be a blow for
the nines ! here be luek for the Yellows ! IIo ! ho ! ho ! There
never w;us sieh a mess. I ha 'nt laughed so nuich since they put
the tinker in tiie stocks ! Sich a glory ! " This annoiincement,
limkenly uttered through roars of laughter, was delivered \rf
JSkittle, the cobbler of Liquorish, who, e.xploiling with the intelli-
j^encf. biu-st into the .shop.

" What s the niatti-r ? " asked the barber, so alive to the liink
of the Yellows, of which jiarty he felt him.self a very shining
particle, that he j>aused in his shading ; holding ♦wixt linger and
thumb the uu.se of Tangle. " Luck for our side, Bob I What
is it I "

" Why you muist know that the Blues — jest like 'era — brought
down a V)ox of gnldon guinea.s. Yuu know, in course, what for?"
oViservCil the eobV)ler, severely winking one ej'e.

"1 should think I did," answered liasp, and he stropped his
razor on his hand very impatiently. "That's the way they
Berve the C'onstitution. That's how they'd sell and buy the
British Lion, for all the world like veal. Well, a box of giunea.'*:
I should like to catch 'em otrering me any, that 's all," cried
^Rasp : and with a grin of indignation, he agaiu stropped his
blade.

" My good man," saitl Tangle, very meekly, for he was over-
come, brokenhearted by the nui-th of the cobbler, — " my good
man, will you proceed and tinish me ?"

" Woiddu't trust myself, sir, till I 've heard all about the Blues.
You don't know my feelings," said Rasp. " I should slice you,
sure ;is pork. Go on, Bob. Ha ! ha ! Down with the Blues ! "
And still Tangle sat half-sh.aven and whollv miserable, listening
to the blithe stoiy of the cobbler, whose notes of exultation struck
like steel into the flesh of the outraged agent. Was ever man so
tried ? He could not bounce from his chair, and with half his
beard upon him sally foi-th into the street. No ; he was doomed
by decency to sit and hear the histoiy of his wi-etchedness and
the brutal mirth it occasioned. The cobliler and bai-ber roared
■with laughter ; little Tim smirked and giggled, and Tom Blast,
with liis eyes leering towards the agonised Tangle, showed that
VOL. L a

842 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

the sweetest and deepest sutisfactiuu filled the bosom of the thief.
Hid tVlon soul hufjj^ed itself in vast enjoyuient of the fun !

" Well, you must know that the Olive Bninch wa-s broke open
hist night," said the cobbler, " and the box of guinea.^ brought to
tlie borough — we know what for " — and Skittle ])ut his foretinger
to his nose.

" 1 should rather think we did," responded Rasp, returning the
digital signal. " liither."

•' The box of guineas carried off ; all took wing like young
goldfnichea. The landlord says, and his wife says, she 's sure of
it, too, that it 's the devil has done it."

" lla ! ha! ha!" shouted Tom Blast, mightily enjoying the
false accu.-yition. " Poor devil ! "

" I don't wonder at your laughing," said the barber, gravely.
" It wasn't no <levil ; the devil "s a better judge than to carry
away gold of that sort ; it would do his work all tl»c better left
bdiinvL And is there no suspicion of who 's stole it ? " Here
Bljist and Tangle listened attentively, but assuredly with a
«UtiVi-ent sort of curiosity.

" ^V'^iy, that 's the worst of it," answered the cobbler ; "they *ve
trio.l hanl to suspect everybody, but somehow they can make no
hand on it."

Hereujxm the barber wrinkled his bi-ow, and thouglitfully and
tenderly witli his tingera twiddletl at the end of his nose, as
though he had the secret there, if it coulil only be ctiaxed out.
*' I tell vou wliac it is ; 'tisn't seldom I 'm wrong — I know the
thief."

" You ! " exclaimed Tangle ; and " You ! " w;vs at the lip of
Bhist ; but that cautious man smothere<l the imjjutient word with
a sort of gnmt that passed for nothing.

" He '11 never be found out ; oh no, he 's too cunning for that,"
said the barber ; " but I shouldn't wonder if the fellow that had
th<^ keeping of 'he money isn't him that stole it."

" Was thei-e ever such an infamous ! " — exclaimed Tangle,
when he Wi\a suddenly stopjXKl by the peremptory coolness
of the barber ; who, tapping him on the shoulder, observoJ
— •' Bless you ! it 's a thing done every day. Nothing more
likely."

" Nothing," said Blast, in his deepest bass, and his eye
twinkled enjoyingly.

" Am I to stay here half-shaved all day ? " cried the goaded
Tangle. " Fellow, finish me ! "

" Tell you, couldn't trust myself till we hear the rights of the
guineas," said the patriotic barber. " They was brought here to
violate the Constitution, and whomsoever 's got em, I'm glad

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMEa 248

they're gone. Tliough mind, I'd take a bet that him that's lost
'em knows best where they're tu be Ibuiul."

" Ha ! Master Barber,*' cried Blast iu a loud tone of compli-
ment, " it 's plain you know hfe."

" Why, I 've seen a few 'lections at Li(iuorish," saitl Riisp,
"and tl»is I will say — the Blues, if they know'd him, wcnUd rob
their own father. I might, in my time, have had my hat full of
guinca-s " —

"I slioulcln't brag of that, if I was you, Mr. Iiasp " — said the
barber's wife, suddenly descending to a cupboard in the sht,)j), fc>r
some domestic pui-pose — " I shouldn't brag of that, and you to
keep me and your children as you ilo."

" Women have no love of country," said tlie barber in a soft
voice as his wife dt pjirted.

"Don't undei-stand a bit on it," said the cobbler. "Tliere'd
my old Margery Daw at home — «he says that women hare enough
to do to love theu* husbands."

" And that 's hard work sometimes," said the barber. " I 'in.
afeard it is."

"Am I to be shaved to-<lay 1 " roared Tangle, the lather dried
to a plaster ou his face.

" I tell you wliat it is, sir," said the barWr. " You 're half
shaved ;is cleiui as any baby : now sluiving a a penny : well, if
you can't wait, you 'le welcome to the ha"poith you 've had f<jr
nothing. A ha'pemiy sir," and tli*: barber looked loftily about
L^m, " a ha'penny won't ruin me."

'•' I 'm m no 'urry," observed the accommodating Blast. " Your
iitllc boy c:m finish the gentleman — I '11 wait."

" 'JHiank you — very kind — t^ome along, boy," cried Tangle, and
Tim moved his stool beside the lawyer. " Now you 11 be veiy
particuliu- ; and mintl, don't cut."

" Then don't shake, sir, if you please," said Tim ; for Tangle,
agitated by what he had heai'd, by the delay he had been com-
pelled to suffer, trembled as the boy touched him, like a jelly.
And as he trembled, the bai'ber leered suspiciously, du'eoting the
cobbler's looks to the shaking gentleman ; and Tom Bhust very
soon made one of the pai-ty of inspection, communicating by
most eloquent glances, the strongest doubts and suspicions of
the individual then impatiently undergoing the dlscipJine of the
razor.

'•' If the thief 's caught, I suppose he 11 be hanged," said the
cobbler, staring at Tangle.

" Heaven is merciful ! I hope so — heartily hope so," exclaimed
Tangle vivaciously, earnestly ; at the same time jumping up, hi*
shaving completed. " I hope so : I 'd go fifty miles to see

h. -

244 ST, GILES AND ST. JAMKS.

Crtv milos. Oive mo change." SayiiiL' tliis, and tying liis neck-
cloth, Tanglt; hiiil ilnwn sixpence. " Make- hjiiitc."

Very leisurely, ami its with a soul l>v uo means to be dazzled
by sixpences, the barber took up the tester. He then a))proached
the l>ottom of tlie stairc'a.se ascenilod by his helpmate, and with
measured syllables inquired, " Kliza Jane, love, have you change
for sixpence / "

And tliis gentle cjuery was an.-.worod by another, running thus :
''Have I change for the liaiik of Knglainl ? "

" It never happened so l)efore, sir," .'^aid Rasp, feeling the si.\-
ponce, "but we hav'n't a copiKir haMpenny in thehou.se. The
chiltl, sir, shall run out foi change. Won't be ten minutes ;
nothing Ixiat* him at an errand."

Tangle lookeil savagely abnit him. He could not wait : lie
would not l)e thou^dlt to give the sixpence. Ho therefore observed,
very emjihatically, " Very well, barW-r ; 1 11 call again," and
hurried away.

*'I>on'tyou know him?" cried the cobbler, "he's one of the
Jihie.s."

" Well, if I didn't think he was one of them thick-skinned lot
while 1 was sliaving him," s;ii<l K-'tsp ; wh(» then turned to l>l;ust.
*' He knows Homething uf tliom guinciu*, eh, rtir, I'm bound for it / ''

"'Xftctly," answered Blaat. ''They're a jn-etty set — them
I'Ancs. I "m a Vellow."

" I 'd know that, sir" — f>bBerve»l the barber as lie finished tlie
undone work of Tim — ** I 'd know that, sir, by the teiulerness of
your face. Now for that oM Blue, a man might an well siiave a
bniss kuockor. I can tell a man's principles by his skin, I can."

"Not a doubt on it," averred Mr. lila.st, vory sonorously ; who
then rose from his chair, and proceeded into a comer to consult a
fr.igment i>f ghu^s, naileil to the wall. AVhilxt thus courageously
suiveyiu'' his face, his back turueil to the door, another customer
piiteretl tlie shop, and without a syllable, sciitmg himself, awaited
the weapon of Hasp.

" Heai'd of the robbery, sir ? " asked the barber. " Ha ! ha !
ha ! Eare work, sir. What I call fun."

" What robbery 1 " cried the stranger, and immediately Blast
tnnitd at the sound, and knew that it was St. (Jiles who spoke,
fiiloutly, the burglar grinned huge satisfaction.

'' Thousands of guineas stole last night, nothing less. I wish
you and I had 'em, sir, that 's all, for they come here to do
T^.eelzebub's work, sir ; to be laid out in perjuiy, aJid all that ; to
buy tli£ hoi)£St souls of honest pieu like mackerel. Therefore."
cjincluded tlw barber, "I say I wish you and I had 'em. Doii't
you ? "

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 245

Hereupon Blast quitted the luirror, and the wliile serenely
tying liis neckcloth, stood face to face with St. Giles, chuckling
and echoing the barber — " Don't you wish you had 'em ? "

" If you jump in that way," cried l{a.s]) to St. Giles, "I won't
answer for your nose."

" And yon hav'n't heard nothin' on it, eh, sir?" said Blast, in
his light, waggish manner. " Well, I should ha' thought you'd
La' known all about it."

" Why ? " stammered St. Giles, for he felt that he must make
some answer.

" Oh, I don't know," saiil Blast ; " iwme people have sich a
knowin' look, that's all. They 're born with it. An 'praps you
wouldn't like to have the guineas stole from the Blues, — if they
are stole But ius you sjiy, Mr. Barber, I don't believe it. Bless
your heart, it's my 'pinion a Blue would swear anything."

"You won't have a drop of ale this morning?" asked the
cobbler — that sympathetic Vellitw l)eing mightily touched bv the
large-hearted ne.ss of Bhi^t. " Jest a drop ? "

" 'Tis a little early," .said tlie very tein]>erate Bl.ust, "Init I
can't refuse a Yellow nothin'." Ami to the a.stonishment and
relief of St. Giles, his tormentor followed the inviting cobbler from
the shop. Uneasily sat St. Giles whilst Kasp performed his func-
tion ; brief and wandering were the replies )nade by his customer
to the barber, very eloquent on the robbery, and especially grate-
ful to Providence for the calamity. " AVhomsoever luis taken the
guineas — always supjiosiug they are taken — h;i.s done a service to
the country," saitl Idusp "For my j tart, and I don't care who
knows it, I hope they '11 live long and <lie happy with 'era. Pretty
fellows they nnist be ! Come to sell the Constitution ; to rob
us of our rights ; and then sing out about thieves ! What do
3'ou say, sir ? " cried the barber, liberating his customer from his
uneasy chair.

"Just so," said St. Giles, " I shouldn't wonder : to be sure."

" Why you look," said Basp, marking the absent air of St.
Giles, " you look as if you was looking a hundred miles away.
You cant tell us what you see, can you ? "

Now, St. Giles, had he Iteen in communicative mood, might
have interested the barber, making him a partaker of the vision
that would reveal itself to his customer. St. Giles plainly beheld
Tom Blast with the stolen guineas. Had he watchetl him stag-
gering beneiith the pillage, he had not been better assured of the
evil doing. Again, he had marked the thiefs face ; it wore the
smug, lackered look of a fortunate scouudrel : the light as of the
stolen guineas flickered in his eyes, and his lips were puckered
with inaudible whistling. St. Giles took little heed of the talkative

245 ST. GILES AXD ST. JAMES.

harbcr. ^ut layiii;,' down the price of liis yestorday'-s heard, qnittod
•tlie sliop. Aiixiotisly, fearfully, he looked about liim from tlie
door. He stood, like a lost traveller fearful of the sudden leap of
Some wilci beast. Bhist was not in the street : he now avoided
8t. (idea ; new evidence that the old ruffian wa.>^ the robber.
St. Ciiles ha.stily struck into the fields, that with less chance of
interruption, he might ponder on the present ditticulty. He was
only known to yoinii^ St. James a.s the vagabond of a jn-iaon ;
HUiL, therefore, open to the heavier suspicion. If aiTcste 1, — how
to account for hinuself ? Shoidd heat once boldly seek the young
Inrd I — for a-s yet he had not seen him. Or should he at once
turn his steps towards Lon<lon ?

His heart .sank, and the sickness of death fell upon him, aa
again he sjiw himself br-set V)V inevitable |H;ril. Wa.s it not folly,
sheer, brute-like stuf>idity, in a doouieil wretch like him, to yearn
for innocent day.s, for honest bread ? W,us it not gro.ss impudence
in him to hoj)e it — in him, so formed and ca-st upon the world to
be its wrong, its misery, and di.sgrace ? AV'hy not go back to
London, diusli into guilt, and when the lime came, die gallantly on
the tree I Why not clap haixls with Blast, and become with him,
a human animal of ]>rey ? Such were the confused, the wretched
thoughts that ])os.sesi<cd. St. (iiles, as with feet of lead he cro.ssed
the fields. r)ivinely beautiful was the day! The heavens smiled
pe.ace and hope \ijH)n the earth, brimming with things of tenderness
and lieauty. The outca.st j>ause<l at the winding river. Did his
eye feed deliiihtcdly n[>on its brightness — was his ear solaced by
its sound ? No : he looke<i with a wild curiosity, as though he
Would look below — and lie heard tongues talking from the stream
— uiufjues calliuir him to rest.

" Ain't lost nothing ? " cned a voice ; and St. Giles, aroused, to
his delight beheM Bright Jem.

"No; nothiui^," said St. (iiles. "I was thinking though that
I might lose something, and be all the richer for the loss. But
the thought 's gone, now you 're come."

Jem looked like a man M-ho catches half a meaning, and cares
not to pui-sue the other half. So he said — " I thought, mayhap,
when you left us in the churchyard, you 'd have come over to the
Tub. Ma.ster Cajx^tick said he knew you wouldn't, but I know
be was sorry you «Udn"t."

" I tell you 'what it is," said St. Giles, " I hadn't the heart."

" That 's tlie very rea.son you ought to ha' come to us. Master
Capstick 's got heart enough for half a-dozeu."

" God bless him ! " cried St. GUes.

"I '11 jine you in that, whenever yon say it. But I can see by
the look of ycu — why, your face is full on it — I can see, you 've

ST. GILES AXD ST. JAMES. 247

Bomethitig to say. I'm afeard the world hasn't been as careful
of you as if you 'd been an iniaj^e of j,'olil, eh ? Come, l;ul" — and
Jem laid his hand gently upon St. Gih-s's shoulder, and spoke
tenderly as a woman — " Come, lad, let 's know all about it."

" You shall know all — you shall," and St. Giles seized Jem's
hand, and with moistening eyes and choaking throat — it was such
ah:ipi)ines3 to see such looks and hear such words — shook tlie
hand eagerly, tremV)lingly.

" There, now, good lad, take your time," cried Jem. " I 'm
going to Mu.ster Kingcup, tlie .schoolma-ster ; not above two mile
away. And so we '11 goss'p as we trudge. Jest over that style,
and " — and .Tem jviused, with his looks directed towards a stunted
oak some bow-shot from him. " I say " — he cried, jiuiiiting to a
boy sleeping in the arms of the tree — " I say, that 's a London
bird, perched there — 1 'm sure on it."

Instantly St. (.iiles recognised his half-brother, the precocious
Jingo. " You 're going to the good gentleman, you say, the
schoolnijuster V cried St. Giles, animated as by a sudden flix.'^h of
tluiught. "I 've a notion — I '11 tell you all about it — we'll take
that boy with us. IJallo ! come down here ! " cried St. Giles to
the sleekier.

" Wliat for ? " said Jingo, stretching himself and yawning.
" \'^(m 're no constable, and I sha'nt."

" He knows what a constable is, depend on 't," said Jem,
shaking his head.

" Well, I 'm a coming," said the philosophic Jingo, observing
that St, Giles was about to ascend — " 1 'm a coming." And in a
moment, the urchin dropt like an ape from branch to branch and
fell to the earth. As he fell, a guinea rolled from his pocket.

" Where did you get this ? " exclaimed St. Giles, picking up
the coin.

"Whereupon little Jingo bowed "his arms, and in his shrillest
treble, answered — " Found it."

CHAPTER XXIV.

The candidate for Liquorish has, it may be thought, been too
long neglected in our attention to his agents, and their meaner
creatures. Seemingly we have been unmindful of his lordship,
but in reality not so. We felt more than satisfied that we had
placed him, like a treasure in a temple, at Lazarus Hall. For

248 ST. GILKS AND ST. J.VME.S.

there w:us Doctor (iiUruI, the ^'ooJ f,aiaus of lunkr ami or-lLir,
h\'^, ixTspiiing witli iiuxlety to a.ssuagc, hy the most recoiulilf and
cu.stly lueaJis, tlie huii;^er and thirst of his exalted guest. Had it
been pohsilile to jmrcha^e a live unieorn, it.s hatnieh would have
smoked hei'ore young St. James ; tlie sole pii<eiu.\ would have
been roasted in its spicery, and dished in its plumeH ; and
Ganymede nnght have had any jtrii-e of Doctor (Jilead for jiecu-
lated neetar. In the fulnc^^s of the Doctor's hospitality tliore
lurked a gi-ief that no new animal — no yet unheard-of tipple coidtl
be comj)as.sed. He must therefore — at bust he was resigned to it
— make the best of the good things of the earth such ha they
were ; he, by the way, possi-s^iing tlie very best for the experiment.
Mi-8. Gilcad, too, hatl her anxiety ; though, it pains us to confess
it, her husl>:in<l — it is too conuiion a fauh, crime we shouM lather
s;iv — did not resjioud with all his lu-art.strings U) the vihrating
choiils of hia pailner. But how mre is it to tind a wedde«l man
with a proper symjiathy for the distresses of his \\\fv.'. The
clement^ may have suddenly conspire<l to spoil her bonnet — she
may have broken her dearest bit of china — the cat may have
nui off with her gold-lish — and at that very moment, above all
«)ther8, her husband will insult her with his j>hilosopliy. And s<)
it w:uj with the anxieties of Mrs. Gilead. >he felt that, whil.>^t
young St. James hiy i>illowed under her roof, she wa-s answerable
for the sweetne.>^>*, the soundness <»f liLs slumbers ; n:iy, almost
for the )ileii.>i;uitness of his dreams. She was wakifid herselt
in her tenderness for the rc|H>.se •)f her guest. '* 1 do hope his
lordship will sleep," she said, twice ami thrice to her wedded
master.

'' Bless the woman ! " cried the Doctor, at the time perplexed
with the thought of some jwssible novelty for the next tlay's
dinner, " of coui-se he '11 sleep. Why not ? We have no lleas,
iiave we I "

" Fleas, Doctor Gilead ! Don't insult me ! Fleas in my beds I"
and ^n-s. Gilead spoke tremnlou.sly, as though hurt, wounded in
her huswifcry — tlie weakest place of the weakest sex. And
Doctor Gilead knew there was not a flea in tlie house ; Init it was
'ike the man — it was like the brotherhood at large — to suggest to
a wife the probability of the most impossible amioyance. Of
coui-se, it was only said to hurt her.

Nor let Vis forget the Miss Gileads. For each, saying no syllable
tn the other, was sleepless with the thoughts of providing life-long
bliss for the noble, the beautiful guest. How delightful to make
him hapj)y for the rest of his days, and how very advantageous
to Vw a legal partner in the felicity. If eyes ever did dazzle — if
lips v,ver did take man's heait fi'om Im bosom, like a stone from a

ST. GILES AXD ST. JAMES. C49

black cherry (we think that wniile perfect), eyes and lips sliould
du the double tleed to-moiTo\v.

And y^'Uiig St. Jaiued, in a deep sea of eidcr-ilown, took his
rest ; none the woi"se, it may be, that he knew not ot tlie con-
spiracy woi>kinj^ against his freedom. Three sets of hymeneal
chains were almost all night long li;immered at by three young
ladits, and yet the unconscious victim sKjit ; even iis the culprit
takes unbroken rest, whilst hannuei-s fall upon the scatlbld for
to-morrow.

If the rea<lor will pass the intentions of the young ladies ;is at
le;ist benevolently purposed, he must confess that \\c have for the
last three chaptere left young St. James most tenderly cared for.
Sleeping and waking he h;us had the prettiest cares, tlie sweetest
attentions, like a shower of rose-leav<.'s, cjust upon him. And now
Monday morning was come. The morning of the day of nomii\a-
tioa wa.s arrivetl. A law-maker wjus to be made by the voice of
a free people ; a senator, without crack or Haw ; a perfect crystal
vessel of the state was to be bl<iwn by the breath of unbought
man. Nature .seemed to sympathise with the work ; at least,
such was tlie belief of Doctor (.iilead, his imagination kindling'
somewhat with the occasion. He rose only a Ultle later than the
sparrows ; and from the beauty, the enjoyment of out-door objects,
took the hapi)iest onjens. A member was to be returned to Par-
liament. Certainly the hii'k never fluttered nearer heaven — never
sang so hopefully. Such was Doctor (.iilead's sweet belief; and
rn]'t in it, he ditl not the next moment hear the voice of an as* in
a distant meadow — gave no ear to his own geese gaggling near
his l)arn. Hapi>y the supei-stition that on such occasions will only
li-sten to the lark !

Every botly appeared at breakfist with a face drest for triumph,
" Had his lordship slept well ] " asked Mrs. Gilead ; and with
voices that woulil melt the heart of a man, were the tiling really
soluble, each Miss Gilead put the same question, but witli a manner
that plaiidy s;iid her peace of mind dependeil on an affirmative
reply. His h)rdship had slept well. Each and all of the Miss
Gileads were blest for their existence !

" How <lo you do, Mr. Folder I " asked his lordship, as that
worthy man, with his old equable look, entered the bi-eakf:ist par-
lour. Now, Mr. Folder had never looked better — never felt better.
His calmness, his philosophy was astonishing, admirable ; the
more so, as it was his friend and not himself who had lost a
treasure of gold. In few words, and in his own smiling way,
^[r. Folder said he was charming,

" But where 's Tangle I eh ? — not left Tangle behind } " cried
his lordship.

250 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

" No, nr\" .^aill Folder, with a hapjiy smile. " He proferreJ a
\salk ;urnss tin- ti«'lil.s."

"I'tior ffllow I he doesn't often get a bit of grass in Ijimdoa,
1 dare say," .^.-lid the Doctor ; who then turned to his lordship^
and rul)l»injT his hand.s and laii<_'hing jus at the enjoyniont of a
Hweet secret, s;iid, " It wouKlnt do, my loiti, to lose Taiij,de ; no,
no, we must tjike cJire of Tangle." Inn(x;ent Doctor Uilead ! At
that moment he thonght the agent the ha]);)y keejHjr of thou-
K.inds of nn'tal IWrds of I'ai-adise ; and alaok ! tliey had made
wings f<ir tliem.siJves, and tlown away. Had the Doctor known
the condition of Tangle, wiiat an ahject, forlorn varlet would
he have set^'nu-d in the oUVnilol eyes of his admii"er !

Mr. Tangle \viu< aniiomu-i'd. lie cnttred the room; )iis face
galv.'ud.sed into a smile. It was plain, at least to FtJder, who
kn<\v all, th.it the a^eiit had l.ilMuned so hard to get that smile
inti> hi.s ctuuitenance that it would In; wn,' dilKrult to disnii.Hs it^
it was so ti.xe<l, so very rigiil. It seemed the liarde.st smile cut
in the hanU'st oak.

" Quite Wfll, I tru.st, Mr. Tangle ? None the woi-se, I hoi>e, for
last night ?" said yonng .St. James, gaily.

Tangle's knees stnick each otiier at his lordship's voice. Last
night ? Did his lordship, then, know of the ndiKery ? Sudi was
the tii-st contusion ofTaiigle's thoughts ; and he then rememl)ered
that his lordshi]) douhtless hinte«l at the wine swallowol, and not
at tlie gold carried away. WhereujMin, Tangle declared that he
wa-s rpiite well — never better. And then he resolutely put down
a rising groan.

" Nothing the worse for anything la.st night, I '11 be bound, eh,
Mr. Tangle I " crie<| Doctor (lile.id, alive, as every man ought
to be, to the reputation of his wine, when the wine, like the
Roman's wife, is not to l»e susjiecteii. " I should think not. Aiid,
IVlr. Tangle, I 've not forgotten the caqi that plea.spd you so much.
There's plenty in the jx)nd ; an<l we '11 have some of the finest, I
can tell you." At this moment the Doctor was summoned from
the room ; whil.st new visitors continue"! to arrive, as.send»ling to
escort the noble c.aniii<l.ite t<j a very modest fabric, largely cliris-
tened as the Town Hall. Young St. James knew everybody —
welcomed everybody. There was not a man present with whom
he would not an<l couUl not have shanxl his heart ; it w;is so
unexppcte<ily large upon the hajipy occa.sion.

" Don't you wish, ray lonl, that your noble father the excellent
Marquess was here to .see your triunijth I " exclaimed one of the
artle.s.s Miss Gileads. Rosy ignorance I She knew not that,
however the paternal heai't might have yearned to be present, it
was sternly checked by a strong sense of constitutional duty. For

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 251

the Marquess, as a peer of Eiighiinl, could not, must not, dirfctly
or indirectly seem to interfere in the election of a nicnilior of
Parli:iuient — in tlie free assertion of the ])fo|)le's choice. Tliercfore
it was oidy permitted to the father, the peer, and the patriot to
send his banker.

And still the visitors poured in ; and as the crowd j,Tew, every
man looked more important, a.s thou<,di catching zeal and constancy
of purp(»ac from new comei-s. " The borouj,di 's V)cen in the family
these thousand ye.ars," cried a 8)»are, tihrous. thin-faced man, with
a high ])iercing voice, " antl the constitootion had better go to
sleep at once if any nobody's to come to rej>re.sent us."

" Tell 'ee what, Muster Flay, we own't stand it," said a free-
holder in a smock frock, that in its uuspeeked whiteness might
have typitied the j)urity of election. " We own't stand it. My
father and his father — and liisn after hisn — all on 'em di«l vote for
tiie family, — and when folks come to ax me for my vote agin em,
— why, as I says to my wife, it 's like a flyin' in the face of
Providunce."

*' To be sure it is " — answered Flay — " it 's ungi*ateful ; and
more, — it 's inicoiustitootional."

" No, no. Muster Flay: the Jilues have always paid me and
mine very well " —

" Husli ! Not so h)ud," sjiid Flay, witli his finger at his
eloquent lip.

" Wess 'ee, everybody knows as everybody's paid," answered
the clean-breasted voter.

' " To be sure they do ; nevertheless," obser^-ed Flay, " it isn't
coiistitootional to know it. It 's wnat we call a fiction in the law ;
but you know nothing o' these things. Master Stump," said the
barber, who then drew himself back a little to take a better look
of the tine specimen of ignonince Wfore him.

"What's a tickshun ?" asked Stump. "Somethin'o'use,I'spose?"

"I believe you — the constitootion couldn't go on without it.
Fiction in the constitootion is like the Hour in a j)lum-puddiug — it
holds all the prime things in it together."

"I see," answered Stump, with a grin; "if they hadn't no
fickshun, they 'd make a very ])retty biling of it ! "

And after this irreverent fjushion, comparing the lofty uses and
the various wisdom of the constitution to the ingredients of a
Christmas pudiliug, did Flay, the Bhie barber, and liis ])upil iu
the art of government, discourse amid the mob as.sembled in the
grounds of Lazanis Hall ; when a faint cheer, an inefi'ectual
shout, rose fi"om some of the mob gathered about a horseman
arrived in haste, with sjiecial news. Tliis intelligence was si)eedily
conveyed to Doctor Uilead, whose face suddenly glowed like

2C2 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

stained frlas") l>e was so deli^iliteil with the tiilinpfs. Making his
wiiy I'.ii'k to lii.s hinl-sliip. the Doctor crioil — "Joy, my I jiil !
Joy ! Joy I The enemy won't st:mil ! The YeUow 's mounted
the white feather ! No contest, my U)rd — no contest ! Tliree
cheei-s genthnien, for our member!" And l^octor (Jih'nr, for
awhile fiirf,'etfnl of the meekness of the pn.stor in the zeal of
tlie patriot, .sprani^ n|H>n a chair, and h<iiiliy huzzaed. His note
of rejoicing was responded to, but somehow not heartily. The
n.>;scnilily tried to look verj' delighted, very triumpliant ; yot, it
w;is plain, they felt a latent annoyance. Wa.s it tliat they were
dituippointed of the pleasing excitement of a hard-contested
constitutional fight ? Was it, too. that every man t"elt himself
considerably lowered, not oidy iu his self estimation, but in the
value that would otherwise have been set upon him by opjH)8ite
buyers ] It is a painful feeling to l>e at the tyrannou.**, the
ignorant valuation of any one man ; and doubtless, m;uiy of the
eleetoi-s of Liquori.sh shared iu this annoyance, for now they
might be bought at young St. James's own price. When c
man does drive his ])rineiple, like his ]>ig, to market, it must
try the (.'liri.-tian spirit of the seller to find only a solitary
buyer. The principle, like the jiig, may be a veiy fine prin-
ciple ; a fine, he.ilthy, thorough-going jirineiple ; and yet the
one buyer, In-cause the only one, may challer for it a-s though
the goiMls were a very measly principle indeed. The man must
sell ; so there goes a j)rinciple for next to nothing: a j»rinciple
that, with a full market, wouM have fetched any money. To sell
a principle may be the pleasantest thing in the M'orld, but to
almost give it away is surely another matter.

In Mr. Tangle, the news e.xcited mixed emotions. He rejoiced
that tlie money would l»e less needed than had an opjxising buj'er
been in the market : and then he felt doubly sad at the loss : for
with the gold in his po.sse.ssion, and there being the less necessity
for it.s wide expemliture, he might — he felt sure he could have
(lone it somehow — yes, he might have levied a heavy per centage
U]>nu what remained. Tlieie would have been a larger body of
Uiet.-d for the exjieriment ; and let this be said of him, Tangle
always ]>referred such exjierimenLs on a grand scale. Thus Tangle,
confused in soul, and dcjwncast in deraejinour, sullered himself to
be led to one of the hall-dozen carriages prepared for the proce-ssion
to the Town Hall.

Shall we attempt a description of the mob in vehicles — the mob
on hor.seback — and the mob on foot, departing from the rector}',
bound on the solemn duty of making a fire-new senator ? No ;
we will merely chronicle the touching tmth that, as the mob
moved on, they sent forth a cheer, that was shrilly jinswer^

ST, GILES AND ST. JAMES. 2^5

from the topmost wiiuli)W.s of tlie rectory, whereat all sortg of
i)i;ti(ls, ooveri'd all over wltli hlue ribands, soreaiUL'tl, ;unl tliit-
teivil liaiiilktMvliitfs ami iiajikiiis in glad aii<;iu}' of triuiii|>li.
The order of the rector for the profusest display of St. James's
coli'iii-s ha«l J.)een carried out with I'espdjidiiij,' zeal l>y his re-
taiiieis. lilue tluttcred everywhere. The dairy-maid had docked
C'rumple's lioriisi with blue, and the cow, :is the maid averred,
seemed very proud indeeil of tlie badi^e ; had she worn it in
honour of her own sun, then only a fortnight old, she could not
liave looked more comphicent, hapjjy. There w;us not a single
a-ss belonging to the rectory that <lid not somewhere carry the
coh)ur ; and we do a.ssure the reader, vejy grave and very wise
the iUises loukeil under it. They seemeil, tts Joek the hind ol»-
served, to undei-stiuid "the tlmig, like any Christian." A blue
Hag Hultered from the top i>f the rectory — and blue streamei-s
from evciy uut-house. Even the gilt weathercock — the fact some-
how escaped the eye of the rector — bore at its four pointi* a long,
long strijj of blue I'ibojid '!i honour of the political principles of
the Blue camlidate.

The mob, we say, cheered as they set forward from the rectory,
aud the men-serv;ints and the majil-servants cheered again. The
hoiischukl gods of Laz:unis Hall drew a long bie.ith as relieved
froui the crowd and tumult of the mob that had hustled and con-
fused them ; and the solemn row of Ecclesiastical Fathers, staud-
uig in Church-militant tile upon the library shelves, once more
seemed to feel themselves the uudisturbed possessors of their
oaken liome. Poor old fellows !• — many of them, too, Buch won-
derful hands .at chojiping one hair iuto little bundles of hairs, the
better tt( make springes with — so many tot), the Eloquent Dund)
— the Great Forgotten — the lUuatrious Diju — the Folio Furniture
iu calf or truly pastoral vellum, — for five-and-twenty yeai-s had
stooil upon the shell", lujd no rude hand had ever touched them.
They had been bought b}' Doctor Gileud, and made to stand
before all men visiting the libnu-y, as vouchers for the learning of
the rector. But when Scipio — of coui-se, sir, you remember the
story — when Scipio, by tiie fortune of war, w;is made the somt>-
time guartUan of a beautiful princess, Scipio himseU' was not
niore respectful of her chai-ms, than w:is I)octor Gilead of the
fascinations of the Fathers : he never knew them — never. "VVe
fire aware that there may be A'ulgar souls who, judging from
their simial selves, may doubt the contiueuce of Scipio : we think
this very likely ; for .sure w^e ai'e that mtmy folks, seeing the
schohistic beauties pc>ssessed by Doctor Gilead, believed he must
enjoy them : for the Doctor, like Scii)io, never bragged of his
abstinence. Hp, gOQfl syul, suijeretl men to thuik just w hat they

2.-^4 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

I>li'a.He(l ; but t'lis we kiiuw, .ililumgii tlie Fatht-rs v> re f<v five
uiiii-twoiity ye;u"9 in tlie {wwcr uf Doctor (iilc;ul, vet a 8<,i|)iu in
Li.s way, he never — to speak acrupuluw.sly, like a luatiou — he
uever su luiich as luiil his little linger uii them.

Therefore, short iy before the arrival of his lorilship, wa-s it a
great siirpri.se to the FatheitJ to liml ihein.selvea iHie morning
taken from the shelves au<l oj>eneil. How stiff, poor fellows, were
they all in the Isick ! .Vnil no iloubt, very lum-h ii-Htoiuiiled w;is
Urigen, and r>;u*il, and Theophylact, and Jerome ami Terlullian,
and other respectable Fathers, to And tlkemselves dusted aud
thwaeked as they, when in the tk-sh, were wont to dust and
thwack their ilispuUuits ; the mau-s«;rvant aud tlie maid-servant,
otherwi.se intent, taking uo more account of them than if they
were old day-books iiuil le».lgei-s. In the vanity of their heiuts —
at lea-st, in as mucli vanity as can l>elong to churchmen — they
tlioUj,'lit they were lo be c»>nsult«d !Ui«l reverenced ; iit a word,
tumle much of. And their owner, Df>etor Uileail, did make much
of them, lie paid them the deepest devotion of wliich tiie ;.'oo<l
man w;is .sensible ; for he luid tliem all juicked o<f to be newly
furbished and newly i^ilt ; and there the dead Fatliers of the
Church .stood glistcninj; witli livuig gold ; and po.s,sil)ly feeling as uu-
e.^sy ill the spleiulour foitx-d up«.in tlu'm :is any bishop in a coach-
and-four. There they were, like the cherubim, '* in burning
row ; " doomeil, however, to perj>etual silence — j}erj>etual neglect.
Now and then tlie good Doctor would, tjf coiirse, glance at them
to 8;itisfy him.self that they stood in order: lie woukl occiisioually
iTin his eye along the shelves, like an officer inspecting his regi-
ment ; but the Doctor no more tliought of consulting some of
those jHcked men of the army of uuirtyrs, tlian w»>uld the very
gorgeous colonel pause to gossip with the drummer. There they
stooil, a sort of divinity guard of honour. A body, very neces-
sary to assert the importance of the rank of the great man in
■whose ser\"ioe they were called out, but on no account to be made
familiar with.

And, we sjiy, tlie tumultuous mob departed from the Hall
and left the Fathers — with their newly-gik b.icks glittering in the
8un — to meditate on human turb^ileuce aud human vanity. Poor
Fathers ! twice were they doomed to be fed upon. They had
been duly eaten in the gi-ave, and now tlieir body of divinity,
embalmed, as they vainly thought it, in printer's ink, w.ia drilled
and consumed by tliat oiimivorous library worm, of the birth and
history of which entomoli>gists have, we are sure of it, a very
false and foolish notion. For it is om- convictioB thit, as the
worms that consume the bo<ly of tlie author are bred not in his
grave dust, but in his own fl<»h, soilo the worms — the only livin(j

ST. GILE^ AXD ST. JAMES. 25.^

thin(T.s that po entirely tlii;ouf;li some tomes — fouml in books,
whully oriixinate and t-ike tlnir birth from the written matter of
the vu'nnie. Hence, the ijuidililio.s, and concetti, and vrhat Eve,
once in lier pouts with Adam (fur the i>iirase is as old,) e-alled the
iiiaj^gots of the 1 train, that abound in much controversial theology
do, in process of time, K-come those little pestilent tluni,'s that
entirely eat up jKipcr, print, and all. A warning this to men, it
they would have their printed bodies last, to take care and avoi<l
the aforesaid quidditic!, ami concetti, und maggots. For little
knows the thoughtless beholder of many a tall, sturdy volume,
■what certjiin devastation is going on among its leaves. Many a
conti-ovei-sialist who ha.s .shaken thunderbolts, Ixit whicli, indeed,
were nothing worse than little pebliles in a tin-p<jt — (by means of
which, by the way, we have seen Ikas UKike jusses gallop, pebbles
jingled in a pot being tliunder to asses,) — many a Jujiiter of syl-
lables in his day is, at this moment, U'ing slowly but sui\ly de-
voure<l, and that too by the vermicelli bix'd in what he deemed
his own immortal thunder. W;us there not, to give a very famili:a'
instance, the famous Miianbettim.-irtinius, who wrote a luighty
I'olio to prove that there were no tlwus in the Ark ? Did he n<.it
stand u\x)n his flea as a postilihnijin creation — stand upon it ;is
the great pyramiil on its biuse, for the bows and sala.ims of all
jioslerity / And where and what is Miianbettimartinius now i
A dead botly of polemics. Now and then we see him handsomely
bound upon a rector's, a bishop's shelf. Doctor Gilead luid a
very tine tall cojiy ; but we can see through the binder's cuticle ;
our mental \'ision can pierce through calf-skin, and behold the
worms at work. Pooh I the whole thing is as alive and wriggling
as an angler's box of gentles.

But we must (piit the Fathers, and fall in with the mob.
We shall not attempt to count the number of votes upon ht«^e-
iKick — the number of votes on foot — thai preceded and followed,
and on each side hemmed about the carriage of the noble candi-
date. Everylxnly, save Tangle, looke<l haj)py. And he, although
he rode in a very line coach, would insist upon lookuig jis though
he was tixking a final jouniey in a cart ; and although a young
clergyman of excellent family, one in whose orthodoxy Doctor
Gilead had great hojies for one of his daughtei-s — although the
young gentleman let oti" sijme capital jokes, bi'an-new fn^m Cam-
bridge, in Tangle's private e;u-, for his private delight — he.
Tangle, diil nothing but slightly bow, and look glassily al)out
bim, as though that very ju-omising young clergyman was, at
the moment, imparting the most solemn consolation ; which, it
is but hard justice to him, again to assure the reader, he was
not. Tangle's soul \\as with his guineas. And it was as if

S.-)? ST. GILES -WD ST. JAMES.

everv rriiliiea bail a prirticiilar liold pf liis soul, auil each guinea
w;w Hying a ilitrereiit way, — tearing and tugging at the jXKjr
eoul in a thousauti dii'ection.'?. The young cK-rgyman was ince»-
eant in his attentions. " I say, oM DeatliVhead " — thu3 faniihar
dill the gnat cause in which both were viding make the man
of Cun and the man uf law, — " I s;iy, look at that girl with
clieny rii»anil«."

Tangle waa deterrained to ]>ut down this lil)ertine familiarity at
once .and fur ever. He, tliercfure, never ileigning t<> l<'..k :it i-ither
cheiTV li|js or cherry inbiuidti, observe<1, "Sir, I am a mameJ
man." ^Tr. Tangle believed that he h.id at <>nce ab.i.shed, con-
founded hi.s free acnuaintance. He liail \Jttered that, which he felt
ought to silence any decent ]>erson : he had s|)oken his woi*st, and
looked to be, at lea-st, respected. He wished, however, to be very
8ccure, and tlierefore repeated, — "Sir, I am a manie<l man."
Whereto the young clergymiui resiumded, and let us do him ju.s-
tice, with eWtlent sympathy — " Poor devil ! "

The procession moved on — the musie played — and there was
cot one of the mob v ho ditl not feel a huge iiiterrst in the very
Iiandsome young lonl who w.-us going up t" Parliament to take
«speeial care of all of them. — In the like way, th.it wlien the
kni'dit of old was armeti, and about to <'i) forth to sl.iv the drawn
that carried oti" men, virgins, and cattle, and continually breathed
a brimstone blight U[K>n the cr>ipa and herl)age, making dumpish
the heart of the farmer, — in the like way th.it he was attt-uded
by s;ige, grey-heatled reverence, by youths and maiden.s, bearing
garlands and green boughs, and accompanying liim with siiouts,
and pniyers, and lovini,' looks, — so did the young l<pril St. James
take his wav to the hustinc's, tliat he iniL'ht therefrom dt-part for
Parliament, there to combat with and soun<lly drub the twenty
^lra<'ons alwavs readv to eat up evervbodv .md evtrvtliinr;, if not
prevented by the one particular member. YoungSt. James would
be the chaminon against the dragon taxation : he would keep the
monster Irom the farmer's bacon — from tiie farmers wifeV eggs
— from the farmer's daughter's butter: iie would protect their
rights ; and the farmer, and farmer's wife, and farmer's daugliter,
all felt that they had a most dear and tender interest in tliat
splendid young gentleman, who wouM do nothing but bow to
theiii. and smile upon them, just for all the world as if he was not
a nioisel better than they.

'• He '11 let 'em know what 's what wlien he gets among "em,"
said an old couutrymau to Flay, who, that he might be as near ;us
possible to the lord about to be made a law-maker, walked with
his luuid uiK)n the carnage. " They 've had it all theiv vwu way
long ejjough ; he "11 uiake 'em look ;>.bout "eui."

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 257

''The man for tlie constitootion. That 's plain with half aii
eye ; he 's born with it all in his head, like a cock with a comb,"
said Flay. " It 's in the family," continued the Ijarbcr ; " in the
family."

The pr(x;e.«aion halts at the Hall. We pass the cl>eering, the
groaning of the opjuxsite parties. It was ]ilain. that it wa.s already
known there would be uo contest ; whereupon dark and blank
•were the looks of the Yellows, and very loud and fierce their
denunciations. The Blues, too, though they j)ut a boldly hapjiy
face on the matter, were ill at ease, A sharp opposition would
have given them great delight, inasmuch as their tried patriotism
would have shone all the more effulgent for the test.

And now the solemn business is opened by ^fr. Mayor, too
oppressed by the greatness of the occasion, to suffer one word of
his very eloquent address to be heard by the multitude ; w ho, no
doubt, in gratitude, cheered uproariously.

The Reverend Doctor Gilead then stept forward ; and suddenly
the crowd seemed to feel themselves at church, they were so
hushed. The Doctor said that nothing but his long know-
ledge, his atfection for his loi\lship, could have induced hiiu lo
break from that privacy which they all knew was his gi'eatest
• happiness. But he had a duty to perform ; a duty to his country,
to them, and to himself That duty was to propose the distin-
guished nobleman before them, as their legal and moral rejjre-
sentative in Parliament.

And young St. Jiuues was duly proposed and seconded. " Ta
there no other candidate ? " asked the Mayor, with a conscious
liice that there was not.

'' Yes," cried a voice ; and immediately a man stept forward,
whilst the Yellows roared with triumph. " I have to propose,"
sai> I the man, — ^and reader, that man was no other than Ebenezer
Bnij^eton, husband of Clarissa Snipeton, — " I have to propose, as
the rejreseutative of the borough of Liquorish, Matthev/ Cap-
stick, Esq."

A shout of derision burst from the Blues. For a moment,
the Yellows, taken by surprise, were silent : they then paid back
the shout with shoutings vehement.

" Does anybody second Matthew Capstick 1 " asked the Mayor,
aghast.

" I does," cried Rasp ; and again the Yellows shouted.

The Reverend Doctor Gilead looked haughtily, contemptuously,
at the fjirce acted about him. Nevertheless, he thought it neces-
sary to demand a poll for young St. James ; the show of hands — ■
as »he astounded Mayor was compelled to own — being " decidedly
iu lavoui ot Matthe'w ('apstick, Esq."

VOL. L B

258 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

CHAPTER XXV.

"WnT you never mean to do it ?" askwl Bright Jem aniiouslv,
Borrowfdlly.

"A mail ia w«ilJed tn hi.s cuntry, Jem; ami Wing we«l«le>l,
munt ILsten to her voice," wan the answer of Caintick.

It waa nearly midnii^ht. ami the late iiiiitHn luakiT ami his in.'ui
Bat al<»ne in the TuK The newH of his prnkihle election f r
Liqnori.sh had falk-n upon Cnpstick explortively. He had, in
tnith, been much 8tartle<l, agitate*! by the tidings ; but, the
muffin-makor was a j)liili>si>phtT, and aflor a brief hour or two
he had sulxluf<l the fl»'sl»-<juakfs of the merely mo<le«t man
trembling at hi.s own under-valuation, and sat — re-aasure<l and
calm, contemplating his p<>s.sible apjN-anmce amid.st the 8Ji;ji's of
the land, himself a sage — with the quiet re.signation of a |>atriot.
Capstick industriously es8aye<l a look, a manner of monumental
traiujuillity. He smoke<l a])pan-ntly, for all the world, like a
common man ; and yet — it ilid not escape the affectionate glano*
of Jem — yet did I'aj^stick's eye now and then bum and glow
with a new light, even as the tobacco, at the breath of the smoker,
glowed thntu^h the eml»ers. Itaj>idly waa his heart enlargin,'
with the gootl of the nation. Orations, to be uttered to the worM
at the pmper season, were conceived in the muffin-maker's brain ;
and as he sat, like a pagan ginl, in a clou'l of his own making,
they alroa»ly grew and grew, anti he alrea<ly felt for them the
nij'sterious love of the parent towards the unborn. Alrea^ly his
ears rang with the shoutings of an instructed, a delighted senate.
His heart beat thick with the thought of Magna Cliarta, and the
tremendous uses he would yet make of that sublime text. With
no hope, no thought of Parliament, it ha<l been the pride of the
muffin-maker to deapLse the world and its doings ; a hopeless
world, overstocked with fools and knaves, altogether unworthy
of the consideration of a philosophic mind. And now, with the
chance of becoming a senator, Capstick felt a sudden charity for
the universe. After all, it was a universe not to be neglecteil.
And for the men and women inhabiting it — poor two-legged
emmets ! — they must not be suffered to go to ruin their own per-
verse way. He would, therefore, go to Parliament and save them.

Now, when a man has once for all determined upon a mag-
nanimous line of conduct, he cannot but for the time lf)ok the
better, the bigger, for the resolution. It is thus in all casea. For

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMEa 259

instance, when a \irgin, with lowered luls and lips ti-eniltlint; at
their own courage, drops the "yes" that is to make a man beatiiic
for the term of hLs natural existence — a "yes" at which all the
wedtling-rings in all the goldsmitliH' shojjs symjtathetically vibi-ate
— she, the vii^in, looks as she never before looked in her life ;
sublimattHl, gloritietl, with a halo of beauty about her; a halo
catching light from her licjuid eyc«, and rosy, burning face. And
when, tifo, the widow, with a .sweet audacity, facing the mischief,
man, a.s an old soldier faces a cannon, saj's "yes," tolling the
monosyllable shortly, boldly as a Ix-ll tolLs one — she, too, expands
a little — ^just a little, with the thought, the good determineil uj)on,
— she, too, lias her halo, though certainly of a dimmer kind ; just
a little dulli'd, like a second-liand ring. So true it is, that mag-
nanimity h:us an exp.ULsive, a tleconitive quality. And so when
Capstick, for a moment, felt him.self a member of Parliament, he
felt for the time his wai-stcoat much too small for him. In the
like way that when, stirred by great emotion.s, the female hi-art
^kes a sudden shoot, it is sona-times necessary to cut the stay-
lace to allow for the growth.

And Ca)>stirk sat enl;irge<l by liis ovm thoughts ; with the ears
of his soul ujt-pricked — for souls have exu-s, and at times pretty
long ones — as though listening for the trum|)ets that should sound
a bla-st for his triumph. But Bright Jem hatl a hea\T, a dolorous
expression of the ilivine countenance of man. His master was in
'langer of being made a member of Parliament. He was, at that
moment, in the imminent peril of being taken from rustic delightj^,
from the sweet, the flowery leisure of the country, to be turned
•uto a maker of laws. His condition weighed heavily ujton the
sense of his faithful, his affectionate 8er\-aut : who gazed upon
him as Pylades would have regardetl Orestes, had dear Orestes
been sentenced to the pillory. Caj)6tick already felt himself in
*be House of Commons, and smiled through his own smoke, as
he thought of one of the humlred speeches he would make, and
the cheers that would celebrate its delivery ; and Bright Jem
only thought of the unsavoury missiles to be hurled at his friend
in the hour of his tiial.

" A man is wedded to his country', Jem," repeated Capstick,
with a growing love for the assertion.

" HLs countrj' ! Wliy, you don't call Liquorish your country,
do you ? Besides, what does the country know about you, 'xcept
your muffins : if the country hasn't quite forgot them by this
time ? H you are made a member of Parliament — heaven pre-
serve you, says I — you '11 only be made out of spite and malice,''
cried James.

Mr. Capstick took Lis pipe wide away from Ids mouth, and

s 2

260 ST. GILES A>*D 31. JAMES.

began what would doubtless have been a very eloquent speech.
Bright Jem, however, suffered him to get no further than — " The
choice of the people, Jem."

" Tlie people ! The choice of the guineas, that 'a it, Mr. Cap-
stick. A member for Liquorish ! Well, they might as well make
a little image of tlie golden calf over agin, an<l send that to Par-
liament : fur that 's the people 'a choice hereabouts. Why, you
must know, that it 's for no love of you that Snipeton — as they
call him — put you up. To carry Iuh pint agin his young lordship —
for there's some sore atweeu 'em — he 'd send a chimbly-aweeper
to Parliament without washing him."

" Impossible ! " cried Capstick, with very considerable dignity.

" Certain of it," insisted Jem, " else why, may I be so bold to
aak, should he pitch u}>on you 1 "

" I am not exactly a chimney-sweeper, Mr. James ; not exactly,"
obderve<l Capstick, majestically.

" A course not : a good way from it : but you know what I
mean, dont't you ? " said Jem.

'• It is no matter. Mr. SnijH>ton has very briefly satisfied me
of the purity, the imtriotism of his intention.s, and — go(xl night
Mr. James," and Capstick rose. " I must rise early tomorrow,"

" Don't say Mr. James, then : it 's a putting a stone in my
pillow that I couldn't sleep on, seeing I 'm not used to it. God
bless you, sir — good night," and Jem held forth his hand.

" Cooil night, Jem," said Cajwtick, taking Jem's hand. " And
mind, tivmorrow, early, Jem — very early, Jem."

Almost at dawn Jem was in the garden, digging, digging as
though he would get rid of thought. At times, very savagely
wuiUd he j)lunge the spa^le into the earth, as though it relieved
him. And then he groaned — hummed — and sighed. And the
morning broke gloriously ; and the birds sang and whistled ; and
the flowei-s came laughing out in the sun.shine. Tlie summer
earth, one wide altar, steamed with sweetest incense to heaven.

Jem had laboured for a coujile of hours before Capstick joined
him in the garden. " Why, Jem, you 've done a full half-day's
work already," said the candidate for Liquorish.

" Somehow I couldn't rest : and when I did sleep, I had
nothing but nasty dreams. If I didn't dream you was taken
to the Tower for pulling the Speaker's nose — and I know
your temper, sir — nothing more likely — I wish I may die.
Never had such a clear, clean dream in all my life. It was
all made out .so."

'' Ajid what did they do with me at the Tower ? " asked Cap-
stick, a little tickle<i by the importance of the imprisonment.

" Why they chopi>ed your head off as clean as a sheep's," said

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 261

Jem, earnestly. " I saw 'em do it ; heard the chop]>er ^o right
through bone, gristle, and all." Capstick clapt his hand to hia
neck, then siukk'nly took it away again, and shook his head and
muiled. Jem continue<l. " They chopi)ed it off, and I heard it
fall from the tlock with a bump. And after that they cut you
into four quarters to be hung up for an example."

" Ha ! ha ! and that 's the worst they did," cried Capstick ;
" there was an end, then ? "

" No there wa-sn't," said Jem ; " for I dreamt that they made
me pack up one of the quarters, like spring-lamb, and carry it to
your old muffin-shop, and hang it jest over the door atween the
two winddws, a.s a warning to aJl traitors. And I hung it up.
And then I dreamt I sat down on the door-step, and it waa as
much a-s ever I could do to keep the birds from pecking at you,
for all I did nothing but pelt 'em with dollars."

" Very extravag-.int," said Capstick, who added gravely, laying
his hand very tenderly upon Jem's shoulder, " when the time
really comes, don't throw away silver ; first try penny pieces."
Jem shook his head : he could not relish the hulnour of the
economy.

" If^ now, they really should make a member of parliament of
' you," — Jem shudlered at the notion as at the thought of some
nauseous drug — " you don't mean to say you '11 leave the Tub,
the garden ami alU "

" The voice of the country, Jem, must be obeyed. We '11 come
down here, and recruit ourselves when the House is prorogued.
We shall enjoy it all the more for the work of the session." Cap-
stick already spoke like a meml>er.

" Well, I know somethin' of parliament, for I knew poor Sam
Chiltems, the linkman, as was killed by tlie late hours. He used
to tell me a good deal about it. Whatever pleasure you can have,
to go and sit steaming among a mob of folks — and hearing speeches
and sums of figures that you don't know nothing about — and never
opening your own mouth " —

" Never think it, Jem," cried Capstick, " I shall speak, and very
often — very often,"

" The Lord help you ! " exclaimed Jem, amazed at such deter-
mination- " At your time of life, too ! "

"That's it, Jem. Twenty, ten, years ago, I shouldn't have
been ripe for it. Really great men are of slow growth ; I feel
that I have just now reached my prime, and my country shall
have it. You don't know — how should you ? — what I may meet
with in parliament."

" A little on it," said Jem. " You '11 meet with bad hours and
noisy company ; and you '11 turn night into day, and day iuto

^ry2 ST. GILES AN'D ST. JAMKS.

niijht, anil so do no giMnl witli nt'itlu-r one nor tlie other. Meet !
Will you meet with auy such coiuj^«iny as you leave I I should
like to know that."

'* Why, what company do I leare ? " asked Caputick coldly,
and with «ligiuty.

" Why, tlie com|vuiy altont you," crit'<l Jem, and Cajwtiek
shortly coughe<l. " LtxA at 'em : will you meet with anything like
them rosK's, jest opening their prwious mouthrt, and t-vlking to you
in their own way — for how often you 've .-udd they «lo t.dk, if
j>eoplc will only have the sense to undei>aan<l 'em ! You '11 go to
court, jH-rhajw ; ami, if you do, will you niift with finer velvet
than '.s in tlu lu heartsease f will you see any di:uuonils " — and here
Jem struck a hush with his sjade, atid the dewnlroj* in a silver
shower tremhlitl and fell from it — "any diamoutl.s brighter and
wholesomer than them ? Will yon hear anything like that in
|Mvrliament ? " — crie«l Jein, emphatically, and he (x^iuU^d upward.s
to a lark singing in the high heavens.

" These things are to l>e enjoyitl in their due 8en»^>n ; when, as
I say, the House is prorogue<l," said C'apstick.

" And what 'a to l>ecume of all the animals that I thought you
•o fond on? They'll none on 'em come to giKxl when you're
away. There's them Wautiful Ues — sensihle things I — you
don't think they '11 have the heart to ^o on working, working,
when you 're wasting your time in the Hou.se of Commons ?
And you '11 go and make laws ! Ha ! We sha'n't have no luck
after that. If the bantam hen that's sitting doesn't atldle all
her eggs, I know nothing of Kintam.s. Why, how," — and Jem
spoke in a saddeneil tt>ne — "how in si.x weeks do you think
you '11 look ?"

" Look ! how shouhl I look ?" crie<l C'apstick, bentling hisLrowsw

" Why, you '11 look like a act of j>arli;uuent ; ami a precious old
act, too ; all parchment like, with hUick mjirks. And you'll go
to bed when the sun gets up ; and insteakin<' at
him, all health and comfort — ami walking al;>out liwidug the
birds and smelling the cows, the flowers and the fresh earth —
why. you 'II be sliuking home to your bed with no heart to stare
in the sun's face — and your precious head will seem biling with a
lot of talk ; all wobbling with speeches you can make nothin' on
— and you '11 soon wish yourself a mushroom, a toadstool, an^'lhing
to be well in the countn.- agin."

" Jem," said Capstick, " you mean well ; but you 're an enthu-
siant.''

" Von mav cnll me what namo'» yon liko," said Jem, very re-
signedly, •■ but you' 1 never be happy away from the Tub."

ST. GILES AXD ST. JAMES. 2*53

"You'll lay the breakfiwt," observed Capstick, pcrcmploiily
endinf the cniiversaMon as he turned from tlie rrarden to the
house, whilst Jeiu — iis if he had a new qviarrel with the soil — dug
his spjuie into the earth with increased energy.

In a few tniriut«i a hen broke out into the customarj' proclama-
tion of a new egg. — " Well, I know," cried Jem, pettishly, " I
know : you 're like a good many people, you are ; can't even give
poor fulk.s Jui egg without tolling all the world about it. Humph!
lie may nn well have 'em fresh while he can ; " and Jem took his
way to the hen-roost — " poor soul ! he '11 get nothing fresh when
he 's a member of parliament."

In very dumpi.sh s|)irit.s did Jem ])repare the breakfast. But
when he 8.-iW (I'ajxstiok, habited in his very best, issue from hi3
chamber, Jem groaned as though he looked upon a victim arrayed
for the sacrifice. Capstick would not hear the note of tribulation,
but olwen'ed — " You '11 go witli rut^ Jem."

" I 'd rather not," said Jem ; "but 1 'spose I raijst go in the
inob, to see .-is nob<xly i>elt.s you. Well ! I wonder what ;uiy J<w
will give for that coat when you come home. But 1 'sjtose it 's all
right. People put their best on when they 're luuiged, and why
bhouldn't you ? All right, o' course "

Capstick managetl to laugh, !Uid trii-d to eat his breakfast witli
even more than customary relish — but it would not do : he hail
no appetite. He felt hinuself on the verge of greatness. And Ids
heart was s^i big it left him no stomach. Suddenly w;ls heard the
sound of ilisUut music " Heaven 8;ive you ! " cried Jem ; " they 're
coming after you."

" Don't be a fool," said the philosophic Capstick, and the music
and the shouting seemed to enter his c;ilm bosom like Hame, for
he suddenly oljserved, " It 's very warm to-day, Jem."

" Nothing to what it will be," said Jem. " Here they come.
Afore it 's too lat-e, will you hide under the bed, and 1 '11 say
you 're out ? " Jem rapidly put the proposal as a last desperate
resource.

"Don't be a fool," again cried Capstick, and with increased
vehemence. " Open the door."

" It 's all over — too late," groaned Jem, and almost immediately
the music came clanging to the window, and the mob huzzaed,
and Ea.sp, and others of Capstick's committee, tilled the cottage.

" Hurrah ! " cried Rasp, " three cheers for Capstick ! ('ap-
stick and the Constitution ! " and the mob roared in ol)€diciice
♦• Now, Mr. Capstick ; all right, I can tell you. His lordship
hasn't a toe to stand upon — not a single toe. ITiis blessed night
you '11 sleep member for Liquorish ! Down with the Blues 1
The Constitution and Capstick! Hurrah! Why, Jem" —

264 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

crietl the barber, suddenly astounded — " you liav'n't got no colonr.
Here 's one."

" Well, if I mu.st make myself a canary," cried Jem, and he
took the proffered riband, and shook his head.

"Now, then, strike up, and three more cheers for Capstick and
the Constitution," roared Easp. The tinirapets sounded — the
drums beat — the mob roared, — and amidst the hubbub, Capetick
suffered himself to be c-iiTied off by the committee to one of the
three carriages drawn up at the eud of the lane, whilst Bright
Jem, as though he walked at a funeral, pensively followed. — In a
few moments the line was formed ; and musicians and mob,
taking new breath, gave loudest utterance to their several instru-
ments. And Capstick, the philosopher, smiled and bowed about
him with all the easy grace of an old candidate. Bright Jem
gazed at him with astonishment. Could it be possible that that
smiling, courteous, bending man was the rigid muffin-maker ?
After that, there was nothing true, nothing real in humanity. At
once, Jem gave up the world.

The procession reached the Town Hall. Hurrahs and hootings
met Capstick ; who felt warra and cold at the salutations. It was
plain, however, that Capstick and the Constitution — as Easp
would couple them — must triumph. The gieat confidence iu
young St. James had, somehow, been severely shaken. It was
known even to the little children of the boro\igh that the myste-
rious chest of gold hatl been carrieil off ; and us the customary
donation to the electors was not forthcoming, it was believed
that young St. James would rashly trust to purity of election.
Tangle, secure in his belief that there would be no opposition to
his lordship, had said no word of the robbery ; hence, he had
suffered very valuable time to be lost — time that had been im-
proved to the utmost by the agents of Snipeton, who, though he
scarcely appeared himself, laboured by means of his mercenaries,
with all the ardour that hatred and gold could supjJy in the
cause. "When, however, it became certain that his lordship would
be opposed. Tangle felt the dire necessity — dire, indeed — of telling
the truth. And then he felt he had not the courage to carry him
through so imusual a task. Whereupon, he sneaked to his inn,
ordered a post-chaise, placed himself and portmanteau therein,
and late at night secretly drove towards London. Ere, however,
he departed, he left a letter for the noble candidate. We give a
correct copy.

" My Lorb, — iJeeply, indeed, do I regret that a cn-cumstance — ■
a tender cirumstance — to which it is needless more particularly
to allude (for what — what right have I, at such a time, to force

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 265

my domestic sorrows on your lordship's attention ?) — a tender cir-
cumstance, I say, compels my immediate attendance in London.
You may judge of the importance of the event from the very fact
that, at such a time, it can sever me from your lordship. I leave
you, however^ in the full assurance of your triumph — in the full
belief that parliament, which has received so many ornaments
from your noble house, has yet to obtain an unparalleled lustre in
the genius of your lordship. With the profoimdest respect, I am
your lordship's most devoted servant, " Luke Tangle."

•' P.S. — We are all, in this mortal world, liable to accidents.
My good friend. Mi*. Folder, will inform your lordship of a cir-
cumstance that has given me much pain ; a circumstance, however,
that when I shall have the honour of next meeting your lordship,
I doubt not I shall be able most fully to explain to your lordship's
most pel feet satisfaction."

" There is gi-eat villany in this, — great villany, my lord," said
Doctor Gilead, possessed of the contents of the letter — " but it
is n't so much the money that 's lost ; that may be remedied — it 's
the time, the precious time. There is no doubt that the other
side have taken the most unprincipled advantage of the calamity,
and have bribed right and left. Nevertheless, we must not de-
spair. No ; certainly not. We must look the difficulty in the
face like men, my lord — like men." The Doctor, too, spoke like
one determined to fight to the last minute, and the last guinea.
And the Doctor was not merely a man of words. No. With a
fine decision of character, he immediately drew a cheque for a
much larger amount than was ever dreamt of by all the apostles,
and confiding it to a trusty servant, he shoi-tly, but emphatically,
said to him — " Gold." The man smilingly acknowledged the
magic of that potent monosyllable, and depai-ted bhthely on hi.s
ez'rand. Nevertheless, there was a strong sense of honour m the
hearts of the majority of the pati-iots of Liquorish ; for although
some took double bribes — altliough some suffered themselves to
be gilt like weather-vanes, on both sides — the greater number
remained true to the first purchaser. It was the boast — the con-
solation that made so many of the Yellows walk upright through
the world — that they stuck to their first bai'gain. The double
fee would have been welcome, to be sure ; but as some of them
touchingly observed, they had characters to take care of. Besides,
the same candidate might come attain.

" Can you have any notion of the cause of the motives of this
man, Snipeton ? " asked Doctor Gilead of young St. Jame.s, who
slightly coloured at the home question " Wliy should he have
started a candidate i "

2-36 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

"Possibly — I can't tell — but I aay possibly be ha» strong
political feelings. But, 'tis no matter, "twill only jk1(1 to the
excitement : at the most, 'twill only be a joke. A niutliii-maker
Bitting for Liquorish ! For our borough ! 'Tis too ridiculous to
imagine," an<l young St. Jame.s laughed.

'' A very contemjuible i>erson, certainly," said Doctor GileaJ ;
"nevertheless, he's twenty a-heati of your lordship, and as there
is not above another hour for polling, and we know the nuniWr of
votes, matters do look a little de.sj>oi-ate." Such w.is the opinion
of Doctor Gilead, very dolorously pronounced at an ailvjuicetl
perio<l of the day ; and young St. James — although he had com-
bated tlie notion like a man and a lord — began to give ground :
it no longer seemed to him among the impo-ssibilities of the world
that the family borough of Liquorish might be usurped by a
mutrin-maker. And then St. .T.iiiien — thinking of Clarissa —
meiUtated a terrible revenge upon her liusbaml.

In the meanwhile, the contest ragetl with every variety of
noise and Wolence con3e«iuent ujM^n the making of a meml>er of
parliament. Songs were sung ; — how the jK>et was so suddenly
found, we know not ; but dLscovered, he was jwtently inspired by
ready gold and ale, and in no time en.shrined the robbery of the
money-l»ox in verse. Ever}' verse, like a w.-usp, had a sting at the
end of it, aimed at the corruption of the Blues. The concluding
stanza, too, breathe* I an ardent wish for the future prosperity
and happinej^a of the thief — an ex[)ression of kindness that Tom
Blast, ;is he mingled among the mob, receive<i with the silence of
modesty. Tom'a only regret waf that Jingo, his own child, had
not been entrusted with the killad, as the mekxiy and the senti-
ment of the song were beautifully adapted to the voice ami
intelligence of the young minstrel. Besides, there would have
been something droll — very droll, a matter to be chuckled over
with private friends — had Jingo chauute<l the satirical lament for
the stolen gold ; he being, above all otliers, peculiarly fitted for
the melodious task. Ajid where could he be] — once or twice
thought the father, and then the paternal anxiety was merged in
the deep interest of the hour ; for Tom Blast with all his might
roared and cheered and hooted in the cause of the Yellows.
Much, we think, would it have abated the patriotic zeal of
Caf)stick, hatl he known huw vociferously he was lauded by the
thief of Hog Lane. But at such a time, applause must not be too
curiously analysed.

And now both parties began to number minutes. A quarter of
an hour, and the poll would close. The Blues had for the past
twenty minutes rallied ; and Doctor Gilead rubbed his hands and
declared that, in spite of the cornijit practices of the Yellows, in

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 2G7

ppitp of tlie soul-buyiiifj bri>)ery that had been resortofl to by
uiichri.-itian men, the ri<,'htful seat of St. James would not be
ii-surped by a muffin-maker. Poor Jem hung about the Conuuittee-
rooms, and secretly exulted when Capstick receded ; as secretly
nxninu'd wheti he advanced. At len<,'lh the final numbers were
exhibited ; and to the joy of the Yellows, the despair of tlie
Blues, and to the jwulicular misery of Jem himself, Matthew
Capstick, Plsq., was declared ten votes a-head of his opj>onent !

" Three cheers for Capstick, our member," cried Rasp from the
window of the Yellow Committee-room. " Three cheers for
Cajwtick and the Constitution ! "

" Give it him," cried Flay from an opposite house, and the
obedient loyal mob of Blues discharged a volley of mud and
stones and other constitutional nii-ssiles in use on such glorious
occa.sii)ns. Crash went the windows ; and, on the instant, the two
factions in the street were engagetl in a general fight; all mo\'ing,
aa they combated, towards the To\^^l Hall, already beset by a
roaring nmb.

A few minutes, and ^^^. Capstick appeared. Whereupon, the
high bailiff declared him duly elected a knight burgess, and
buckled the sword alMUit him — the sword with which, by a pretty
fiction, the knight was to defend the borough of Liquorish from
all soi-ts of wrong. Capstick, with the weapon at bis thigh,
advance*! with great dignity ; for a time regardless of the showers
of eggs and pt>tatoes that, from the liberal hands of the Blues,
immediately greeted him. The young Lord St. James — how
Snipeton leered at him ! — also appeared on the hustings, and acci-
dentally received full in his face an egg, cert;unly intended for
the \nsage of the successful candidate. It was plain, too, that
Capstick thought as much, for he turned, and taking out his
pocket-handkerchief, advanced to his lordship, and in the politest
manner observed, — "My lord, I have no doubt that egg was
intended to be my property : will you therefore permit me to
reclaim my own 1 " — and saving this, Capstick with his white
kerchief removed the offensive matter from his lordship's face,
whilst the crowd — touched by the courtesy of the new member —
laughed and cheered uproariously.

Mr. Capstick then advanced to the front of the hustings. A1
the same moment a potato fell short of him, near his foot.
Whereupon the member drew his sword, and running it into the
potato, held it up to the mob. Another laugh — another cheer
greeted the action. " Silence ! he 's a rum 'un — hear him ! " was
the cry, ?.nd in less than ten minutes the new member was
permitted to proceed- Whereupon he said :

" Gentlemen — for gentlemen in a mob are always known by

♦«8 ST. GILES AND ST. JA^IES.

their eggs and potatoes — I should, indeed, be unworthy of the
honniir you liave jilactd and slmwert-d ujiou me, did I in any way
complain of the manner in which you have exercised the privileges
I see lying about me. I am aware, gentlemen, that it is the free
birthri;^'ht of Enj^li.shmen — and niny they never forget it I — to pelt
any man who may offer himj<elf fi>r the honour nf representing
them in Tarliament. It is right that it should In? so. For how
tmfit must be the man for the duties of hi.M office — for the trials
that in the House of Commons he must undergo — if he cannot,
properly and resjK-ctfully, receive at the hands of an enlightened
constituency any quantity of mud, any number of eggs or
jM.tatofs. I .should hold niys.lf a traitor to tin- trust reposed in
me, did I at this moment of triumph object to either your eggs or
your potatoes." (Very loud cheering ; with a cry of " You 're
the sort for us.") " No. gentlemen, I lix»k uj>on eggs and jKitatoea
as, I may say, the corner-stones of the Con.stitution." ("Three
cheers for the Constitution," roaretl Ilasp, and the Yellows
obe<liently bellowe<l.) " Nevertheless, jR-rmit me to say this much.
Feeling the necessity that yo>i should always exercise for your-
selves the right of j»eltiug your canrlidates with eggs and potatoes
-permit mo to ol)ser>'e that I do not think the sacreil cause of
lilx'ilv will be emlangeretl, that I do not Wlieve the ba-sis of the
Con.'jtitution will l)e in the smalle<4t degree shaken, if ujwn all
future elections, when you sliall be called upon to exercise the
high prerogative of pelting your candidates, you select eggs that
are swiH?t, and first mash your jxitatoes."

Laughter ajid loud cheers attested the rea8ona)>lenes8 of the
proposition. When silence was restore<l, young I>>rd St. James
stood foi-wanl. Uis rival, he said, wjis for a time nominally their
cantlidate. A j)etition to the IIous4- of Commons would, however,
speedily send him back to his proi>er obscui-ity. His lordship was
prepared to prove the groBsest briK'ry

'• The Ih>x of guineas I " — " Who stole the gold ?" was shouted
fi-ora the mob, and Tom Blast himself boldly halloed — " WTio
stole the guineas ? "

Doctor Gilead stept forward. "My friends," he said, "it is
true that a box of money was stolen — but, my friends, you will
rejoice with me to learn that the box is recovered."

•* Gammon ! " cried Blast wihlly.

" The thief or thieves had cast the box into my fish-pond ; but
1 have just been infonned that on dragguig the jx)nd for carj) — I
liad given the order V>efore I quitted home — the box has been
found ! Three cheers, my friends ! "

Blast groaned and the Blues huzzaed.

'llie ceremony of chaii'iug was duly pt^rformed, Bright Jem

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 2fi9

witnessing the triumpli with a luuvv luart : but ^Matthew Cap-
stick, Esq., Al.r., (he had been liuly (juaiitied by Siiipeton,) a-s he
was pjiraiied along the streets of Liquorish hni\ no wish uugi-atified
— yes, there was one, a Uttle one. It was merely that the late
Mrs. Capstick^could, for a very brief time, look up fi-oiu her grave
and see her elected husband iu his momeut of glory I

CHAPTER XXYI

It is fit we now explain a few matters of the past for the better
apprehension of the future. I^et us therefore gossip five minutes,
I^iet us j).iu.se awhile in this gi-oen lane — it is ficarctly half-a-mile
from tiie Town Hall of Liquori-sh, — ere mounting Pen, our f;iiniliar
hippogriff, with you, sir, on the crupper, we take a flight and n a
thought descend upon the mud of Ijon<l<ni. The sweet l)reavn of
the season should open hearts, ;ls it unek>»e3 myriads of buils and
blossoms. So, let us sit ujK)n this tree-trunk — this elm, felled and
lopped in Deceml)er. Stripped, maimed, aiul overt hrowii, a few
of its twigs are dotted with green leaves ; spring still working
within it, like hope in the conquered brave.

Is not this an escape from the scuffling and brajing of immortal
man, moved by the feelings and the guineas of an election ? What
a very decent, quiet fellow is Brown ! And Jones is a civil,
peacejible creature ! And Robinson, too, a man of gentle bejiring !
Yet multiply the three by one, two, three hundred. Let there be
a mob of Browns, Joneses, and Robinsons, and then how often —
made up of individual decency, and quietude, and gentleness — is
there a raving, roaring, bulMng multitude ? The individual Adam
seta asiile his dignity, as a boxer strips for the tight ; and whether
the thing to be seen is a lord mayor's coach, fireworks, or a zany
on a river, goose-paddled iu a washing-tub, the sons of Adam will
throng to the sight, and fight and scream for vantage-ground, with
a violence that would shame any colony of monkeys, clawing and
jabbering for stolen sugar-cane. Sweet, then, is it to the philo-
sopher to moralise upon the hubbub and the jostling crowd. He
pities the madness ot the multitude, and respects the serenity of
his own soul : the more so, if looking from a window, his own toes
are untrodden, and his own coat-tails untom.

And so, reader, let us breathe awhile in this green solitude — if,
indeed, it be a solitude. For who shall count the little eye-like
flowere peeping at us from the hedges — looking up from the sward
in our face, openly as loving imiocence ? A solitude ! What a

270 ST. GILES AND ST. J.VMra.

•W(»rl(l of ^'raiises ilu we trea4l up<>ii, a world so crowded and
Luinmiiig with iust-ct citizoas ! If ouly one tuni of the peg we
would let down our pride— of all the heart-strings the ba«8 and
gruiiililiiij,' oiio — we might conqiare many of these children, fathers,
and grandfathers of a day with the two-legged kings of creation,
the bii>e<l majesties of threescore years and ten. We might watch
their little runnings to and from their hoards ; their i>ainful
climbings to the verj' needle point of some tall blade of grass ;
watch them and annle, even jus the luigels, at their pleasant leisure
watch and smile at you, Grubbings, when you go to the Bank
and add to your sweet salvatinn there, the balance: smile, as at
poor Sujx'rbus when, climbing and climbing, he rose to great
Gold Stick, and kept it twenty years, — to angelic computation
just twenty tlirobbings of a fevered heart. Surely, there is not
an insect that we might not couple with an acquaintance. Here,
in this little, trim s<.>briety, is our quaker friend, Placens ; and
here, in this butterfly, tijisy with its first-clay's wings, is Polly,
foolish Polly, who cannot consent to see the world, unless she seea
it in her finest clothes. And so, looking at a piece of turf, no
bigger than a lark's footr«tool, we may people it with friends and
World actjuainUuice.

Is this solitude } Aiid the blackbird, with his notes of melte<l
honey, winds and whistlee — uo. Solitude 1 The jay, whose voice
is a continual dissent, grates — no. S<»litude ? And the household
rook swims upward in the air, and with homeward caw, awakens
busy thoughts of Ufe, of the day's cares and the day's necessities.
The earth has no place of solitude. Not a rood of the wilderness
that Is not thronged and eloquent with crowds and voices, com-
muning with the spirit of man ; endowed by such communion
with a knowledge, whose double fruit is di\-inest hope and meekest
humility.

So once more to our story : once more to consider the doings of
men. They are not to be thought of with less charity for this
gossip in a green lane. Nay, try it, reader, on your own account.
Say that you have a small wrong at your heart ; say, that in
your bosom you nurse a pet injury like a pet snake. Well, bring
it here, away from the brick-and-mortar world ; see the innocent
beauty spread around you ; the sunny heavens smiling protectmg
love u{X)n you ; listen to the harmonies breathing about you ;
and then say, is not this Immortal injury of yours a wTetched
thing, a moral fungus, of no more accoimt than a mildewed toad-
stool i Of course. You are abashed by omnipotent benevolence
into charity : and you forgive the wrong you have received fix>m
man, in your deep gratitude to God.

Nevertheless, there are natures hardly susceptible of such

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 271

influence. There axe folks who would take their smallest wrongs
with them into Paradise. Go where they will, they carry with
them a travelling-case of injuries.

And wrongs, naturally enough, bring ufl back to Ebenezer
SnijH'ton. It -wivs liis trade to lend nioin-y : nevertheless, he waa
not a iiiiui who suffered business to entirely absorb his pleasure.
Hence, when he discovered that the patriot who, purely for the
sake of his country', was to snatch Li(iuori.sh from young St. James
thought better of the rashness, refusing at the last moment to save
the nation, — he, Ebenezer, treated himself to a costly but delicious
enjoyment. And he — it was thus he pondered — he could afford
it. He was a thrifty, saving man. He dallied not with common
temptations. He wasted no money upon luxurious housekeeping ;
and for his wife, no nun ever spent less with the milliner. He
took care of that. Well, as the homely proverb goes, it is a poor
heart that never rejoices ; and therefore Ebenezer Snij)eton,
temperate, self-denj-ing in all other expensive enjojTnents, was
resolve*!, for once in his days, to purchase for himself a han(lsome
piece of revenge. Detenuined upon a treat, he cared not for its
cost. He would carrj' Capstick into Pjirliament, though in a
chariot of solid gold. The young lord had dared to look upon
Clarissa. The creature, a juirt of himself; whose youth and
beauty, belonging to him, seemed to him a better aKsurauce
against decay and death. He had bought her for his lawful wife,
and Holy Church had written the receipt. Nevertheless, that
smooth-faced smiling loi-d — he, too, to whom the good old husband
in the embracing philanthropy of a hundred per cent, had lent
ready goUl, to be paid back, post-obit fashion, on a father's coffin-
lid — he, the young, handsome, profligate St. James, with no more
reverence for the sanctity of marriage than has a school-boy for
an orchard fence, he — it was plain — would carry off that mated
bird ! This one thought parched the old man as with a fever :
waking, it consume<l him ; and he would start from his sleep, as
though — such was his worded fancy — an adder stirred in his
night-cap. Therefore he would not stint himself in his feast of
vengeance. And therefore the fi-eeholders were bought at their
own price, — and they proved how dearly they valued a vote, —
and Capstick, the muffin-maker, conquered the son of a marquis.
People averred that the new member owed his elevation to the
fiercest malice ; but he, misanthrope as he was, had now and
then his holiday notions of hiimanity, and did not to the full
believe the scandal. No : though he did not confess it to himself,
it was plain that his neighbours — at least the more thoughtful of
them — believed in his powers of statesmanship ; it was their
wish, their one hope, that he should represent them j and though

2r2 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

Ik* liiiusclf cared not a straw fur theliouuur, it wouM have seemed
inigracious to refuse. Ami so lie quitted the Tub, and Bright
Jem went heavily along with him to London. " I shall be quite
the simple Roman in thi.s business," said Capstick. " I feel myself
verj' like Cineinnatus taken from tuniips." " Without goin' to
that Parliament, I only wish you was well among 'em agin,"
interrupted Jem. " And therefore," continued the senator, " I
shall lodge humbly." And Capstick kept his word ; for be
hired a three- pjiir floor and an attic in Long Acre ; and having
purchased a framed and glazed copy of Magna C'harta to hang
over the chinmey-piece, he l>egan ver}' deeply to consider his
maiiifoM duties as Member of Parliament.

With varj'ing feelings St. Uiles had watche<l the progress of
the election. He had — it was his duty — shouted and bi-llowed for
St. James. NevertheK-ss, the final jirosperity of the nuiffin-man,
hia early benefactor, scarcely displea-sed him. Again, too, he
thought that, should the young lord refuse to employ him — for he
had still bet-n baulked in his endeavour to see St. James — the new
member for Liquorish would need new attendants to illustrate his
dignity. And Bright Jem had, of course, revealed to Capstick
all the transjxjrt's storj- ; for the felon had made a clean breast of
Lis mystery to Jem, on their way to Kingcup, the schoolmaster.
And so, the election revel over, with a liglitened heart St. Gilefa
set out for London. Should St. James fail him, he was sure ot
Ca{>stiok.

If human misery demand human sympathy, the condition of
Tom Blast is not to be despised. It is our trust that the reader
followinl him when, oppressed by the weight of gold, he tripped
and staggered from the Olive Branch, and gasped and sweated as
he reached tlie field, wherein he solaced his fatigue •with the secret
thought of future fortime bringing future reformation. It was
with this strengthening impulse that he flung the iron box, gold-
crammed, into the middle of a pond. There it lay, like one of
Solomon's brazen kettles in the sea, containing a tremendous genius
— an fdl-potent magician, when once released to work among men.
And Tom would go to London, and in a few days, when Liquorish
li.id subsided from its patriotic intoxication to its old sobriety, he
would return with some trusty fellow-labourer in the world's hard
ways, and angle for the box. Unhappy, fated Blast ! He had
flung his gold-fish into Doctor Gilead's pond. He had enriched
the rector's waters with uncounted guineas. Next, of course, to
" the fishpools in Heshbon," the Doctor loved that pond, for it
contained carp of astonishing size and intelligence. Often would
the Doctor seek the waters, and whilst feeding their tenants —
tenants-at-will — delight himself with their docility and dimensiona.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 27S

It wa-s pretty, now to couteinplale theia iii the pond, and now to
fancy tlu'tii in the dish. Tlie Durtor knew tlie value, the pleasure
of exercising llie imagination ; and thus made his carj) e(iually
miniritront to his inuuortal ami his abdominal powera. Well, llie
pond waaty be dragged l'<>r the election dinner, and the net
becoming entangled with the bo.v — but the Doctor has already
revealed the happy accident. Tom Bln^l felt liimself a blighted
uian. It wa.s always his way. Any otlier thief would liave hid-
den the goods in any other pond : but .somehow or the other, the
clergy had always been his misfortune. It wjus no use to struggle
•with f ite : he wius doomed U> bad luck. And when, too, he hjul
made up his mind to such a ijuiet, comfortable life ; when lie had
resolved upon respectability and an honest coui-se ; he felt his
heart softened — it wjis too bad. Nothing w:is left for him but to
return to the tliief's wide home, lAUidou. He, poor fellow ! could
Lave sulxlucd his dcsiixis to live even at Liijuorisii ; for tobacco
and gin were there ; but, he knew it, in such a place he must
starve. With the loss of tlie box crtme a quickened recollection
of the loss of Jingo. Where couM the child have wandered ?
Bhust luul learned ihat Tangle h:ul been «le.spoiled of his pui-se ou
the uight of the greater robbery. Now, though the paternal heart
was plea.sed to believe that such theft was the woik of the boy,
the fatlier w;is neverthelesa siuhleneil at the child's disobedience.
If it was the boy's duty to ix)b, it Wixs no less liis duty to bruig the
stolen goods to his ati'ectionate j);u'ent. In prosperity the hum.ui
heart is L.-w sensible of sUght. Bhist, whilst the believed possessor
of countless guineas, sciU'Cely thought of his sou; but, stript of
liis Wealth, his thouglits — it wiis very natural — (.lid turn to his
truaiit child and the jui-se the youngling had stolen.

And now, reader, leave we the borough of Liquorish. Its
street is silent, and save that certain of its dwellers have bought
new Sunday coats anil Sunday gown.s — save that here and there
in good man's house a new clock, with moralLsing tick to human
life, gives voice to silent time — save that on certain sheh'es new
painted crockery illustrates at once the vanity and fnigUity of
hum.ui hopes, no man would dream that a member of parlia-
ment had witliin a few houi-s been manufactui-ed in that dull
abiding-place.

And now, reader, with one drop of ink, we are again in London.
Ha ! We liave descended in St. James's Squju-e. The morning
is \ ery beautiful ; and there,, at the Mtxrquis's door, smiling in
the sun, is an old acquahitance, Peter Crossbone, apothecaiy ;
the learned, disajjiwinted man ; for Crossbone had looked upon
t'le escape of St. James from Dovesnest as an especial misfortune.
All liis professional days he had yeajued for what he called

VOL. I. T

274 ST. GILES AND ST. J.VMES.

disluif^iished practice. We doubt whether he would not hare
thoTijiht the Towi-r lioiis, bving cr<»wii jiropt'i-ty. ni<>st in»{«jrf.irit
patients. For some time, lie had jKnuleretl on the iMiiicy of
visiting young St, James, the wounde<l phoenix that had flown
from his hands. His will was good ; all he want<»<l was a flecent
cxcu.se for the intrusion ; and at lenf^h fortune l>le.-is<-illage ajiothecary, could show hini.s»-lf of service to him. The
marquis's father was nun.h persecuted l>y that lu.\unous scoi-jnon,
the gout, that e]>i'-urean feeder on the ln'st fed. Now Cros.slK)no
kid iu his own opinion, a specific cure for the torment ; hut he
nnich douhtt'd whether scienci- would l>e his l>e.'<t recommendation
to tlie young heir. No: he wanted faith in such an interce8sc>r.
And thus, with his brain in a pitch-black fog, he metlitateil, and
Kiw no way. And now is he surroundi-d by mist, antl now is he
in a blaze of light. And what has broken through the gloom,
and dawnetl a Budder* day ? That luminous coucenti-ation, that
world of eloquent light — for how it talks I — a wonuui's eye.

Suddenly Cros.sbone renieml>ered a Cfrtiiin look of Clarissa.
And that look wjus inst;intly a light to him that ma<le all ckar.
That look showeil the jealousy of the hnsband ; the passion of the
vife. Snijw'ton was a tynuit, and Clarissa a victim. And then
conip.ifision entered tlie heart of CrosslMuie, and did a little s«iften
it. ^'es ; it W(udd be a humane deetl to ;is8ist the j>oor wife, and
at the same time .«!o delicious to delight his lordsliij). And then
lie — Crossbone knew it, — he himself wjts so fit for tiie gay world.
lie was Ixim, he would sjiy, for the stones of London, and there-
fore hateil the clay of the country.

liiatler, as you turnetl the present leaf, Crosslmne knocked at
the door, jind stoo«l with an unexsy smile upon his face, awaiting
the porter, who, with a line, critical ear for knocks, knew it could
be nobody, and treated the rioltody acconliiigly ; that is, made
the nolKxly wait. In due se.oson, Cro.-v-sl Kjne and the porter stix»d
face to face. " Is Ixird St. James within ? " And Crossbone
tned to look the easy, town man. It would not do. Had he
been a haystack, the porter would as readily have known the
country growth.

'• Lordship within ? " grunted the porter. " Don't know."

Lnt Mr. Crossbone knew better. It was his boast ; he knew
life ; aJid tlierefore always jiaved its little shabby piussages with
silver : other passages require gold, and only for that i-eAson
are not thought so shabby. True, therefore, to his princijjies,
Ml". Crossbone sneaked a card :uid a dolhu" into the jiorter's luind.

•' Ralph, take this card to his lordship. Good deal bothered,
lill of us, just uow," addefl the ixjxtcr.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 275

" CJood deal," corroborated Rilpli, the son ot' Gum. nnil lookiiit^
UJ) aiiil down at tho ai^jtliecary, hu went Iiis way. Quick Wiis liis
leturn ; and with i-es]iii:ttul voice he begged the gentleiuun to
follow him.

" We have met before, ^fr. Crosslione," sa'nl St. James, aiul a
sliadow cru.siK'd hi.s face. " I well renieniVM"."

" No doubt, my lord. It wa.s my haiipincss to employ my poor
skill in a case of gi-eat danger. Need I .say, how much 1 am
rewardeil V>y your Inrilship'.s pifseut health ?"

" I h.-ive bieu woi-se bt^-ilen since then," siid the young
lord, and he bit his lip. He then with u gay air continued :
" Mr. Snipeton is, I believe, your patient I "

" Bless your heart, my lord. — that i.-*, I beg yo«r jxirdon," —
for Crossboue filt the familiarity of the benison — " Mr. Itfnipeton
is uo mjui's i)alient. King Charles of Clwu'ing Cross — saving his
inuje.sty's presence — haAju.-^t :is much need of tlie faculty. When
j)eople, my hml, have no feelings they have little sickness: that's
a discover)' I 've matle, my lord, and old Snipeton beat's it out.
Kow his wife — ha I that 's a flower."

" Tender and Wautiful," cried St. James, with animation.
" And her health, Mr. Crossbone ?"

" Delic:ite, my lord ; delicate as a bird of paradise. I 've often
said it, she w:u«i't iiKtde for this worhl ; it's too coai-se and dirty.
However, she '11 not be long out of her proper place. No : she 's
dying fust."

" Hying !" exclaimed St. James. " H.yuig I Imposaible ! Dying
—with what ? "

" A more common malady than 's thought of, my lord," aiLswered
Crossbone. He then advanced a step, and jirojecting the thinil /Ji,
finger of the left hand, with knoM'ing look observed — " King- ^ •''^i
•Worm, my lord." •• •

" Ha ! " cried St. Jaroes, airilv. " Riug-wonn ! Is that indeed
so fatal ? "

" When, my lord, it fixes on tl>e marriage finger of the yomig
and beautiful wife of an old and ugly miser, it 's moi-tal, my lord
— mortal, it does so afffct, so ossify the heart. 1 've seen many
crises," added Crossbone emphatically, resolved to make the most
of certainly a very peculiar }H-avtice.

" And there is no remedy I '' asked St. James, as he placed his
palms together and looked keenly in the aj-Hjthecai-y's face.

"Why, I've known the worm removed, with gi-eat success;
that is," said the apothecary, returning the look, "when the
patient has had every conlidencc in the practitioner."

"Mr. Crossboue," cried St. James, "'you are a man, of the
"worid 1 "

« 2

27-5 ST. GILi:S AND ST. JAMES.

" My lord," ausweretl thu ai)othccurv, with a thankHgiviiijj bow
« I am."

Now, wlien a man p.iya a man this jji-aise, it happon-s, s.iy six
times out of nine, that the oomiiUment ivally means thio much :
"You are a man of the worhl ; that is, yi»u are a slirewd fellow,
who know all the hy-w:iy« ami tiirnin;;s of life : who know that
wliat is aiUoU a wroii;,', a ahahlniiess, in the puljiit or in the ilininj»-
rooni (before couijMuiy), ia nevertheless not a wrt>ng, not a Bhahbi-
ness when to be iimhrtaken for a man's es|H'cial inttTcst. Tlirv
are mattora to be much :ti'Ust!(l, until r<«jnire<l : t«> shake the heaii
and m.ake moutliH at, until deemetl indis]>en!Mibie to our healtli to
tiwallow." To jUTii-se a man for kiiowin;; the world, is often to
commeud him only for hin knowleilj^e <»f its dirty huH-s ajul cr-Miked
alloys. Any ftKjl knows the broad jmths — the S4{uares of life.

And Mr. Crossltono — ».aj,'aci<juu |Hrs»>n ! — took the lord's com-
pliment in its intt'inlod sense. Ho alre.a<ly felt that he wa-s alxmt
to bo cntrust<-d with a stcn-t, a mis-nioii, that uuLjht t«\st the lofty
knowlcflpe for which he was extolh-d. Theivfore, to .strengthen
)iis loiulship's confulenct', the ajM»thei;irv adihd. "I anj, my lord,
a nuin of the world. Thure aie two .;"ldnn ruhi of life ; I have
ever stutlied theiu."

"And these are ?" — aake<l St. .lameii, tlmwing him on.

"Tliese Jire, to keep your eyes oj>on and your mouth shut.
Vonr lord.-<hi|> may command me."

" Mr. Cios.sbune" — and St. James, niotionin;^ the ap<^>thccary to
a chair, .se.ited liims'If for serious consultation-^" Mr. Crossbone,
this .Snlpvton h:u> deeply injured me."

" I believe him caiwdile of anything, niy lord. Sorry am I to
say it." saiil (':'os.s1)one, Mifhely.

" He h.is wound^-tl the dignity of my family. He has wTestcd
from ufl the borough of Liquorish" — C'roasbone looke<l wondrous
disgust at the enormity ; — "a borough that has been ours, ftye,
sLnce the Conquest."

" No doubt," cried Crossbone. " He might as well liave stoltin
the fjuuily plate."

" Just so. Now, Mr. Crossbone, I do not pretend to be a wliit
lietter than the ordinary nm of my fcllow-crcatures. I must
therefore confess 'twould give me some pleasure to be revenged
of this nmney -seller."

** Situated .^s you are, my lord ; wounded as you must be in a
most i)atriotic part, I do not perceive how your lordsliip «in, aa a
nobleman and a gentloman, do less than t.ak^ revenge. It is a
duty you owe your station — a duty due to society, for whcse
better example noblemen were n^ade. ^Revenge, my lord '" crie«]
Crossbone, with a look of devotiop.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 277

'•'TliP sweeter stiU the l>etter," said St. James.

" Iii^'lit, my lunl ; very rijjlit. Revenge is a magnificent
T>'i--i->u'ii, and not to be nio<l<llc<l with in tlie spirit nf a cliandler.
No Ininipfr^' lia'portlis ot it. — 'twould Ir' luiwoitliy of a
nolih^ium."

" Mr. CroRKbone, you are a man of gieat intelligenoe. A man
wlio oujiht not tu vej,'et.ite in tlie country willi dandehon and
pimpernel. No, .sir : ynu must he fixed in lA>ndon. A genius
liki' yom-R, Mr. C"ros.>*lione, \» c-wt away ui)on bumpkin8. We
shall yet st*e you with a ;;old Ciine, in yuur own carri.nge,
Mv. ( Yos-sbone."'

And with these wonls, Ixtrd St. James gently pre.s.sed the tij^a
of ( Vo8.sbone'.s fingci-s. Tlie apothocary w.us wholly subdued by
the condescension of his lordahip. He .s;it in a golden cloud,
smiling, and looking bjushfully gniteful. And then his eyea
trendijed with emotion, an<l he felt th.at he should verv nnicii like
to Ji'-k now ledge u)Min his knees the honour unwoithily onferred
iilMtn liim. It would liave much comforte<l him to kneel ; never-
theless, witli heroic self-denial lie kept his seat ; and at length in
a faint voice sjiiil — '' It isn't for me, your lordsliijt, to speak of my
poor nieiit.s ; your lordshi|i knows best. IJut this I must sjiy,
iny lonl ; I do think I have looked after the weeds of the woiM
quite long enough. I own, it is uow my am'uitiou to cultivate the
lilies."

" I umlci-st.-md, Mr. Crossl>one ! Well, I don't know that even
the court m.iy not be open to you."

The vision Wiui too much for the apothecary. He si-died, jis
though suddenly oppressed by a burthen of deliglit. In fancy,
lie already had his tingei-s on a royiU pulse, whose harmouioua
throbbings communicatinjj with his own ennobled anatomy,
sweetly troubled his beating he;u-t. However, with the will of a
strong man he put down the emotion, and returned to his lord-
ship's liusiiiess.

" Vou sjHjke of revenge, my lord ? Upon that wealthy wretch,
Suijteton i May I ask what sort of revenge your lordship desiiea
to take I "

" Faith ! Mr. Crossbone, my revenge is like Shylock's. I 'd
take it," saitl the young gentleman, with a smile of significimt
bitterness — " I M take it ' nearest his heart.' "

" Yes, I underst:aid ; perfectly, my lord," .*aid Crossbone with
new gaiety. " The flesli of his flesh, eh ? His wifd ] "

" His wife I " cri»;d St. James passionately.

" Excellent, my l.>rd ! Excellent ! Ha '. lia ! ha I " And the
apothecary could not resist the sj)irit of lanjjliter that tickled
hmi ; it was so dj-oll to imagine a mau — especially au old man—

278 ST. GILES AND ST. JAME-S.

dwjjoilfil of liis wife. " She would be sweet revenge," cried
CrosslKjiie, rtil>Mii<,' his hniidd with :iii ituplied rolish.

" Ami ])ni(.'f iciiiile, fh ? " cried St. Jaiucs. Cri>s.sl>one smiled
acrniii. and nililied hi.s huiid-i with roiiewol jjleasure, nodding the
while. " He has cairied her fixjni Dovesnest ; huritd her some-
where ; for this much 1 knciW — she '\a not at his house in the
city."

'• I know all, my lord ; all. I have received a letter — here it
is," — :uid {'rossltoue tjave tlie n»is.sive to St. Janu-s : "you see, he
writes me that slie is ill — very ill — .'Uid aa he h;us threat faith in
my knowledge — for there is no man without some goo*! iH)int, let's
hupc that — in my knowledije of h<r constitution, he desires me to
come juul see her. I 've arrived this verj' moniing in I.K»nilon. I
wiiM going diri-ct to him; hut — surely there's providence in it,
my lonl — but somethiii;,' told me to come and see you tii-st."

"And I am delighted," .s.-ud St. James, "that you gave ear to
the good genius. You 11 juisist me ?"

" My lord," said Cix»sslK)ne sijlenudy, '' I have, I hoi)e, a projwr
re<;j)eet for tlie rights of birth ami the institutions of my eoiuitry.
And I have always, my lord, e()U.->iilered jKilitics .-ls nothing more
than eidargeil morul»«."

"Thank you for the ajxtthegm," siiid the tl.itfering St. James.
"May I u.se it in parliament when — I get there ?"

"Oh, my lorl ! " 8im|)»M-«'d Crosslxuie, a;. 1 continued. " En-
large«l moi-als. Now, this njjui Sni]>eton, in opjwjsing your lordship
for Liipiorish, in bringing in a nnilnn-m.aker over your noble he.-id
— all the town is ringing with it — h:us, I conceive, violated whole-
sale morality, and should be punishetl accordingly. But hovf
punished^ You c:in't touch him through his money. No: 'tis
his coat of mail. lie's wh.at I c.ill a golden crocodile, my loixl,
with but one tentler place — and that 's his wife. Then strike
liim there, ami you punish him for his presumption, and revenge
tlie disgrace he h.us jmt upin your family."

" Exactly," said St. James, a little impatient of the apothecary's
tuorals. " But, my good sir, do you know where the lady is ?"

" No. But I shall onh.-r her wherever may be most convenient.
"Would the air of B;ith suit you ? " a.sked the apothecary with a
leer.

" E.xcellently — nothing could be better," saiil St. James.

*• Rath be it, then. And she must go alone ; that is, without
that Mrs. Wilton. I don't like th''' woman. There 's a cold
watchfulness about her that we '^au do without, my lonL"

" But how separate them ? " asked St. James.

"Leave that to me. Well handled, nothing cuts like a shajp
lie ; it goes at once tlu-or.gh hcailstriugs." St. James passed Uis

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 279

hand acros.s hi.s face : he fdt his blood had mounted there. *• it
has t.ltcii separated flesh of flesh and bone of bone, and ciay easily
p.iit iu->»tres.s ami servant. Talking of servants, have you ua
tru-sty lellow to go between us, my lord ?"

Even ivs the apotliecary sjioke lialph brought in a card ; the
car 1 u'iven by St. James to St. Uile.-*. Tlie retuiiied transport
awaited in tlie hall the command of liis p.itron.

" XotiiiuL,' could be mure fortun.ite,"' cried St. Jiuucs. " Kalph,
tell the man who briiii^'s thi.s, to attend this gentiemau and tako
his ordei-s. To-morrow I will .see him my.self."

"And tomorrow, my lord," .H;iid the apothecary, with new
courage lioldiug forth his hand, " to-morrow you sludl heaj' from
me."

'■ To-morrow," said St. James.

"To-morrow; jiciven lie with your lord.ship ; " and with this
hope, tlie .-ipotliecirv ili'])arte<l.

St. James h;istily paced the room. Tlie walls were hung with
mirroi-s.

The young gentleman — was it a habit ? — still walked with liLa
hand to his face.

CHA1*TER XXVIL

"When Snipeton turned his hoi-se'a head from Dove.«uiest — for
tlie which incident we must send back the reader some dozen
chaptei-s — he resolved, :is he ro<le, upon closing liis accounts with
the woi-ld, th;it freed from the cai-es of money, he miglit cherish
and protect his youtliful, bloomuig partner. Arrived in London,
seated at his books in St. Mary Axe, the resolution was strengtii-
ened by the contempl.-ition of his balance ag;iin.«(t men. He had
more tlian enough, and woulil enjoy life in good earnest. Wliy
should he toil like a slave for gold-ilust, and never know the
blessings of the boon ? No : he would close his accounts, and
open wide his heart. And Sni]ieton was sincere in this his high
resolve. BVt a whole ni<Tlit, waking: and ilreaminir, he Wius fixed
in it ; and the next morning the uxorious apostate fell back to his
fii"st creed of monev-bairs. Fortune is a wt)nian. and therefore
where she blindly loves — (and what Bottoms and Caliltans she
does embrace and fondle I) — is not to be put aside by slight or
ill-usage. All liis life had Foitune doted upon Snipeton, hugging
him tlie closer as she carried him up — no iufaiit ape more tenderly
clutched in ticklish places, — and he should not leav« her. And

280 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

to this end did Fortune bribe back lior renegade with a lumping
bargain. A youn,:^ gentleman — n, very young gentleman — ilesireil
for so niucn n-.-uly nu'tiil, to put his land u]x>n imrclinient, and
tliat young gcntlt-nian di>l Fortune take by tlie hand, and, sniiliii'^
ruin, lead him to St. Mary Axe. In few minute.s w;us Sni[)etoii
wfHjcd and won again ; for, to s.ay tlie truth, Iiis weakness was a
mortgage. The written parchment, like eharmed chaniot.Ts,
conjurol him ; put imagination into that tlry hu.sk of a man. He
would look uyKJii the deed a.s U[X)n a land of promi.se. lie would
see in .the smalle.-;t pen-marks gi.mt o.aks, with the might of
navies waiting in them ; and fronj the sheejwkin would fetl the
nimble air of Arcatly. There it lay, a U'autiful bit ©f Gfjd'n
e.-irth — a .sweet morsel of creation — conjured and conveyed into .1
few bl.u'k .syll.ibles.

And so, Snipet<jn ra.ade hi.H j>e.ace with hi.s first wife Fortune,
and tlien iMthought him of hi.s second s|m>us«-, ('lr«ri.ss;L That he
might <litly attend to Ixjth, he would remove his second mate
fr >m l)ove.snest. There were double ivasons for the motion ; fur
the haven of we<lded bliss was known ton the lmm:ui heart, ilarcd to accost his
cre<litor's wife. Ix-t Dovesnest henceforth Ixj a pl.aee for t>wl9
and fo.xes, Clariss.-i should bring happiness within :in Ihmu's lido
of St. Mary A.xe. The thought w;t.s so gexNl, .s<nt sii<-h l;irge
cont<?nt to ohl Suipetou's heJirt, that with no delay it w.us c;»rried
out, ami ere she well had time to weep a farewell to her favourite
ro.se3, Mrs. Snipcton left Dovesnest to the spidei-s.

Wasitawi.se change, this? Had Sni|Kton hwdthy eyes; or
did avarice, that jaundice of the soul, so blear his vision, that he
saw not in the thin, di.scoloured features of the wife of his lv)som,
aught to twitch a husband's heart ? She never complained.
Besitlea, once or twice he had questioned her ; :uwl she Wius not
ill. No, well, quite well ; and — this too he h.i<l asked — vi-ry
happy. Nevertheless, it would the l»etter s;itisfy him if Cro.s.slMJiio
could see her. Crossbone knew her constitution, :uid — and so
that meek and knowing man was summoned to Lomlou.

In a green, sequestered nook, half-way between Hamp.stead
and Kilbui-u, emV>owereil in the middle of a giinlen, \v:i.s a small
cott.ige ; so hidden, that ofl the traveller pa.s.sed, luiheeding it.
In this cottage was Clarissji. To this retre.it would her husiifui I
amble every day from St. Mary Axe, quitting his money teuqile
for the treasure of his fireside, his pale and placid wife ; and
resolved to think himself blessed at both plact's.

" Mr. Snipeton is late to ».lay," said ALrs. Wilton, the mother
housckeepv.T.

ST. GILES AND ST. J.\MES. 2fil

" He vr\\l come," replied C'laris.sn, in the tone of one resigned to
a diiily care. " He will eonie, mother."

Mi-s. Wilton looked with a])j)eiirm;:j tenderness in her dauphtfr''a
face ; and in a li)\v, calm vuioe, eunln»lliiig her heart a.s shesjvike,
she said — "Tins must not be ; do not repeat that word — not
even wlien we are alone. Some day it may betniy m3 to your
husband, and then" —

" What then ? " asked Clarissa,

"We should be i>arted ; for ever — for ever," cried the woman,
and with tlie thought she bui-st int^) teai-s.

"Not so. Nothin;,' jKirts us; nothing' but the kindliness of
death," sjiid Clari.ssa. ".:\nd death is kin.l, .-it h-itst" —

"At le:ist, mv child, tlie world witii you is too young to think

ItRO."

"Old, old and faded," s.aid Clarissa. "The spirit of youth ia
departed. I look at all things with dim and weary eyes."

" Anil yet, my child, tht-re is a s.-inctity in suHering, wheu
strongly, meekly borne. Our duty, though set about by thorns,
m.iy still be m.ade a staff, supportnig even while it tortures. Cast
it aw.-iy, antl like the ])rophet's wand, it changes to a snake. Cod
and nay own lieart know, I speak no idle thoughts, I speak a
bitter truth, bitterly acknowledged."

" And duty shall support me on this wiary pilgrinnige," said
Clarissa. Then t.iking her moth.r's hand, and feebly smiling, she
aihled, "Surely, it can be no sin to wLsh such travel short : or if
it b(.', I still must wish — I cannot help it."

"Time, time, my chihl, is the sure conciliator. You will live
to wontler at and bless his goodness."

" You siiy so — it may be," said Claris.s;i, with a lightened look,
"at le:ust, I'll hope it." And tlien i>oth smiled gaily — wanly ; for
bnth felt the deceit they strove to .act but could not carry tluough.
Words, weirds of comforting, of hope were uttered, but they fell
e.'ldly. liollowly ; for the spirit of truth was not in them. They
w. le tilings of the tongue, p;u^sionless, mechanical ; the voice
without tile soul. At this moment, old Dorothy Vale entered
the room ; anil she w:is welcome : even though she amiounced
the coming of the master of the house.

" blaster 's coming up the garden," said Dorothy, each hand
rubbuig an arm cros.sed before her. " Somebody 's with him."

" A stranger here ! Who can it be ? " cried Clarissii.

" Don't say he 's a sti*auger ; don't say he isn't ; can only see a
Bomebody,"' auswereil Dorothy, in whom no .show whatever of
this worlil of shows could have awakened a momentary curiosity.
Ber inhrritanee, as one of Eve's dauglitens, wa.s tliis beautiful
earth, sky-roofed ; yet was it uo more to her than a huge deal

282 ST. GILF.3 AND ST. JAMES.

lx)X, ]MiTce(l with .-lir-holes. A place to eat, driuk, sleep, and
liaiig 11)1 111 r lioiiiK't ill.

Aiuitlier luiimtv. ami Siiij)eton ciitcreil the room. The hushand
had retutT.e<l to the huveti of lii.s ho|H'», and waa resolved that the
worlil — then coni|irise«l in the single iicrson of Peter ( Iros-slxjue,
Vfho f(»llo\ved close at the heels of his hust — shi»\ild bear witness
to his cxcecdiiii,' hapiiiiiess ; to the robust deiight tiiat, as he
crossed his tlireshuld, instantly possessed him : for with an anxious
look of jov, he strode up Ui his wife, anil suddenly taking her
cheeks Ixlweeii both his haiid.s, jnirsed out her lip.s, ami then
vigorously kissed them. He was so liup]>y, he could not, would
not feel his wife shrink at his touch — couM not, would not see her
white f:ice Hush im with sudden resentment, and then sulfide into
pale endurance. No : the iiusband was resolved upm displaying
io the world his exceeding liapj)ines.s, and would not In? thwarted
in his show of bliss, by tiitle.s. lie merely said, stiil ilallying with
his felicity — "Never mind C'ros-sbone ; he's nob(j«ly ; a family man
— has been married, and that 's all the same." Now, C'rossbone,
in his waywanl hc-irt, felt tenijited to dispute suoh |«)sition ; it
was not all the same — to him. Nevertheless, he would U(it be
captious. It was a poor, an iguomnt opinion, and therefore his
host and customer should have the free enjoyment of it.

"Mrs. Snipeton," saiil the Aix.ithecary, " tiiough 1 do not feel
it professional to hojie that anylxxly is well, nevertheless in your
case, I do hope that — well, well, I see ; a little ]iih; but never
fear it — we'll bring the roses out agJiin. in a little while, and
you'll bloom like a bow-j>ot."

"To be sure she will," said Snipeton. "I thought of buying
her a pretty little horse ; just a quiet thhig" —

"Nothing coulil be l»etter — i)erliaps. As I often .say, horse-
flesh is the thing for weak stomachs. I may say us much to you
as a frieml, Mr. Snipeton ; folks ut\en go to the doctor's, when
they should go to the stable. Yes, yes — horse exercise and
cluuige of air" —

" We *ll talk of it after dinner," s;iid Snipeton .^uddtiily wincing
for his heai-t could not emlure the thought of separation. Busi-
ness antl love were delightt'ul when luiited ; they gave a zest to
each other: but certaudy — at le;xst in the case of Snipeton — were
not to be tasted alone. Grantetl that he sat in a <roldeu shower
in St. Mary Axe ; how should he enjoy the luck falling direct
tiom heaven upon him, if his wife — that flower of his existeiue —
•w;is transjdanted to a distant soil ? Would not certain bees and
butterflies liuiii and flutter round that human blossom ? Again,
if he himself tended the pretty patient, would not ruin — taking
certain advjuitage of the master's absence — post itself at his door-

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 2S3

step ? IVmting liusbantl— devoted niriu of money ! Hia heart-
strings tore him one way — his purse-striiigs another. " We '11
talk of it aftci- (iinnt-r," lie reja'atcd. " And M;uster Ci"o.ssbone,
we '11 have a l)uttle i>f t'.xctUent wine." In sonic matters Crossbone
was the mo.st compliant of men : and wine wjvs one that, offered
oost-fiet', never finnid him imi>lacable. And the truth is, Snipeton
knowing this, hopoil tiiat the wine miglit contain arguments
potent over the doctor's opinion.s. After one bottle, nay two, it
wa.s not impossible that Cros.sbone might reconsider his judgment.
Tile air of IIanip.stea<l miglit be thought tiie best of aire f.>r
Clarissii, Wine does wonders!

The dinner \v;us served. Crossbone was elo(|uent. " After your
laboui-s in town, Mr. Snipeton. yoii must find it particularly
delightiul, particularly so, to come home to Mrs. yjiipeton,'" —
the husbiuid smiled at his wife — " and dine off your own greens.
One's own vegetables is what I consider the purest and highest
enjojnneiit of the country. Of coui-se, too, you keej) pigs ? "

Snipeton !iad prepared himself for a compliinent on his con-
nubial happiness ; and therefore suti'ered a wrenching of the si)irit
when called upon to speak to his cabbages. With a .strong will
li^ waived the tender subject ; and merely answered, " We do not
keep Jiigs."

'■ That 's a pity : but all in gooil time. For it 's hardly po.ssil)le
to imagine a prettier place for pigs. Nothing like growii'g one's
ovni bacon. But then I always like dumb things about me.
And, Mr. Snipeton, after your work in town, you can't think how
'twould unbend your miutl — how you might rei)ose youi-self", a-s I
may say, on a few pigs. It 's beautiful to watch 'em day by day;
to see 'em growing and unfolding their fat like lilies ; to make
'em your acqu.iint.mce .-vs it were, from the time they come into
the world to the lime they're hung u\^ in your kitchen. In this
way you .seem to eat 'em a hundred times over. However, pigs
are mattei-s that I must not trust myself to talk about."

" Why not I " asked Snipeton, with a porker-lLke grunt? " AVhy
not?"

'• Dear ^Mrs. Crossbone ! Well, she was a woman ! " (It was,
in truth, Crossbone's ])rimest consolation to know that she uas a.
woman.) " Our taste in ever}"tliiug was just alike. In every-
thing."

" Pigs included ? " asked Snipeton, with something like a sneer.

But Crossbone was too nmeh sth-red by tlearest memories to
mark it. He merely answered, " Pigs incluiled." After a pause.
" However, I must rent)unce the sweeter plejisures of the country.
Fate calls me to Lontlon."

" It delights me to hear it, Mr. Crossbone ; for we sh.dl then

284 ST. GII.KS AND ST. JAME=5.

Ijk to near to one another," crieil Snipflon. " Clianninjr news
thi.s, iri:it it, Clary?" And tlic old liuslcuul clmckuil his wife's
chill, and wtiuld smile in luT jiali*, uiisiiiilin;,' lace.

" Well, as an old friend, Mr. Siiipeton, I may jierhap-s make
no difreicnce with you. Otherwise, my practice pronii.-cs to be
confined to royalty. To royalty, Mr. Sni|)oton. Yes; I wrus sure
of it, thouj,di I never condescentled to name my hopes — but I
knew that I should not be lost all my lite among the weeds of the
world, deputation, Mr. Snipeton, may be buried, like a potato ;
but, sir, like a potato " — and ( "ros.<buiie, tickled l>y the felicity of
the simile, was mther loud in its utterance — "like a potato, it
will shoot and show itself. '

"Ami youi-s has come up, eh ? Well, I'm very glad to hear
it," 8;iid Snipeton, honestly, " becau.se yoti '11 lie in London. Your
knowledge of dari.s.s.a"s con.><titution is a groat comfoit to me."

"I have studied it, Mr. Sni]>eton ; studied it as :i Itotjinist
Would study some stnmge and beautiful Hower. It is a very
peculiar constitution — very peculiar." The dmner Ix'ing over,
Clai"is.s;i rose.

" Vou '11 not leave us yet, love ? " cried Snifieton, taking his
■wife's hand, and trying to look into her eyes that — wayward eyes!
— Would not meet the old man's devouring st:ue.

" Pray excuse me," said Clari-s-sa, with a politenea<< V ^-en enough
to cut a hu-sband's heart-strings. " I have some ordv i-s — direc-
tioii.s — for Mrs. Wilton. You must exeu.se me."

" That 's a treasure, CrosslMjne ! " exclaimed Siii|>eton with a
lidiorious bui-st of affection, Jis Clarissa left the room. "A
diauki^nd of a woman ! A treasure for an emperor ! "

"Don't — don't" — cried Crossbone, hurriedly emptying his
ghuss.

" 1 said a treasure !" rejwatefl the impa.s.sioned husband, .striking
the table. Crossl nine shook his head. " What," cried .Siiipet«>n,
knitting his bn>w, " you ipiestion it / liefore me — her husb:unl ?"

" Tray undei"staud me, dear sir," said Crossbone, tran<juilly
fdliiig his glass. " Mi's. Snijieton is a treasure. She'd have l»een
a jewel — a jK-ai'l of a woman, sir, in the crown of Iving Solomon :
and that 's the woi-st of it."

" The worst of it I " echoe<l Snijioton.

" In this world, my good friend, if a man knew what he was
altout, he 'd set his heart upon nothing." The a]>othecary drained
his gl;uss. " Looking, sir, as a moralist and a philosopher, at
what th'- worth of this world at the best is made of, — what is it,
but a large soap ami water bubble blown by fate ? It shines a
minute " — here the moralist and philosopher raised his wine to
his eye, contemplating its ruby brightness — " and where is it ? "

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMKS. 285

SayinjT tliis, Crosslione swalloweil tlio wine : a fine praetical cr-m-
luent on his vt-ry line ijliilusopliy. " I ask where is it ( "

" Very true," ohserveil Snipeton, taking truth as coolly a3
thoii;,^h used to it. " Very ti"ue ; nevertheless " —

"^Ir. SnijK'tyn, my good friend," cried Crossbone — lii.% liand
lovingly round the neck of tlie decanter — "Mr Snipctdii, he is tlie
wisest njaii wlio in this world hjves nothing. It 's much the sjifest-
Did ycni ever hear of the river Styx I "

" I can't say,"' growled Snii)et(>n. " Is it salt or fresh ?"

" One tlip in it makes a man invulnerable to all things ; stoues,
arrows, bludgeons, swords, bullets, caniion-bjls.''

" "Twould save a good deal in regimentals if the soldiers might
bathe there," said Snipeton, grinning grindy.

"So much for Styx u])on the dutw.-uil man," rrietl Crossbone:
"but I h.ave often thought 'twould be a capital thing, if people
coulil take it inwardly ; if they couhl diink Styx."

" Like the Bath waters," suggested Snipeton.

" Exactly so. A coui-se or two, and the interior of a man would
then be insensiV)le of foolish wtaknesH," sjiid CroK.si)one.

" You 'd never get the women to drink it," remarked Snipeton,
very gravely.

. " "Twould not be necessary, if man, tlie noV)ler animal — for as
Mi's. Snipeton is not here, we can talk like j)hilosoj)her3" — Snipeton
grunted — "if man, the nobler animal, for we know he is, though
it would not be right perluips to say ius nnich Itefoi e the petticoats,
— if man could make his own heart invulnerable, why, .is for
Woman, she might be as weak and as ft>olish as she plejused ;
4 whieh, you must allow, \» granting her much, Mr. Sni])eton."
And here the ajtothecary would have laughed very jovially, but
bis host looked grave, sad,

" It seems, !Mr. Crossbone, yon are no great friend to the
women."' said Snipeton. " Yet you must allow, we owe them
much."

" Hum])h ! " cried Crossbone m a prolonged note. He then
ha.stily tilled his glass : as hastily emptieil it.

" You seem to dispute the debt / " said Snipeton, gallantly
returning to the charge.

" Look here, ^Mr. Snipeton," cried Crossbone, with the air of a
man determined for once to clear his heart of something that has
long hiin wriggling there — " look here. The gi-eat charm of a
lioltle of wine after dinner between two friends is this : it enables
them to talk like philosophei-s ; and so that the servants don't
hear, philosophy with a glass of good fruity port — and yours is
papital, one tastes blood and fibre in it ; — philosophy is a very
pLeusaut sort of thing ; but like that chhij^ shepherdess on ths

236 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

niantel-picce, it i.s much too fine iinil ildicite fi>r the outaide world.
Ku. no ; it is only to be properly onjoyud in a parlour ; snu" and
■with the do<n- shut."

" Very wtll. Perh.-xps it Is. Wi- wire t.tlklng of our debts to
vrtkuian. tio on," sjiid .Snij)eton.

'• Our di4)t.s to w(ini;ui. "Wtll, t<> bejrin ; in the fii-st pl.ice we
call her :in auirfl ; have called h.-r an angel for thou.santls of
years : ami I take it — but mind, 1 speak ;us a philo.so|)lier — I laJ;e
it, that's a flam that sh<xild count jus a fffuxl setsjlF on our side.
Or I ask it, are meu, tlic lords of the rreati«)n, to cjo on lyin>; for
iiuthing ?" It wius pUiin tliat tliu* wii.-ke<l nnbelief of Cros-slnme
a little sh(vked his h«ist, and therefore, as iIk.- bott!« was nearly
out, the apothecary felt that he imk%t r*g!iin some of his ground.
AVhereu|xiji he souL,'ht to give a jocuLar guise to his i)]iili>sophv ;
to m.ike it, for the nonce, assume the comic m:i^k. "JI.iI ha!
Look here : you must allow that woman ought, as much as in h(r
lies, to make this world (piite a parailise for us, .s<-ting that she
lost us the origimd ganlen." Sni]»cton jiest smiled. "Come,
Come," cried tlie hilarious apothecaiy, " we talk jus philosophers,
ai'.d when all 's s;iid and <lone aluvut wliat we owe to woman, you
must allow th.at we 've a swinging Wlance ag.dnst her. Yes, yes ;
you am't deny this: there's that little matter of the apple stUl
to Ik* s»«ttled for."

" 'Tis ;i debt of long standing," .said Snipeton, with a shoit laugh.

"And therefore, as you knuw — nobody better" — urged (.)ro.s9-
bone — " therefore it boai-s a heavy interest. So heavy, Mr.
Snipeton — by-the-bye, the Ixjttle 's out — .so heavy they can never
])ay it. And so we mustn't be hard ujxm 'em, poor souls — no, we
mustn't be hanl upon 'em ; but get wliat we can in small but
sweet instalments. I — fur all I talk in this philo.sophic way — I
w;is never hard up«m 'cm — de;u- Little things — never hard upon
'em in all my life."

For a few minutes ])hiloso|.hy took breath, whilst wine, the
frequent nutriment of that divine ]>lant, .^s cultivated by Cross-
bone, was renewed. At length the ajwllvecary oUscrved — ''To
serious business, Mr. Sni|)eton. Having had our little harmless
l.iugh at the sex, let us speak of one wIk) is its sweetest flower,
and its brigiitest ornament. Neeil I name Mrs. Suijjeton ?"

The old man sighed ; moved uneasily in his chair ; and then
with lui ctfoit began. " Mr. Crossbone, my friend — I cannot tell
y-.'U — no Words Ciiu tell you, how I love that woman."

" I can imagine the ca.se — very virulent indeed," said the
aj>othecary. " liate in life it 's always so. Love with young men,
I mean with very young men, is nothing ; a slight fever. Now,
at matmv time ot life, it '.s little short of deadly typhus. Of couise,

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 2S7

I spt-ak of luve bef.nc niarri;it,'o ; tliat is, love with all its fears
a)i>l anxieties ; for wedlock 's a good lebrifiige."

•' I have struQccled, fouLrht with myself, to think — but you shall
tell me — yes, I will strenL,4lien myself to heai- the woi-st. Now,
man," — :uiil Snipeton gnuspoil the arms of his chair with an irou
hohl, and his bl'ejist heaved as he louilly nttered — "now sj>eak it.''

" Look you here, Mr. Snipeton. Do you think me a .stock, or a
Btone, that I could sit here quietly and comfortably drinking your
■wine, if I couldn't give you hoj»e — a little hojte in retui'u ?"

" A little hope ! " groaned the old man.

"A man in my jiosition, Mr. Snipeton — with glorious circura-
stances, as 1 have observed, opening upon him — cannot be too
cautious. I shouUl be son-y to conii)romi8e myself by desiring
)-ou to be too confident. Nevertheless, she is young, Mr. Snipeton ;
and the spirit of youth does sometimes puzzle us. In such spirit
then — strong as it is in her — I have the greatest faith."

"You have!" exclaimed Sni|>eton, sUirting from his seat and
Beizhig Cros.sbonc's hand. '" Save her and — and you .shall be rich ;
that is, you shall be well recompensed — very well. My good
friend, you know not the misery it costs me to seem happy iu her
eight. I laugh and jest" — C'rossbone looked doubtingly — "to
cheat her of her melanehol}' ; yet" —

" Yet she does not laugh and joke in return ?" observed Cross-
bone. " But she will — no doubt she will."

" And then, though I know her to be sick and suffering, she
never complains : Init still assures me she is well — very well."

" Deal' soul ! You ought to be a hapjty man — ^_you ought, but
you won"t. Can't you see that she w»n't confess to sickness
because — kind creature I — she c:in"t think of iviining you ? She'd
smile and sixy 'tw;is nothing — 1 know she would, if she were
dying."

" For God's sake, speak not such a word," cried the old man,
turning palw.

'* She must die some day," said Cro.ssbone. " Though, to be
pure, according to the coui-se of nature, that is, if I save her — of
■which, indeed, to tell you truly, I have uow no doubt — I will
stake my reputation present and to come upon the matter" —

'■ You give me life, youth," exclaimed Snipeton," with sudden
Jiapj>inc.^s.

" But I was about to say that, if saved, the chances ai'e you may
leave her yet young and blooming, behind you." The old man's
face darkened. It was a bitter thought that. Was there not
some place in the East, where, when a husband died, his wife, even
through the toilure of fire, followed him ? This horrid thought —
Low, poor man ! cuulJ he help it I for reader, how know you what

258 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

tliou;^kt vou hIiiiU next think ? — tliis thought, we say, passed
throiigli .Snii>elun'rt Imiin. J>ut Clarissa w;us no Hindoo wife.
She might — ;ia the pniting doctor siiid — sliu might be left, yes, to
aniile and lie happy, and more, to award liajipiness to another on
tills wirtli, when luT doating, |ta.ssi(>nately lioating hu.sband shoidd
have his limbs c<imiK<.sed in the grave. Again ; bo might live
tlu'.-^e twenty years. And in twenty years that beautiful fai.-e
•Would lose its h)ok of youth — tliose eyes wnuKl burn with .sobercil
light — that full 6e;irlet lip be Hhrunk and faded. And then — ye.s,
tlien he thought, he eould resign her. In twenty yeiira — perhaps
in twenty yeai"s. With this cold comfort, he ventured to reply to
the ajxithocaiv.

" Never minil my life, that's nothing. All I think of is Clai'issa ;
and there is yet lime — she is safe, you s;iy ?"

'It's very odd, very droll, tliat just now you shoidd have
named Bath — the Bath waters, you knciw," smirked Ci*osslx)ue.

" Whereiore odd — how droll ? I do not undei-stand you." And
yet he had cauglit the meaning.

" She must go to R-ith ; she must drink the waters, Nothing 'a
left but that," aveiTed tlie ajxitheciiry.

" I tell you, man, for these three months I cannot quit Ix)ndon.
A worM of money depends U|Mjn my slay."

" Antl why should you budge ? You don't want your wife, do
you, at St. Mary Axe? Siie doe.sn't keen ymr books, eh?"
Snipet«»n frowne«l, and bit his lip, and ma'le no answer. Then
Crossbone, his dignity strengthened by his liost's wine, rose.
" Mr. Sni|)etnn, I have stmlied this case, studied it, sir, not oidy
as a doctor, but as a friend. I have now, sir, done my duty ; I
leave you as a husband and — I was about to say as a father, but
th.it would be prematui-e ; as a husbainl and a man to do youi"S.
All I .s:iy is this: if your wife does not immediately remove to
Uiilh," — Cro.sslione paused.

" Well," snarled Snipeton, defyingly, "and if she does not?"

" In twd months, sir — I give her two months — she'll go to the
chureh-yanl."'

" And so she may — so she shall," — exclaimed Sniiieton, violently
striking the tabic — his face blackening with rage, his eyes lurid
with p;Lssion. " So she sh.alL An honest grave and my name
clear — I say, an honest grave, and a fair tombstone, with a fiiir
reputation for the dead. Anything but that accui-sed Bath. Wiiy,
sir," — and Snipeton, dilating with emotion, stalked towards the
ajii'thecary — "what do you think me ?"

Now this que.stion, iu a S(jmewhat dangerous manner tested
Cn "S-sbi inc's sincerity. In sooth, it is at best a perilous interroL;a-
tive, tiying to the ingenuousness of a frieijj. Crossboue paused ;

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 28*

not that lie li;ul nut an juuswer at the very tip of his tongue : an
juuswer bulddlng hut tixiui that well ot truth, his heart — ami for
that reason, it was nut tlie answer t<i he rendered. lie therefore
looked duly astonished, and only asked — '* Mi. Snipeton, what do
you nieiui ?"

" I tell you, man, I M rather six- her dead ; a fair and honest
corpse, than send her to that jx^st-phtee," cried the liusband.

*' Pest-place ! Really, ^Ir. Snii>eton ! this is a little too much
to wipe ori" tlie reputation of a city — the ivpuUition of hundreds of
yeai-s too — iu this nnuiner. Reputation, sir — that is, if it 's good
for anything— doesn't come up like a toadstool ; no, sir, the real
thing 's of sluw growth, liith a pe^Jt-place ! Why, the very
fount^iiu of health."

" The pool of vice — the very slough of what you call fashion.
And yi>u think I 'd send my wife theix' for health I An<l for what
health ? Why, I 11 say she returned witli glowing face and si«iik-
ling eye.s. What then i I should loathe her."

" Lord bless me I " exclaimed Crossbone.

" Now, we are happy, very happy ; few wedded couples more
«o : very haj)py " — and t^iii]x.ton gi-ouud the words beneath all
the teeth he had, and looked furiously content. Crossbone stared
at the writhuig im;ige of couimbial love.

•' You certainly look happy — extraordinarily happy," — drawled
the apothecary.

" And whilst we live, will keep so. Therefore no Bath insects
— no ^lay-flies, no June-bugs."

" Tisn't the Biith se^ison for 'em," put in the apothecary.
♦* They 're all iu London at this time."

" All 's one for that. I tell you what — here, Dorothy, another
bottle of wane — I tell you what, Miuster Crossbone, as you say
we '11 talk the matter over philosophically, I think that 's it ; .uid
therefoi-e, no more words about Bitth. Come, come, can there be
a finer au" than this I " cried the husband, rubbing his hands, and
tiying to laugh.

" My dear sir, the quality of the air is not the thing — it 's the
ch;mge that 's the medicine. And then there 's the waters " —

" We have an excellent spring at Hampstead. Years ago I 'm
told the nobihtv used to come and di'ink it."

" Then, sir, the waters hadn't been analysed. Since then
they 've been found out : only fit for cattle, sir, and the lowei orders.
Never known now to agree with a person of gentility of stomach —
that is, of true delicacy. And for the air, it 's very good, certainly,
just for the common ])urpose3 of life ; but as I say, it 's not the
qiiality, it 's the change that 's the thing. There 's cases, sir, in
which I 'd send patients, ay, from Montpelier to the neighbo arhood

VOL. I. D

290 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

of Fleet-ditch. The fact is, sir, there can't be at times a Ijetter
clianrrc than from tlie bt-st to the worst. 'J'lie Umj,'s, sir, gut tired^
heartily sick ofgoodair if it's always the same rjust as the stomach
would get tired of the very best mutton, had it nothing but mutton
every day."

Suipeton wa-s silent ; pondering a refutation of this false philo-
sophy. Still he tuggeil at his l>rain for a hapj»y rejoinder. He
felt — he was certiiin of it — that it would come when the apothe-
cary had pone away, but unliappily he wanto<] it for present u.se.
lie ftdt hin»Sflf like a rich man witli .all his casli kx.'ktd up. Now
wit, like money, bears an extra value when nmg down imme-
diately it is wante<l ; men pay SLvercly who require cre«lit. Thu><,
though Snijietou knew lie iuid somewliere hi that very strong box,
his skull, a whole bank of arguments, yet because he could not at
tliu moment draw one, Crossbouc — the way of the world — believed
tliore wore alsolutely no effects. SniiK'ton, however, got over a
difliculty as thousands before him — juid thou-sands yetunlwni will
jump an obstacle ; — he asked his opponent to take another
ghtss of wine. If Bacchus often le;id men into quagmires deep
as his vats, let us yet do him this justice, he someiimes leads
them out.

" I believe you said something about hoi-se exerci.se. Cross-
bone ? Now with a hoi-se — you don't di'ink " — a hospitable slander
this on the apothecary — " with a hoi^se there 's change of air at
will, eh ? "

" To be sure there is. And then there 's Ilighgate and Finchley,
aud — well, that might do, iK-rhajw," said Crosslxjne.

"And in the evemngs" — and Suipeton brightened at the
prospect — " we could ride together."

" Death, sir, — certain death" — and Crossbone gave one of his
happiest shudders. " Tlie night air is poison — absolute poison.
No, the time would be from — let me see — from eleven to three."

" Impossible ; quite impossible. Can't leave business — certain
ruin," cried Suipeton.

" Certain death, then," said CVossbone, and he slowly, solemnly
drained his glass. " Certaiu death," he repeated.

" Dou't say that, Crossbone," cried Suipeton, softened. " Mrs.
Wilton — perhaps she rides, and then " —

" A.s for Mi's. Wilton, I trust you are imder no particular obli-
gation to that person ? "

" Obligation," cried Suipeton ; as though the thought implied
an insult. " Wliy do you ask ? "

" Nothing but for your wife's health. The fact is, Mrs. Wilton
alway.<5 seems melancholy, heavy ; with something on her mind.
Now, my dear sir, it is a truth in moral philosophy not sufficiently

tsT. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 291

well known ami attended to, that dumps are catching." Ami
Cixisslione looked the proud tliscuverer of the subtlety.

" Indeed — are they ? Perhaps they may be. Well, there 's
a wench coming up from Kent — somewhere near Dovesnest. I 've
been coaxed to consent to it. She may make a sort of merrier
comjianion."

" blie may," said Crossbone ; " but what you want is an honest,
sharp fellow — for honesty without sharpness in this world is like a
sword without edge or point ; very well for show, but of no rt-al
iise to the owner.

" Go on," cried Snipeton, bowing to the apothecary's apothegm.

" Now, I have the very man who '11 suit you. The mii*acle of
a gi'oom. ITonest as a dog, and .sharj> as a jiorcujiine."

" Humph ! " cried Snipeton, marvelling at the human wonder.

" Your servant, Mr. Crossbone " — said Dorothy Vale, opening
the door — " has called as you desired."

" Tell him to come in," cried Crossl;)one : who then said to
Snipeton — " At least you can see the fellow." Ajid close upon
these words, St. Giles stood in the room.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

It may be i-emembered that Sni])etou and St. Giles had met
before. And certainly St. Giles had not forgotten the event :
his somewhat anxious look declared his recollection of the scene
at Dovesnest, in which he played the part of rogue and vagabond
according to the statute ; but as Snipeton had no corresponding
interest in the cii'cumstance, he had wholly forgotten the pei-son
of the outcast in the candidate for service. But in truth, St. Giles
was not the same man. At Dovesnest he was in rags : fear and
want had sharpened Lis face, witheiing, debasing him. And
now, he breathed new courage with every hour's freedom. —
He was comfortably, trimly clad ; and his pocket — too oft the
barometer of the soul — was not quite at zero. Hence, in few
moments, he looked with placid respect at Snipeton, who stared
all about his face, as a picture-dealer stares at an alleged old
m;ister ; with a look that in its cunning, would even seem to
hope a counterfeit. Was St. Giles really the honest fellow th.it
he appeared ; was there in truth the original mark of the original
ai-tist upon him : or was he a fraudful imitation especially mad i
to gull a trusting gentlem;m ? — Was there real]}' no flaw m that

•202 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

honest seeming face ? And Snipeton a.s he looked half-wislied
that all men — or all servants at least — were fjushioned like
earthen vessels ; that, properly tilliped, they should perforce
reveal a damnifying fracture. Certainly, s\ich sort of hunian
pottery, expressly made for families, woulil he an exceeding
comfort to ail housekeepers. Snipeton thought this ; to his own
disapjiointment thought it : for there being no such test of moral
sounchiess, he could only choose the domestic, two-legge<l ve.ssel
before him by its looks. Alas ! wliy was there no instant means
of trying the music of its ring ?

" That will do ; you can wait," said Crosabone to St. Giles,
who thereujion left the room.

" And what can you say for this fellow ? Do you know all
about him — who begot lum — where he comes from ? " asked
Snij^eton.

Crossbone w.-is a man of quick pjirts : so quick, that few knew
better than he, the proper time for a complete lie. We say a com-
plete lie ; not a careless, fragmentary flam, with no genius in it ;
but a well-built, architectural lie, buttressed about liy circum.stanci).
Therefore, no sooner was the question put to him tiiau, without let
or hesitation, he poured forth the following narrative. Wonderful
man ! falsehood flowetl from him like a fountain.

" The young man who h;is just quitted us is of humble V)ul
honest origin. Uis parents were villagers, and rented a little
garden grouinl whereon they raised much of their lowly but
healthy fare. Far, far indeed was the jirofligacy of London from
that abode of nistic innocence. His playmates — I mean the young
man's — were the lambkins that he watched, for at an early age he
wiis sent out to tend sheep : his books the flowers at his feet, the
clouds above his head. Not but what he reads remarkably well
for his condition, ami writes a good stout, servant's hand. He was
seven yeai-s old — no, I'm wrong, eight, eight years^when he lost
his father, who, good creature, fell a victim to his Immanity. A
sad matter that. He was killed by a windmill."

" I thought you said 'twas his humanity," observed Snipeton.

" And a wimhuill," averred Crossbone. " A neighbour's child
was gathering buttercups and daisies, and had strayed beneath
the mill's revolving sails. The young man's father obejang the
impulse of his benevolent heart, ruslied foi-ward to save the little
innocent. His humanity, not measuring distance, earned him too
near the sails ; he was struck to the earth with a compound fi"ac-
ture of the skull, and died."

" This you know ? " muttered Snipeton, looking with a wary
eye.

* 'Twas when I wa.s an apprentice. The man being poor, ari<l

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 293

tl\r C'.ise desperate, 'tw:is given up to me to do my best with it. I
Kwriitd ;i great deal from that case, and from that moment felt a
natural uitere.st in the orphan. And he has been worthy of it.
You M hanlly believe the things I could tell you of that young
man. You can't think how he loves his mother."

" No great cre<Iit in that, — eli ?" said Snipeton.

" Why, no ; not exactly credit ; but you must own it 's graceful
— vei-y gi-aceful. He makes her take nearly all his wages.
Hardly saves enough for shirts and pocket-handkerchiefs. Now,
this strikes me as being very filial, Mr. Snipeton ? "

" And you think he 'd make a good groom, eh ? " asked the
cautious husl>and.

" Bless you ! he knows more alx)ut horses than they know
themselves. But all he knows is nothing to his honesty. I 've
trusted him with untold gold, and he has never laid his finger
ujion it."

" How do you know, if you never counted it ? " asked Snipeton.

" That is " — said Crossbone, a little pulled up—" that is, yoa
know what I mean. Ami — the thought's been working in me,
thougli I've talked of other matters — I do think that a horse with
the (juick and frequent chiuige of air a horae can give, may do
'everything for Mi-s. Snipeton ; for, as I 've said before — she 's
young, very young ; and youth takes much killing. And there-
fore, you '11 make yourself easy ; come, you '11 promise me that?"

" I will," said Snipeton, a little softened. " You 've given me
new heart. Come, another glass."

" Not another drop. Pen and ink, if you please. I must write
a little prescription for a little nothing for your good lady ; not
that she wants medicine," said Crossbone.

" Then why poison her with it 1 " asked Snipeton with some
energy.

" She wouldn't be satisfied without it. Tlierefore, just a little
coloured negative ; nothing more." Pen and ink were ordered,
brought ; and Crossbone strove to write as innocently as his ail
allowed him. " There must be an apothecary at Hampstead, and
I '11 send the man with it ;" and Crossbone folded the prescription
and rose.

" And when shall we see you again ? " asked Snipeton.

" Why, in two or three days. But I have done all the good I
can at present. You '11 try the horse ? " —

" I will."—

« And the man ? "—

"I'll think of him. — Tell me, does he know anyliody in
ijondon ? "

" Any calf you like brought to Smithfield, knows more of the

291 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

•way? — more of the people of town. He 's a regular bit of countiy
tint'. Green anil fresh. Else do you think I 'd recommend him ? "
»uskc(l Crussbone very earnestly.

'• I almost think — I mean I 'm pretty sure — that is, I will try
him," said Suipeton.

" Then between ourselves, I 've recommended you a treasure.
And — stop ; I was about to go, forgetting the most important
thing. You heard nie say that dumps were catching ? I hope
you 've thought of that. Now, that Mrs. Wilton — the house-
keeper — she 'd ruin any young woman, Bless you ! She 's
h}'pochondria in petticoats."

" Humph ! I don't know ; I prefer a serioiis woman for her
calling. Perhaps a little over melancholy to be sure, never-
theless "—

" I hate your very grave-looking people. If they really are
what they look, tliey 'ro Ijad ; if tliey arn 't, they 're woi-se. And
in a word — I might say more if I chose, but I won 't — in a word,
I don't think that IMre. Snipeton will ever get any good from
your housekeeper. Good-bye, God bless you ; — the man sh:Jl
bring tlie medicine." So sajTng, and looking deepest mystery,
Crossbone departed.

The apothecary had achieved more than he had hoped. It w;is
very true, thought Snipeton, the woman wa.s culd — melancholy.
Again, she had never looked upon him with pleasant looks. Her
res|>ect seemed wrung from her : it was not free — natural. And
yet her eye watched his wife with imceasing regai'd. Every
moment — when least wanted, too — she was hovering near her.
How was it, he had never seen this before ? It was ])lain the
woman had some false inlluence ; exercised some power that
estranged his wife from him.

Let us leave Snipeton for a brief time struggling and weltering
in this sea of doubt ; now trying to touch certain ground, and now
carried away again. Let us leave him, and follow the apotliecary.
He had had just wine enough ; which circumstance was to him
the most potent reason for having more. He had put up at the
FI;\sk at Hampstead ; and to that hostelry he strode, St. (iiles
silently following him.

'' My mjm," said Crossbone, " who was your father — where
were you born — what have you been doing — and where do you
come from ? An answer if you please to each of these questions."

St. Giles, plucking up courage, sLniply replied — '' I am his lord-
ship's servant ; and have his orders to follow you."

" There 's not the slightest doubt, his lordship's servant, that
you 're a convenient rascal of all work, and quite up to the business
wo shall put you to." Let not the reader imagine that these

ST. GILE3 AND ST. JAMES. 295

words were uttered by Crossboiie : by no means ; not a syllable
oftheiu. Bnt the thought — tlie ethereal essence of words — had
touc])ed tlie brain of the apothecary, and his whole frame tingled
with the awakened music. He had found a scoundrel, he was
sure of it, and be was happy.

" Very good, my man ; very good : I understand you. As you
say, you are his lordship's servant, and have his lordship's orders
to take my directions. Very well. You will therefore please to
take your father and mother from ray hands. Undei-stand, for once
that they were honest, respectable people ; and be gi-ateful for
the parents I 've given you. Your father, good man ! was killed
by a windmill ; and your mother still lives in the country, and
regularly takes three-fourths of your wages. And you are not
to forget that you have a great love for that mother. And now,
take tliis prescription to the apothecary's ; tell liini to make it up,
and send to Mr. Snipeton's. After which, you '11 come to me at
the Fhisk. Go." St Giles, with jMjrplexed looks, obeyed Ci'oss-
bone, and went upon his errand. " I 've given the vagabond a
Sither and mother to be proud of — it 's quite clear, much better
than were really bestowed upon him ; and he hasu 't a word of
thanks to say upon the matter. Let a gentleman lie as he will
&n' the lower orders, they 're seldom grateful. Nevertheless, let
us have the virtue tliat he wants. Were he a piece of pig-headed
honesty, he wouldn't suit our work. No : Providence has been
very good iu sending us a rascal." With these mute thoughts,
this final thanksgiving, did Crossboue step onward to the Flask.
He would there fiirther ponder the plan that, tlirowing Snipe-
^ ton's young wife into the arms of a j'oimg nobleman — (and, iu
common justice, so old and vulgar a man had no claim to such
retiucment and beauty ; she must have been originally intended
for high life, and therefore cruelly misapplied,) — would throw him,
Crossbone, the prime consi^irator, into the very highest practice.
He would keep a carriage ! As he looked at the glorious clouds,
coloured by the setting sun, he felt puzzleil whether his coach
panels should be a bright blue, a flame-coloured yellow, or a
rich mulberry. Still the clouds changed and shifted, and still
with the colour of his carriage at his heart, he looked upon them
as no other than a celestial pattern-book, rolled out to help him
in his choice. The wide west was streaked and barred with gold ;
and staruig at it, Crossbone was determined that Lace, three-inch
lace, should blaze upon his liveries. And rapt m this sweet dream,
he walked on, his heart throbbing to the rumbling of his coack
wheels. That music was so sweet, so deep, absorbing, that accom-
pan}'ing his footsteps, he was within a few paces of the Flask ere
he saw a trowd gathered about the door, and heard the wordi

2aj ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

" he 's killed.'' His profes-sioiial zeal was immeiliately qnickener?,
aii<l Imn ying into tlie middle of tlie crowd, he saw the body of
a man, a{>i>Hiviitly litVlt.>\s, eanied towards the inn. The people
crowded around, and by their very an.\iety iiuj)efle<J the progress
of the bearej-s toward.s the door. " Stand aside, folks — stand
aside," cried Croasbone, " I 'm a physician ; that i», a medical
man. Keep liL* head wp, fellow."

"Get out o' the way," exelaimeil a stranger, "yoo don't know
how to cjvrry a fellow-cretur," anil the ln-nevolent new-comer
tJirust aside the rustic who w;ts, awkwanlly en<jugh, supporting
the shouldei-8 of the wounded man, and with admirable zeal, and
great apjuirent t» ndemes-s, relieved him of the charge. "Poor
i«oul — jKior s^jul ! " he cried, much alll-cted, " I do wonder if he's
a wife and family ? "

"A )K'd-n>om ; immc-<liately — a bed-room," exclaimwl Cross-
)H)iie, and his sudden jwitient was carried nj>-stairs, Crossbone
following. As he ascended, a horse bathed in foam, and every
mu.sde (jnivering, was led to the door.

" It 's my l>elief that that Clayixjle sends out his boy to fly his
kite a puq)Ose to kill pet»ple, that he mny bury 'em. That 's the
third horse he 's fiit this week ; the little varmint ! And this
l<x>ks like death any how." 11»us deliveretl himself, a i)lain-
spoken native i>f Haiu]>stt.'a>t.

" Yoa may say death. Cracked like a egg-shell ; '' and saying
this, the speaker significantly j^>intetl to his own xkull. "The
doctor 's a trying to get bknid : it 's my opinion he might as well
try a toml:>-6tone. Well, this is a world, isn't it ? I often thanks
my luck I can't affir»l a horse : for who 's safe a-horseback ? A
m:m kisses his wife and his babbies, if he has 'em, when he
mounts his .«;addle of a momin' — and his wife gets him lamb and
sparrow-grass, or something nice for supper, — 'xpecting him home.
She listens for his honse's feet, and he 's brought to his floor in a
sheU."

" "Well, mate, you do speak a ti-uth ; nobody can deny that,"
said one of the mob ; who. it is probable, scarcely dreamt that the
sometime moralist and truth were so very rarely on 8j)eaking
terms. And this the reader will, doubtless, admit, when we infonn
him that the man who so humauel}-, so aflTectionately lent his aid
to the thrown horseman, helping to bear him with all tentleniess
up stairs, was Mr. Thomas Blast. It was his business, or rather,
as he afterwards revealed, his pleasure to be at Hampstead — his
solemn pleasure. At this moment, St. Giles on his return from
the apothecar}''s, came to the iim-door. Ere he was well aware
of the greeting, his hand was grasped by Bla.st, — " Well, how do
you do ? Who 'd have thonglit to see you here 1 " Who, in sooth

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 297

but Blast himself, — seeing that he had dogged his pre\- from
St. James 's-square ? " Ha ! my good friend," cried Blast, very
much move<l, "you don't know the trouble I 've had since we met.
But you must see it in my looks. Tell me, ain 't I twenty years
older ? "

" I don't see it," muttered St. Giles : though, assuredly,
such a sight would have carried its pleasure to the runaway
transport.

" Ha ! you won't see it ; that 's so like a fiiend. But don't
let us stand in the street ; come in and have a pot ; for I 've
soniethin' to say that '11 set your art a bleeding." Hoping, pray-
ing, that Crosslx)ne might not observe him — and feeling dwarfed,
powerless, under the will of Bl;ust, — St. Giles tunieil into a side-
room with his early teacher and destroyer.

" I don't feel a.s if I could do an>-thing much in the way of
drink," said Blast, to the waiter following, " ;uid so, a little brandy-
and-water. "Well, you wonder to see me at Hampstead, I dare
say ? You can't guess what brings me here ? "

" No," said St. Giles. " How shoul.l I ? "

" I 'm a altered man. I come hei-e all this way for nothin' else but
to see the sun a settin'. Your health ;" and Blast, as he said, did
•nothing in the way of drink : for he gulped his brandy-and water.

" To see the sun a-setting ! " cried St. Giles ; we fear, too, a
little incredulously.

" Ha ! you 're young, and likes to see him a getting' up ; it 's
nati-ul ; but when you 're my time o' life, and have stood the
wear and tear o' the world as I have, you '11 rather look at the
sun when he sets, then. And, do you know why ? Yuu don't ?
I '11 tell you. Acause, when he sets, he reminds you of where
you 're a going. I never thought I should ha' been pulled up in
the way I have been. But trouble 's done it. My only comfort 'a
now to look at the settin' sun — and he sets nowhere so stylish as
here at Hampstead."

" And so you 've had trouble ? " said St. Giles, coldly.

" Don't talk in that chilly wa\', as if your words was hailstones.
I feel as if I could fall on your neck, and cry like a 'oman. Don't
freeze me in that manner. I said trouble. Loss o' property, and
death."

" Death ! " cried St. Giles.

" Little Jingo. That apple o' both my eyes ; that tulup of a
child. "Well, he was too clever to hve long. I always thousht it.
Much too for'ard for his age. He 's gone. And now he 's gone,
I do feel that I was his father." St. Giles stifled a risuig groan.
* But — it 's my only comfort — he 's better looked arter now than
■with me."

293 ST. GILE5 AND ST. JAMES.

" No doubt " said St. Giles with a quicknes.s that made Blast
Ktare. " I iiu*aii, if he i.s where you liope he is."

" I should like to pay hiiu some respect. I don't want to do
much : but — I know it 's a weakness ; still a man without a
weaknes.s lias no right to live anionix men ; he 's too good for this
sinful world. As I was saying, I know it 's a weakness : still, I
should like to wear a little bit o' bhick — if it wa« only a rag, so it
wa.'t black. You couldn't lend me nothing, could you ? Only a
coat would be something to begin with."

St. Giles pleaded in excuse his very limited wardrobe ; and Blast
WJLS .suddenly satisfied.

" Well, he's gone ; and if I was to go as black a.s a nigger, he
wouldn't rest the better for 't. Besides, the settin' sun tella me
we shan't be long apart. Nothing like sunsets to pull a man up ;
and so you '11 know when you 've had my trouble. Your health
agin."

" And vou have had a loss of proj>erty besides ? " asked St.
Giles.

" Look here," cried Blast, taking off his hat aiul rumpling up
his hair : " here 's a change ! Once as black as a crow ; and now
— oh, my dear friend " — St. Giles shnuik at the appeal as at a
presented pistol — " if you want to jmt silver on a man's head,
you 've only to take all the gold out of his pocket. Had a loss !
You may say a loss. I tell you what it is : it 's no use for a man
to think of being honest in this world : it isn't. I 've tried, and
I give it up."

" That 's a pity," said St. Giles : knowing not what to say —
knowing not how to shake off his tormentor.

" ^^'hy, it is ; for a man doesn't often make his mind up to it.
Well, I 've had my faults, I know ; who hasn't ? Still, I did
think to reform when I got that lump «jf money ; and more, I did
think to make a man of you. I 'd chalked out the prettiest, inno-
centest life for both on us. I 'U make a sojer of Jingo, I thought ;
yes, I '11 buy him some colours for the army, and make him a
gen'lman at once. And then I thought we would so enjoy our-
selves ! We 'd ha' gone and been one all among the lower orders.
In summer time we 'd ha' played at knock 'em-downs with 'era,
jest to show we was all made o' the same stTiff; and in winter
we wouldn't ha' turned up our noses at hot -cockles, or blind-man's
buflF, or nothin' of the sort ; but ha', been as free and comfortable
with the swinish multitude (for I did begin to think 'em that when
I got the money) as if they 'd got gold rings in their noses, and
like the pig-faced lady, eat out of a silver trough. I thought
you 'd be a stick to my old age. But what 's the use o' thinking
on it ? As my schoobnaster used to say, — ' Him as sets hia

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 299

lieart on tlie things of tliis life,' — I've forgot the rest ; but it's
all of a i)iece."

'• And how (lid you get this money 1 " asked St. Giles, with
very well-acted innocence.

" How did T get the money ? How should I get it ? By the
sweat of niy brow." Ami so far, tlie reader who remembers the
labour of ljla,st in his theft of the gold-box, may acquit him of an
untruth.

" And ha\'ing got such a heap of gold," rejoined St. Giles,
" pray tell me — how did you lose it ? "

Now Bhust had, and never susi)ected it, a sense of humour : he
could really enjoy a joke when least palatable to most men ;
namely, when made against themselves. Nevertheless, with
people who have only a proper pride of such pliilosf>phy, he had
his share of sensitiveness, to be called up at a reasonable crisis.
Hence, when St. Giles pressed him to explain his loss, the jest
became a liurt. Good nature may endure a tickling with a
foathei-, but resents a scratch from a tenpenny nail. " My dear
young friend," saitl Blast, "don't do that; pray don't. When
you 're as old as me, and find the world a slippiu' from under you
like a hill o' sand, you "11 not laui,di at the losses o' gray hairs,"
an'd again Bhist drew his lingers through his locks meekly,
mournfully. " How did I lose it 1 No : you wai-u't at Liquorish,
you warn't ? No ; you don't know ? Well, T hope I 'm not
much worse than ray neighboui-s ; and T don't like wishing bad
wishes, it is sich old woman's work ; it 's only barkijig the louder
for wanting teeth. But this I will wish : if a clergyman o' the
'Btablished Church is ever to choke himself with a fish-bone, I do
ho]ie that that clergyman doesn't live far from Lazarus Hall, and
that his name begins with a G. I 'm not a spiteful man ; and so I
won't wish anything more plain than that. But it is hard" — ;uid
again Blast, he could not help it, recurred to his loss — " it is hard,
when I 'd resolved to live in peace with all the world, to give a
little money to the poor, and — as we all must die — when J did
die, to have sich a clean, respectable moniment put up to me
inside the church, with a naked boy in white stone holding one
liand to his eyes, and the other putting out his link — you 've seen
the sort o' thing I dare say ? — it is hard to be done out of it after
all. It's enough to make a man, as I say, think o' nothin' but
the setting sun. Howsomever, it serves me right. I ought to
ha' know'd that sich a fine place must ha' belonged to the
clei-gyman. If I 'd hid the box in a ditch, and not in a pai-son's
fish-pond, at this blessed moment you and I might ha' been
happy men ; lords for life ; and called, what I 've heard, useful
members of society. And now, mate," asked Blast with sudden

3.0 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

wannth — " bow do you like your place ? la it the thing ? — is it
clover ? "

"What place T " aske^l St Giles. "I'm in no place, certain,
as yet."

" There, then, we won't say nothin' about it. Only this. Wheu
you're butler — if I'm sparetl in thin wicked world so long, — you
won't refuse an oM friend. Jingo's friend, Jingo's mother's friend "
— St. Giles turned sick at his m<>tlier'.s name, .ho sjioken — "you
won't refuse him a bottle o' the l>e4it in the pantry ? You won't,
will you 1 Vhl"

" No." stammered St. Giles. " Wliy should I ? Cei-tainly not,
when I 'm butler."

" And till then, oM fellow," — and Blast bent forward in his
ch.iir. ami touched St. Giles's knee with his finger — " lend us a
guinea."

St. Giles recoiled from the request ; the more so, as it was
seconded by contact with the petitioner. He miulc no answer ;
but his face looked bl.uik as bl;uik paper : not a mark was in it
to ser\'e as hieroglyph for a farthing. Blast Could read faces
better than books. " You won't then ? Not so much as a guinea
to the frienfl of Jingo's mother ?" St. Giles .scowle.l. " Well, as
it 's like the world, why should I quarrel ? Now jest see the
flifference. See the money, I 'd ha' given you, if misfortin' hadn't
stept in. ' He 's a fine fellow,' I kept continally saying to my.self ;
' I flon't know how it i.s, I like him, ami he shall have half Not
a mite less than half.' And now. you won't lend me — for mind I
«lon't ax it as a gift — you won't lend me a guinea."

" T can't," said St. Giles. " I am poor myself: very poor."

"Well, as I said afore, we won't (piarrel. Ami so, you shall
liave a guinea of me." Saying thi.s, Blast with a cautious lo<jk
towards the di>or, drew a long leathern purse from his pocket.
St. Giles sudilenly felt as though a party to the robbery that — he
knew it — Blast must somewhere have perjietrated.

"Not a farthing," siiid St. Giles, as Blast dipped his finger and
thumb in the purse. " Not a farthing."

" Don't .say that ; don't be proud, for you don't know in this
world what you may want. 1 dare say the poor cretur up stairs
wa-s proud enough tliis momin' ; and what is he now ? "

" Not dead ! " cried St. Giles, " I h.-»pe not dead."

" "\Miy, hope 's very well ; and then it 'a so very cheap. But
there 's no doubt he 's gone ; and as he 's gone, what, I should
like to know" — and Blast threw the purse airily up and down
— " what was the use of this to him 1 "

" Good God ! You haven't stole it ? " exclaimed St. Giles,
leaping to his feet.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 801

"Hush !" cried Blast, "don't lunke aieh a noise as that witli
a deaii Ixxiy in the house. The woi-st o' folks treat tlie dead witii
respect. Else people who're never tliouglit of at all when in the
world, wouldn't be gone into black for when they go out of it.
I'd no thought- of the matter, v. hen I run to help the poor
cretur : but somehow, gouig up stairs, one of his coat tails did
knock at my knuckles so, that I don't know how it was, when
I 'd laid him comfortable on the bed, and was coming down agin,
I found tliis sort o' thing in my pocket. Poor fellow ! he '11 never
miss it. Well, you won't have a guinea, then ? "

" I 'd starve tirst," exclaimed St. Gilep.

" My good lad, it isn't for me to try to put myself over your
he;vd, — but this I must say ; when you 've seen the world as 1
have, you '11 know better. You won't talk of starving in that
manner."

At this moment, the waiter enteral the room.

" How is the poor gentlemjui up stairs ? " asked St. Giles. " la
there no hope ? "

" Lor bless you, yes ! They 've bled him and made him quite
comfortable. He 's ordered some rump-steaks and onions, and
gays he '11 make a night of it." Thu.s sjKjke the waiter.

•" Do you hear that 1 " asked St. Giles of Blast.

" Sorry to hear it : sorry to think that any man arter sich an
escape, should think o' nothing better than supper. My man,
what 's to pay ? " St. Giles unbuttoned his pocket. " No ; not
a fai-den ; tell you, I won't hear of it. Not a fardeu : bring the
change out o' that," and Blast laid down a dollar : and the waiter
tleparte<l on his eri*and.

" I tell you, I don't want you to treat me ; and I won't have
it," sjud St. Giles.

" ^fy go<xi young man, a proper pride 's a proper thing ; and
I don't like to see nobody without it. But pride atween friends I
hate. So good bye, for the present. I '11 take my change at the
bar." And ^Ir. Blast was about to hurrj- himself from the room.

" Stay," said St. Giles ; " should I wish to see you, where are
you to be found 1 "

" Well, I don't know," said Blast. " Sometimes in one place —
Bometuues another. But one thing, my dear lad, is quite sure."
Here Blast put both his hands on St. Giles's shouldei-s and
looked in his face with smiling malignity — " One thing is quite
sure : if you don't know how to find me, I shall always know
where to come upon you. Don't be afeard of that, young man."

And with this, Blast left the room, while St. Giles sank in hia
chair, weary and sick at heart. He was in the villain's power
and seemed to exist only by his suffei-ance.

302 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

CHAPTER XXIX.

"Does it live in the rueraorv of the reader that Snipcton. only a.
chapter since, spoke of a h.'iudmaiil on her way from Kent to
make acquaintance with his fire-side dignities ? That human
flower, with a frcslmesa of soul like the dews of Paradise upon
her is, reailer, at this very moment in Fleet Street. Her face is
beaming with hai)pines3 — her half-<>pened mouth is swallowing
wonders — and her eye^ twinkle, as tliough the London jwivement
she at length treads upon w;xs really luid truly the very best of
guhl, and il.uzled her with its glorifying l>rightne.s.s. She looks
ujwn tlie beauty and wealth about her gaily, innocently, as a little
child would look ujwn a state coffin ; the velvet is so rich, aii'l
the plates and nails so glittering. She has not the wit to read
the true meaning of the splendour ; cannot, for a moment, dream
of what it covers. Indeed, she is so delighted, dazzled by wh;it
she sees, that she scarcely hears the praises of the exceeding
beauty of her features, the wondrous sj-nmietiy of her form ;
praises vehemently, industriously uttered by a youthful swain
who walks at her side, glancing at her fairness with the libertine's
felonious look. He eyes her innocence, jus any minor tliief would
eye a brooch or ch:un ; or, to give the youth his due, he now and
then ventures a bolder stare ; for he has the fine intelligence to
know that he may rob that country wench of herself, and no
Bridewell — no Newgate — will punish the larceny. Now, even
the bow of 8i.xpeuny riband on her bomiet is protected by a
statute. Besides, Master Ralph Gum knows the privileges of
certain people in a certain condition of life. Young gentlemen
born and bred in London, and serving the nobility, are bom and
educated the allowed protectors of rustic girls. The pretty
country things — it was the bigoted belief of the young footman —
might be worn, like bouquets on a birth-day. — And the wench at
his side is a nosegay expressly sent by fortune from the country
f'jr his passing felicity and adornment. True it is, that Master
Ralph Gum is scarcely looming out of boyhood ; but there is a
sort of genius that soai-s far beyond the parish register. Ralph's
age is not to be counted by the common counters, years ; but by
tlie rarer marks of precocious intelligence. He is a liveried
prodig^^ ; one of those terribly clever animals that, knowing
everything, too often confound simple people with their fatal
knowledge. Therefore was it specially unfortunate for the damsel

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 303

that of all the crowd that streamed through Fleet Street, she
Bhould have asked Ealj)}! Gum to iiidioate her way to St. Mary
Axe. At the time, she was setting due eastward ; when the
faithless vassal assured her that she was going clean wrong ;
and, a.s hapjjily-he himself had particular business towards hv
destination, it would give him a j)le;usure he could never have
hoped for, to guide her virgin steps to St. Maiy Axe. And she —
poor maid ! — believed and turned her all-unconscious face towards
Temple Bar. The young man. though a little dark, had siu.'h
bright black eyes — and such very large, an<l very white teeth, —
and wore so very fine a livery, that it would have been flying in
the face of truth to doubt him. Often at the rustic fire-side had
she listened to the narrated wickedness of Loudon ; again anil
again had she pre-anued her soul with sagacious strength to
meet and confound the decejition that in so many guises prowk.l
the city streets, for the robbery and tlestructiou of the Arcadian
stranger. She felt herself invincible until the very moment that
Ralph gave smiling, courteous answer to her ; and then, as at the
look and voice of a charmer, the Amazonian breast plate (forged
over many teas) she had buckled uii, molted like frost-work at
the sun, and left her an unprotected, because believing woman.
' " AVhy, and what's them?" cried the girl, suddenly fixed
befcrt'e St. Dunstan's church. At the moment the sun rcaeliol
the meridian, and the two wooden giants, mechanically punctual,
striking their clubs u)>on the bell, gave warning note of noon.
Those gi;mts have passed away ; those two great ligneous heroes
of the good old times have been displaced and banished ; and we
•have submitted to lejuTi the hour from an ordinary dial. There
was a grim dignity in their bearing — a might in their action —
that enlumced the value of the time they noted : their clubs fell
upon the senses of paiishionei-s and way-farers, with a power and
impressiveness not compassable by a round, pale-faced clock. It
was, we say, to give a worth and solemnity to time, to have time
counted by such grave tellers. If the parishioners of St. Dunstan
and the fi-equent passengers of Fleet Street have, of late years,
contributed more than their fair quota to the stock of national
wickedness, may not the evil be })hilosophically traced to the
deposition of their wooden monitors ? This very valuable surmise
of ours ought to be quoted in parliament — that is, if lawmakers
properly prepared themselves for their solemn tasks, by duly
conning histories like the present — quoted in opposition to the
revolutionai-y movement of the time. For we have little doubt
that a motion for the return of the number of felonies and
misdemeanours — to say nothing of the social offences that may
be the more grave because not named in the statutes — conmiitted

S04 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

in the parish of St. Duust-iu's, would show aii ahuTuing increasa
hiuce the departure of St. Duustaii's wo<xlen genii. A triumphant
aigumeut tliia — we modestly conceive — fur the conservation of
woo<len thing's in high places. "La! and what's them?" again
ciied the girl, twelve o'clock being told by the strikers.

" Why, my tulup, them 's a couple of cruel churchwiu-dena
turned into wood liundreda of years ago, for their sins to the
|)Oor. r.ut you are a beauty, that you are ! " added Ralph, with
burning gallantry.

" It can't be ; and you never mean it," said the maiden, really
forgetting her own loveline.-^s in lier wonder of the giants.
" Turnevl into wood ? Unpo.ssible ! Who did it ? "

" Why, Providence, — or, somethijg of the kind, you know,"
replied the audacious footman. " Vou 've heard of Whittington,
I should think, my marigold, eh ? lie made a fortin in the
Indies, where he let out his cit to kill all tlie vemiin in all the
courts — and a nice job I should think puss must have had of it.
Well, them gi:mts wa.s churchwardens in his time : men with
flosh and blootl in their hearts, though now they'd blee<l nothing
but saw-dust."

" You don't say so ! Poor souls ! And what did they do ? "
iiskeil the innocent damsel.

Mr. llalph Gum scnitched his head for in.spiration ; and then
made answer : *' You see, there was a poor woman — a sailors
wife — with tlirce twins in her arms. And she went to one
churchwarden, ami 8.aid as how she was a staining ; and that her
verj' liabbies couldn't cry for weakness. And he told her to come
to-morrow, for it wasn't the time to relieve paupers : and then
she went to the other churchwarden, and he sent out word that
she must come again in two days, and not afore."

" Two days ! " cried the maiden. " The cruel creturs ! didn't
they know what time was to the starving ? "

" WTiy, no ; they didn't ; and for that reason, both the church-
wardens fell sick, all their limbs every day a turning into wood.
And then they died ; and they was going to bury 'em, when next
morning their coffins was found empty ; and they was seen where
they now stand. And there was a Act of Parliament made that
their relations shouldn't toucli 'em, but let 'em stand to strike
the clock, as a warning to all wicked churchwardens to know
what hours are to folks with hungry bellies."

" Wonderful I " exclaimed the girl, innocent as a bleating
lamb. " And now, young man, you 're sure this is the way to
Mary Axe ? "

" Didn't I tell you, my sunflower, I was bom there ? I would
carrj- your bundle for you, only you see, his lordship, the uoblemau

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. Sns

I sej'vp, 1p very particninr. Liverj' 's livery ; — liP \\ di<5charge any
of us that. <k'iii(>anc(l himself to carry a Imndle. Bless you ; there
are yoniij,' fellows in our square — only I 'm not proud — that
wouMn't sj)eak to you with such a thing as a l)un<lk ; they
woulhrt, my wHd rose. But then, you 're such a beauty ! "

" No ; I am not. I know wliat I am, young man. I 'm not of
ihe worst, but a goixl way from the Ijest. Besides, beauty, aa
they sjiy, is only skin-tleep ; is it ? " a-^ked the maiden, not
unwiilin',' to dwell upon the theme.

" Well, you 'le deep enouLrh for me anyhow," replied thefootboy,
and he fixe*! his eyes as though he thought them burning-gUisses,
on the guileless stranger. " And now, here you are, right afore
Temple Bar."

" Mercy ! what a big gate ! and what 's it for, young man ? "
cried the wonderin'r airl.

" Why, I once heard it s.aid in our hall that Temjile Bar was
built on j)urjtose to keep the scum of the City from ninning
over into the West End. Now, this I don't believe," averred
Ralph.

" Nor T, neither," crie<l the ingenuous wench, " else, doesn't il
stand to reason they'd keep the gate shut ? "

" My 'pinion is what I once heard, — that Temple Bar was really
built at the time of the Great Plague of London, to keep th(»
disease from the king and queen, the rest of the royal family, with
all the nobility, s]>irital and temperal." And Biilj)!! coiighed.

" WelL if you don't t.alk like a i)rayer-book ! " exclaimed th*?
maiden, full of admiration.

» " I ought by this time ; I was born to it, my dear. Ble.ss your
heart, wlien I wa.^ no higher nor that, I was in our house. I learnt
my letters frcmi the plate ; yes, real gold and silver ; none of your
horn-books. And as for pictures, I didn't go to books for them
neither ; no, I use<l to study the coach-panels. There wasn't a
griffin, nor a cockatrice, nor a tiger, nor a viper of any sort upon
town I wasn't acquainted with. That 's knowing life, I think.
It isn't for me to talk, my bed of \nolets ; but you wouldn't
think the Latin I know ; and all from coaches."

" Wonderful ! But are you sure this is the way to Mary
Axe ? " and with the question the maiden »;rossed the city's
barrier, and with her lettered deceiver trod the Strand.

" If you ask me that again," answered the slightly-wounded
Ralph, " I don't know that T '11 answer you. Come along. As
the carriage says, ' Hora et semper.'' "

" Now, if you go on in that way, I won't believe a Avord you
say. English for me ; acause then I can give you as good aa
vou send. No ; wholesome English, or I won't step another step;"
Tor,. I. , X

3i6 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

ami ii wiis plain tliat the timid rustlo IVIL some sliifht alarm — was
a little oppresjst'tl by the inystorious knowledge of her liist Lujukm
accni.iiiiUuice. She thouj^ht there was some hocus pocus jissov-iated
with Ijatiu : it was to her the natural utterance of a conjuror.
Witii'some emjjhasis she added, " .All I want to know is — how f;ir
is it to Mary Axe?"

" Why, my carnation, next to nothing now. Step out ; and
you '11 he there afore you know it. As I say, I only wi.sh I could
carry your bundle — I do, my daisy." Mr. Gum might have spared
his regrets. Had his gracious majesty pulle<l up in his carriage,
and otferod to be the bearer of that bundle, its owner wovdd have
I'cfused him the enjoyment ; convinced that it was not t'ne king of
England who proposed the courtesy, but the father of all wicked-
ness, di.sguiae<l as a royal Brunswick, and driving about in a car-
riage of shadows, for the especial juirpose of robbing rustic maids.
As we have intimated, the damsel had, in the fjustnesses of Kent,
IcJirned jirudence against the iniquities of London. And so, be-
Ueving that St. Mary Axe was close at hand, she hoijcfully
jogged on.

" What a many churches ! " she said, looking at St, Clement's.
" Well, the folks in London ought to be goixl."

" And so they are, my wallllower," rejoined the footman.
" The best in the world ; take 'em in the lump. And there, you
see, is aui>thor church. ^Vnd besi<los what we have, we 're a going
to have I dont know how many hundred more built, that every-
IkhIy, as is at all anylxnly, may have a comfortable pew to his
whole self, anil not be mixed \x\^ — like people in the galleiy of a
])layhou.se — along of the lower orders. I dare say, now, your
giandmother in the country'' —

" Ain't got no grandmotiier," said the girl.

" Well, it 's all the same : the old womt;n where you come from
— T dare say they talked to you about the wickedness of London,
clid'nt they ] And how all the handsome young men you'd meet
was nothiuiT more than roarhsfr lions, rolling their eves about, and
licking their mouths, to eat up anybody ;us come fresh from the
diusies ? Didn't they tell you this, eh, beauty ? " cried RaJjih.

'' A little on it," said the girl, now pouting, nosv giggling.

" And you "ve seen nothing of the soit ? U^pon your word and
h(^nour, now, have you i" and the footman tried to look winningly
in the girl's eyes, and held fonh, ajjuealingly, his rigiit hand.

" Nothuj"' vet ; that is, nothiuji that I knows on," was the
guarded answer of the damsel.

" To be sure not. Now my opinion is, there 's more downright
wickedness — more I'oguery ami ."^in of all sort-s in an acre of the
couuti-y than in any live mile of London streets ; only, we dout

ST. GILES AlfD ST, JAMES. SDV

kink up a noise about our virtue aui? all that sort of stuff. Wliilst
quite to the coutrary, the folks in the country do nothuig but talk
about their innocence, and all such gammon, eh ? "

" I can't hear innocence called gammon afore me," said the
girl. " Innocence is innocence, and nothing else ; and them aa
Would alter it,'ought to blush fw themselves."

" To be sure they ought," answered Gum. " But the tnitli is,,
because kmibs don't run about Loudon streets — and birds don't
bop ou the pavement — and hawthorns and honeysuckles don't
grow in tlie guttei-s — London 's a place of wickedness. Xow, you
know, my lily of the valley, — folks aru't a bit more like lambs for
livhig among 'em, are they ?"

" Is this tlie way to Mary Axe ? " asked the gii-l, with growing
impatience.

" Tell you, tLsn't no distance whatever, only first " — and the-
deceiver turned witli his victim out of the ytrjiud — " first yoit
must pass Drury-lane playliouse."

" The ])l;iyiiuuse — really the jjlayhousc ! " exclaimed thewencli^
with an interest in tlie institution that in these times would have
Hufliciently attested her vulgarity. '■ I should like to see the play-
house."

" Well then, my double heartsease, here it ie," and Eiilj))!
witli his finger pointed to the tremendous temple. With curious,,
yet reverential looks, did the girl gaze upuu the mysterimis fabric.
It was delicious to behuld even the outside of that brick and
mortar raieeshow. And staring, the giiFs heart was stirred with
the thought of the wonders, tlie mysteries, acted thereiii. Slie
had seen plays. Three times at le;ist she Lad sat in a wattle-
built fane, and seeu the dramiitic priesthood in their hours
of sacrifice. Ple;u<ant, though confused, was her remcnibriuice
of the strange liarmonies that tilled her heart to ovei-fiowinij
— that took he r away into another world — that brought sweet
teai-s into her eyes- — and nuide her think (she had never
thought so before) that there was really something besides the
dru<lgery of work in life ; tiiat men and women were mjule to have-
some lioliday tliDUghts — thoughts that breathed strange, com-
forting music, even to creatures jioor and low as she. Then recol-
lections fiowed aires'n as she looked upon that mighty Londoik
mystery — that chjumed place that in day-ilreams she had thought
of — that luid revealed its glorious, fantastic wonders in her sleej:)-
The London playhouse ! She saw it — she could touch its walls.
One great hope of her rustic life wivs consummated ; and the
gi'eater would be accomplished. Yes : sure as her hfe, she would
sit aloft in the gallery, would hear the nmsic, and see the LoudaQ
players" spangles.

2.2

308 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

" And tills i<» Drill y-lane ? " cried the weuch, softened by the
tliought— " wuU ! I nt-ver ! "

" You like plays, do you ? So do I. Well, when we know one
fuiother a little better— for I wouldn't be so bold nn to ask it now
— ia course not — won't we po together ? " said Knlph ; and ihe
pirl was silent. She did not incjuire alx)Ut St. Alary Axe ; but
trustingly followe«l her companion, her heart dancing to the
lidille.s of Drury-iane ; the tiddles tliat she would hear. " And
thi.s id How-street, my jessaniy," said liali>h.

■' What 's Bow-street ?" inquired the maiden. How happy in
the iiinoranoe of the question !

" Where tlu-y Uike up the thieves, and examine 'em, afore they
Bentl 'em to Newgate to be luuiged." The wench shivered.
" Never .saw nolnjdy hanged, I suppose ? Oh, it 's nothing, after
two or three times. We '11 have a day of it, my sweet marjoram,
uitma Monthly. We'll go to the Old Bailey in the morning, and
to tho i)lay at night : that 's what I call seeing life ! — eh, you
jjreoious jiiiik ! Jiut, I s.iy, arn't yon tired ?"

•'Well, I juit am. Where li Mary Axe!" And the girl
stored about her.

" Wiiy, if I hav'n't taken the wr'iii.r turning, I 'm ble.st, and
that '3 lost us half a niilo and more. I tell you what we '11 do. Thij
is a nice comfortable house." lijdph sjM>ke of the Brown Bear ;
at that day, tho house of ease to felons, on their transit fiom the
op|)osite |M>lioe otVioe to Xewcate. " A <|uiet, respectable place.
We 'II just go in and reut ourselves, and have atwuen us half-a-pint
of ale."

" Not a drop ; not for the bl^-sscil world," cried the girl.

" And then, I '11 tell you all about the playhouse and the
players. Bless you I some of 'em come to our house, when the
servanU give a party. And we make 'em sing songs and tell
stories, and when they go away, why, perhajw we put a bottle
of wine in their pockets — for, poor things, they can't affoi-d
such stuff at home, — and then they send us orders, and we go
into the pit for nothing. And so, we '11 just sit down and have
half-a-jiint of oJe, won't we 1 "

Silently the girl sutiered herself to be led into the Brown Bear.
The voice of the charmer had entered lier heart and m< Ited it.
To hear about playi and players was to hear sweet music ; to listen
to one who knew — whc ^ad sjxjkeu to the glorious I^ondon actors —
who, jMjrhaps, with hi.s owii hand had put wine-bottles in theii
j'ockets — was to gain a stride in the world. The gossip would
not ilclay her above half-an-hour from St. Mary Axe ; and what
wondei-s would repay her for the lingering ! Besides, she waa
tired — and the young man was very kind — very respectfuj— »

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 309

notliiufr at all like wliat slio had hoai-il of L<jn(lon young men —
ami, after all, what was half aii-hour, sooner or later ?

Mr. rUilph Gum intonated his ordei"S like a lord. The ale "waa
brought, and Ralph drank to the luiiidon with both eyes and lips.
Liquor made him musical : andwitii a tlolicate compliment to the
rustic taste of his fair companion, he warbled of birds and flowers.
One coujdet he trolled over a<;ain and agiiin. " Like what they
call sentiment, don't you ?" said Rdiih.

" How can I tell ? " answered the girl : "it's some of your fine
London stulT, I suppose."

" Not a bit on it ; sentiment 's sentiment all over the world.
Don't you know wliat si iitiment is ? Well, st-ntiment's words that's
put together to sound nicely as it were — to make you feel inclined
to clap your haii<ls, yuu know. And that 's a sentinu-nt that I 've
been singing " — and he repeat<.'d the burden, bawling :

* Oh the cuckoo's u fine liirJ as ever you did hear.
And he sucks liitlc bird's v{igs, to make hih voice clear.'

"There, don't you see the sentiment now ?" The maiden shook
her head. " Why, sucking the little birds' eggs — that 's the
sentiment. Precious clever binls, them cuckoos, eh ? They 're
what I call birds of quality. They 've no trouble of liatching,
they lumf t ; no trouble of going about in the fields, i)ieking up
worms and grubs for their nestlings ; they places 'em out to wet-
nui-se ; makes other binls bring 'em up ; while they do nothing
themst'lves but sit in a tree, and cry cuckoo all day long. Now
that 's what I call Wing a bird of quality. How should you like
to be a cuckoo, my buttercup ?"

" There, now, I don't want to hear vour nonsense. What 's a

7 7 »

cuckoo to do with a Christian 1 " — asked the damsel.

'* Nothing, my passion-flower — to be sure not ; just wait a
minute," .'yiid Ridph — " I only want to sjieak to my aunt that lives
a little way otif; and I'll be back with you in a minute. I've
got a message for the old woman ; and she 's such a dear cretur
— so fond of me. And atween ourselves, whenever she should be
made a angel of — and when a angel 's w anted, I hope she '11 not
be forgotten — shan't I have a lot of money ! Not that I care for
money ; no, give me the girl of my heart, and all the gold in the
world, as I once heard a pai-sou say, is nothing but yellow dirt.
And now I won't be a minute, my precious periwinkle."

And Avith this Mr. Ralph Gum quitted the room, lea\-ing the
fair stranger, as he thought, in profoundest admii-ation of the
disinterestedness of footmen.

S19

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

CnAPTER XXX.

The countrj* g^vl, alone in the Eruwn Bcnr, h.ad some slight
twitohings of renioi-se. She felt it ; she hwl very nnicli slandered
Lomlon ami the Londoners. She h&.d been tanght — she had
heard the story in fi«lda and at (ire-si<les, seated in the sliade of
liuy.stackii, :unl in winter chiinney-cornere — tliat Ixmdon was a
fiery furnace ; tluit all its inhahitants, especially the males, were
the pet jnijiils of the Kvll Ono, nnd did his work with wnndi-rfiil
docility. And now, how much iicnorance ha<l (h-parted from her!
In an hour or two, how large her stock of experience ! She W!w
alone— alone in a London tavern ; and yet .she ftlt jls comfortahle,
as secure of liciself .'us liioui,'li j)erche<l ujioii a Kent haycock. She
had seen thou.sands of i>eople ; she Inul walked among a swann of
men and women, and nol«>dy ha«l even so much as attempted to
])ick her jxjcket ; nol)o<ly hatl even snatched a kiss from her.
With the generosity of a kind luiture, she fi!t do'ihly trustful that
she liad unjustly doublo«l. She was in a Lomlon hotel (jxmjf haw-
thorn innocence !) juid felt not a hit afraid ; on the (Ontraiy, she
rather liked it. She lo«»ked abc-ut the room : carefully, uj) and
down its w.alls. No ; there wjis uotTin inch of looking-ghuss to be
«een. Otherwise she thought she miglit have liked to take a peep
at hei-self; for j-he knew she must be a fright ; and the young
man would be b;ick soon ; and though she cared not a pin alnjut
him — how could she ?— still, still she should have liked one look.

" What, my little girl, all alone ? " ai<ked a new-comer — as ♦.he
young woman thought, a very inide, and ugly, and somewhat
old man. " Got nobody with you, eh ? Where 's your jiarent.s?"

" I 'm not alone, ajid that 's enough," siiid the girl, and she
fervently clutched Iier little bundle.

" Verj' w ell, my dear ; wouldn't offend you, my hiss ;
wouldn't " —

" I 'm not your dear ; and I don't want at all to \>e talked to
by you." Saying this, the girl continued to gnu*p her projjeny,
and looke<.l with very detennlned eyes in the hui-sh, ugly face of
the old intruder. The fact i.-<, the girl felt that the time was
come to test her energy and caution. She had too .soon thought
too well of the doings of Loudon. The ])lace .swarmed with wicked
people, there was no tloubt of it ; and the man before her was one
of them. He looked particuliuly like a tliicf as he looked at her
bundle.

'* T.iat 's right : quite right, my little wench. This is a place

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. ?11

in wlilcli you can't be too pailiclar," and sayin<T tins. Briiijht Jeui
— tor it was t!ie uncomely honesty of that good fellow's face that
bad alarmed the spinster — Bright Jen>, with his mild, benevolent
look, nodded, and jKUs-sing to the further end of the room, seated
himself in one of the boxes. And the girl felt more assiu'ed of
his wickedness ; and anxiously wished the return of that very nice
young fnotiiKu: — that honest, Rweet-si)i>ken young man — so long
t!ng:iged in convei-se with his aunt. Would he never come back ?
It w.Ls odd, but every moment of his al>sence emlowed him, in the
girls mind, with a new charm. Bright Jem wasall vmconsciously
dcs])oiled of every good quality, that his graceless relative, ILdpli
Gum, might be invested with a foreign excellence.

Hark ! a footstep. No ; it is not the footman : he still tarries
with his aunt. It is Jerry Whistle, the Bow-street oflicer, with
his <laily tiuwer between his lij>s ; his hajtpy face streaked like an
apple ; and his cold, keen, twinkling eye that seemeti contumally
employed as a search-warrant, looking clean through the bosoms
of all men. He paused before the girl, taking an inventory of her
qualities. And she, to repel the boldness of the fellow, tried to
arm herself with one of those thunderbolt looks that woman in her
dignity will sometimes cast about her, striking giants otF their legs
antl la\ ing them in the du.st for ever. Poor thing ! it was indig-
nation all in vain. S!»e might as well have fro^vned at Newgate
stones, exjxx'ting to see them tumble, as think to move one nerve
of Jerry AN'iiistle. Medusa, staring at 1 hat officer, would have had
the woi-st of it, au.l bashfully, hopelessly let drop her eyelids.
And so it was with the country maiilen. Jerry still stai-cd .
leaWng the girl nothing to do but to wonder at his impudence.
At length, however, Mr. Gum enters the room ; and Jerry,
glancing at him, and, as the girl thought, very much awed by his
presence, instantly mo%-es av/ay.

" Well, I 'm so glad you 're come ! " cried the girl, and her
eyes sparkled, not unnoticed by the footman.

•' Sorry, my ilailyilil, to keep you waiting ; but aunt is such a
'oman for tongue. A good cretur though ; what I call a reg'lar
custai'd of a 'oman ; made o' nothing but milk and spice and
sugar."

" What ! and no eggs ? Pretty custards they 'd be," cried the
girl, with a smile of pity for the detected ignorance.

" That 's like you women," said Mr. Gum, playfully twitching
the giiTs bonnet-string ; "j'ou can't allow for a bit of fancy:
always taking a man up, and tying him to paiticlars. Well,
you are a rose-bud, though ! "

'■ Never mind : I know that : let us go to Mary Axe," and ihe
girl vigorously retied her bonnet-strings, and stood bolt up.

812 ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMES.

" In a niimite. Ju.st half-ainouthful of brandy ami water
atweoii u.s ; ju.st no more than woiiM till tlu' eye of a little nueille.
You can't think what a l<>t of morals my uunt always Xnika : and
you ain't think how dry they always make me. Now, don't
fchake your d<:ir little head a.s if it wjw* of no u.so to you : 1 tell
you, we must have u little drop, and here it is." (And Mr. Guiu
Bpoke the truth.) " I onlered it a* I c;ime in."

" Not a bKws<.-d di-oj> — I won't, lliat I wun't. n- I 'm .h .->iiiui r,"
cried the girl with fetuiuine euiphasis.

" A sinner I There never w:ui a chenib on u tombstone like
you. I should like to hear .•uiylh)dy call you a binner — 'twould
W a bail day's work for 'em, I can tell you. Now, just a drop.
"NVell, if you won't drink, put your lijw to the edj{c of the glass,
just to suj;ar it."

" Well, what a cretur you are I " said the girl ; and with cheeks
a little flushetl, she took a binl's one sip of the liquor.

" Uu. I now it's Worth drinkini,'," crieil Italpli ; and he backed
hi.** opinion by taking a lon^ draught. " .And nuw," sjiid he,
8t;u-ing full in the girl's face, and tiking lier h:u)d, " and now,
a.s a partichu* favour, I want you to tell me one thing. Just
DUO private qu<»tion I have to put. I.^j<jk in my eyes, and tell
me what you think of love."

'* Go along with your inibbish ! " exclaimol the girl ; at onctj
cutting the dlfliculty of a d*-linilion. I»ve I Kuiibish ! She
knew it not ; but the wench sjx>ke with the tong»ie of old j»hdo-
sophy. She gave a homely exprcjwiou to the thoughts of sages,
lui ' . and nuiLs. The .shirt of hair; the iron girdle ; the

fla^ „ thong, all declare the worthU.s.sne.'vH of love. " L<jve is

rubbi.Hh" chants the sliaveu monk : and the like treason breathe«
the whit«;-lii>|K>d si.ster, and sometimes thinks it truth. The wonLs
ar<! writ on mon;u*ter)', convent walls, though dull and dim-eyetl
folks without ilo not believe theni ; juid — jH.'rveJse is man I —
turn from the silver music of the sylhibles for jangling niai-rioge-
bells.

'* Ain't you afeanl the roof will tumble on you ? Love rubbish !
Wljy, it 'a what I call the gold band aV)out natur's hat," — for
liquor made the footman metaphoiical. " Love, my slip of lavender,
love is"

" I don't want to know nothing about it, and I wout stay a
minute longer from Mary Axe." And again the girl 8ttK«J up,
and began to push lier way from the box, Mr. Riljih (Jum refusing
to give place, at the same time lift'mg the teHSjHXjn from the
glass, and vainly menacing her with it in the very prettiest
iiv.amer.

*• Well, my peppermint, you shall go ; to be sux-e you shall.

ST. GILKS AND .ST. JAMES. 813

Tlierc now " Aixl with <li'termine<l swallow, Mr. Cmiiu

emptied Ihu phiss to prove his devotedness to her will. '' \\\- '11
jMiy at the har, my ]»<'|>l'y. Don't forj^ct your bundle. Got your
best thiiig.s in it, eh / Don't foryet it, then.'

A smile, witji something of contem|>t in it, playetl about tlie
maiden's lip. Forj^et it ] — jls if any wuman ever fui"got a bundle,
the more e.speei.dly when it contained any of tiiose vestments
that, looki'd upon with thoii;,'hifiil, melancholy eyes, aj-e only
flowing;, shininj,' proofs of a fallen state, thougli the perverse
ingenuity of the sex contrives to j^'ive a prettine.«w to the livery of
Bin, to the Kulges of our laiwed condition. When we renumber
tliat both goita of millinery, male and feniale. are the con8c<|uence3
of ori;iinal wickednes.^*, oujjht not the maidy heail to shrink, an<l
feel a fro;,'-like coldnesn at an cmbroidenti waistcojit I Ought not
woman, smitten with the recollection of the tiviison of her great
mother, to screjim even at the rustling of a ixunp.idour, as at the
moving sc^es of a gliiling snake } She ought ; but we fear she
seldom <li»es. Nay, sometimes she actually loves — determinoUy
love« — fine clothes, as though she hml rti-st waked in Panulise, like
a (jueen fn-m a si.-sta, in velvet and KuK-.-ide, with jewels in h.-r
hair, and eourt-phuster stai-s u|H'n her cheek. With heart-breakinij
IH-rvei-seness, slie refuses to mlmit the nake<l truth to her soul, that
the milliner came into the world with de;ith. ( Hherwise, could
philosophy with its di.-imoud jxilnt engrave ihi.s truth ujK>n the
crystal he;irt of woman, it would very much serve to le.ssen i)in-
money. We have heai-d it said — of course we immeiliately wi-apt
our countenance in our cloak, and ran fmin the slanderer — that
wom.an fell for no other purpose than to we.ar fine clothes. In the
prescience which she shared with man she saw the looms of the
future world at work, and lost hei"self for a shot .s,ii-siiet. It is
just as pos.sible, too, that some of her daughtei-s may have tripped
at the window of a mercer.

AVe cannot at this moment put our finger u|)on the j)jis.s.ige,
but surely it is somewhere written in the Talmud, that Eve on
leaving Evlen already took with her a choice and very various
wanlrobe. We have entirely forgotten the name of the writer
who gives a very precise account of the moving. Nevertheless,
many of the detiiils are engrave<l — a.-? with jk-u of iron ui>on rock
— on our heart. Fii-st came a score of elephiints ; they, marching
with slow pace, carried our first mothers gowns bestowed in
wicker-work. To a hundred and fifty cjuuels were consigned the
caps and 'kerchiefs. And our author, we remember, compassion-
ately dwells upon a poor dromedary, — one of two hundred — that,
overladen with bonnet -l>oxes, refused to get upon his legs until the
load was lightened by half, and another hunchbacked beast

8U ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

appointed to share the Imnlen. Whole <h<>ves of ponies th.>t liave
since iii:t<le their wr*^- to Wales and Shetland, carried shoes and
silk stockings, (with the zodiac gold-worked for clucks,) and rutfs
and wiinpl'S, ;iiid farthin'_'ales and hoods, and all the variiua
artillery that down to our day, from maskfil hutteries aim at the
heart of hee«Ues».s, unsusjwcting, ingenuous man, — weajHHis that,
all unseen, do sonxtinies ovt-rlhrow him ! And in this way,
according to the 'ralmmlist, did Eve move her wardroln; into the
plain country ; ami in so very short a time — so active is woman,
with her heart like a silkworm, working for tine elothes — did our
first mother get aV)out her, what she, with natural mceknes.s called,
oidy a few things ; but which A<laju — ami at oidy the nine
thouKiiulth package, with an impatient .sulkiness that we fear ha.H
<h?s<'ended to some of his sr»ns — lUiiominated a j>a<k of trumpery.
If women, then, are sensitive in the matter of Iniinlles, tht-y inherit
the tendenie.ss from their tirst rosy mother. And our country
veneji, though we think she li.id never read the Talm\id, had an
instinctive love for the tine clothes she carrieil with her. — An
instinct given her by the sjime beneticent law that teiu-hes parrota
and cockatoos to preen tluir radiant fcithei-s.

Whilst, with prof;aie fuigers — like an allowed shopman — we
have twiddled with the legendary silks an<l muslins, and other
weliH the propeity of Eve : wiiilst we have counte«l the robe-ladeu
elephanU, and felt our heart nxlt a little at the crying, ehxjuent
j)athos of the bonnrt-crusluHl ilmniedary, Mr. Rilph («iim h:ui
|>aid for his liquor, antl, his heart generous with alcohol, h.xs slept
into I'ntw-street. (Jlowing with brandy and ben<,'Volence, he heroi-
cally oiwerved — '* Never mind the bundle. I don't care if any uf
our folks do see me. So, my heart's honeysuckle, take my ami."
And, with little hi>sitation — for now they could not be very fjir
from St. Mary Axe — the girl linked hei-self to that meek footman.
'* Jjon't know what place this Ls, of course I Covent-gardeu
ni:u-ket, my bluebell. This U where we give ten guineas a pint
for green peas, and "

" Don't they choke you ?" cried the wench, astounded at what
she thought a sinfulness of stomach.

" Go down all the sweeter," answered the epicurean va.s.sal.
" When they g<t to ten shillings a j)eck, they 're out of our .square
altogether; only fit for pigs. Noble place, isn't it ? Will you
have a nosegay I Not but what you 're all a nosegay yourself ;
nevertheless, you shall have something to sweeten you ; for that
Mar)' Axe — well, I wouldn't .set you against it — but for you to
live there ; you, a sweet little cretur that smells of nothing but
cow's breath and new-mown hay ; — why, it 's just murder in a
slow luanuer. bo do have a nosegay ;' and Mr. Uimi insisted

ST. GILES AXD ST. JAMES. 315

npon dishnrsiiijj threepence for a buncli of wallflo\rei"s, which —
a^'ainst his wish and intention — she hei"self placed in her Wsora
ThcMi he said : "I do pity you, going to Mary Axe."

" But I 'ni not a going to stay there," said tlie girl : " no — -
I 'm oidy going to see m;iater, and he 's to take me into (he
country, to liv»with sich a sweet young la<ly."

" Well, tlicre'U bo a couple of you," said lUlph, "I 'm blessed
if there won't. Ami whereabouts ("

" That 's telling," replied the girl ; as though she stored up a
priiibund secret in her heart, that it wouhl take at lejist five
niinutes for Ralph's jiicklock tongue to come at. This Kalph
felt, so said no more about it.

" And here, in this place, we make our Members for West-
minster — things for Parliament, you know."

" How droll I What sliould they bring 'em like turnips to
maiket for ? " inquired the wench, woutlering.

" Don't you know ? Because tlu-y may be .all the nearer the
bad 'tatoes and the cabbage .stumps, Tliat 's what our porter tells
me is one of the rights of the constitution ; to |)elt everylxMly as puts
hinnelf up to go into Parliament. Well, I've been done o\it of
a nice chance, I have," said the footman with sutlden nn-Iaiichuly.

" What do you mean ? Not lost anything I " and the girl
looked sweetly anxious.

" Ain't I, tliough ? You .see, his lordship, my young m.i.ster,
M'ent and .stood in the coiuitiy ; and I couldn't go down with liini.
Now, if he'd only jnit up for Westminster, I'd just have come
here in plain clothes, and drc.s.siiig myself as if I waaa blackguard,
shouldn't he have known what bail 'tatoes Wius ! "

•■ Why, vou wicked cretur ! you wouldn't have thrown 'em at
Lim /" ■

" Oh, wouldn't I though ! " cried 'Mr. Gum, and he passed his
tongue round his lips, eujoyingiy.

" Wliat for ? Is he sich a wicketl master — sich a very bad
man /" inquired the girl.

" Don't know that he is. Only you can't think what a pleasure
it is to get the upper hand of high folks for a little while ; and
't.itoes and cabbage stumps do it. It 's a satisftiction, that 's all,"
said the footman.

'•I woi\"t walk with you — not another step," and the wench
angrily withdrew her arm.

" There you go, now ; there you go. Just like all you women ;
if a man makes a harmless joke, — and that 's all I meant — you
scream ;is if it w.is a fl;ish of lightriing. Bless vt)U ! I'd go to the
world's end for my m.ister, even if I never was to see him again.
That I would, my sprig of parsley."

816 ST. GILES AND ST. J.\Mi:S.

■• Is this tlie w;iy to M;iiy A.\e ? If I "in not tliore directly, I '11
auk .soiiiebixly else."

'•'Just round this turning, and it's no way at all." And
Mr. CJuiM Went tliron<,di the market, and thronph street after
.street, and threaded two or three eourt.s, tlie yirl looking now
inij>atient., now distrustful. At length llalph paused. " My dear,
if 1 Iiavii't left something at my aunt's ! In that house, there ;
just stoj) in a minute, while I call for it."

" No, I aha'n't," answered the wench, with a determination that
Bomcwliat staiilcd Mr. Gum. " I .slia'n't go into any house .at all,
afore I come to Mary A.\e. And if you don't show me the way
directly, I'll .scream."

" Why, what a little sweet-briar you are ! Don't I tell you, my
aunt lives there 1 A nice, good old soul, as would be glad to see
y«>u — glad to see anybody I brought to her. I tell you what, now,
if I must say the truth, I tolil her what a nice girl you was ; and
how you was waiting tbr me ; and the good oltl 'oman began to
scold me ; and xsked me why I didn't bring you here. I slia'n't
stop a minute — not a minute."

The girl looked up in Ualph's face ; looked up so tni.stingly, and
again so innocently [ilaceil her arm in his, that that great-lieaited
footman must have felt subdued and honoured by the confidence
of his companion. And ao he was about to hand her across his
aunt's threshold — he was al»out to bring her face to face with that
ventiable, experienced, yet most mild woman, — when, sudtlenly,
he felt his right ear seized as by a pair of iron pincers, and the
ne.xt moment he felt himself spinning round and round ; and the
very next moment he lay tumbled in a heap upon the pavement.
His heait bursting with indignation, he looked up, and — somehow,
agiun he felt another tumble, for he saw in his assailant Bright
Jem, his mother's brother-in-law ; the meddlesome, low fellow,
that had always taken it upon himself to talk to him. A few paces
distant, too, was Mr. Whistle, Bow-street officer, serenely turning
his flower between his lips, and with both his hands in his pockets,
looking down ujam the footman as though he was of no more
account than a toadstool. Of course, the girl screamed as the
assault was committed ; of coui-se, for a few moments her rage
against the ruffian, — the ugly man who had, and so like his impu-
dence, spoken to her at the Browni Bear, — was deep and womanly.
But suddenly the face of Mr. Gum grew even a little darker ;
and the wench, though no scholar, read treason in every black
line. Hence, with growing calmness, she beheld Mr. Gum elabo-
rately rub himself', as he slowly rose from the pavement.

'' Who S]>oke to you ? What did you do that for ? " Such wai?
the poor platitude that the smitten footman uttered : for guilt was

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 317

at his heart ; detection -weigkeJ upon him, and he could not
crow.

" Doesn't his aunt Hve here 1 " cried the girl. " He said it was
his aunt that wanted to &ee me ? "

" The only aunt he ever had," said Bright Jem, " is in lieaven ;
and — 1 know if — she's a blushing for him ihis vory minute. I
sav, Whi-stle, couldn't we help him to a little Bridtwell for all
this ? "

Mr. "WHiistle, shifting his flower to the corner of his mouth, was
about to say sonutiiing ; but it was clear that Mr. Gnm hud not
at the munient cither taste or lei.sure to attend to h'^al opinions.
He therefore took to his heels ; and he never ran so fiust, because,
perhaps, he never felt so little as he ran.

" iS'ow wjLsu't I right, Whistle / And didn't I say that there
was mischief in him i And wasn't it lucky we followed him from
the Bear ? Well, he hns a nice cruj) of early wickedness, hasn't
he I " Thus s|)<jke Bright Jem, with a face of wonder. Mr. AVhistle,
huwever, wiw in no way disconcerted or astonished. He was one
of those unfortunate people — though he himself considered his
happy superiority to ari.se from the circumstance — who liail seen
so muoli wickedness, that nny amount or eccentricity of evil failed
f:i> surprise him. He therefore twirled the flower in his mouth,
and remarked a little plaintively — " Why w:is you so quick ? If
you 'd only had patience, we nught have sent him to Bridewell ;
and now, you 've spoilt it all — spoilt it all." With these words,
and a brief shadow of disappointment on his brow, the officer
departed.

'■ Poor little soul ! " cried Jem, taking the girl's hand, and
looking paternally m her face — " where did you come from — and
where are vou sjoinfi to ? Come, vou '11 answer me, now, won't
you ? "

*' I come from Kent, and I 'm going to Mary Axe. That young
man, I thouglit, was taking me the way" —

" Poor little lamb ! You wouldn't think he was old enough for
60 big a \'illam ; but somehow, he's been reared in a hot-bed, and
has spindled up 'stonishingly. He's my wife's sister's child, and
I will s;iy this for his father ; he was as good and as ' onest a
nigger as ever a Christian white man stole to turn a penny with,
But we can't send goodness dov^*n from father to son ; it can't be
willed away, like the family spoons. ' Vu'tue," as Mr. Capstick
says, ' like vice, doesn't always descend in a right line ; but often
goes in a zigzag.' "

The girl was an attentive listener ; but we fear did not very
perfectly undei-staud the uttered philosophy. She, however, felt
tnafc she had been snatched from ueril by the interference of tU»

S18 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

o<l(l and Ufjiy-lookiug mjiii before her. juid gratitude and confidence
Btirrcd in liur wuuiaii's he;irt. " IJlcss yt>u, sir ; I \v;i8 very
uncivil, but I thought — that is — I 'm iu sucb a tremble — can you
tiike me to Mary Axe ? I 'm going to a piace. iVrliajw you
know the gcntleiiL-xa — Mr. Snipetou ? I mean Mrs. SriipeLon, his
beautiful young wife i "

Jem stared, and niai-%'elled at the strangeness of the acoiiL'iit.
He, h(.>wever, owneil to no acqiKiiiitauce with tlie fortunate owner
of the lady. " Take my arm," he said, " and I 'II leave you at
the very door." With this Jem jirocfedod onward, and at length
turned into Long Acre. Passing the door of Ca])stick — for we
believe we liave already informed the reader that the meml>or for
Liquorish had taken humble lodgings in that district — the door
ojioned, and the senator himself, with no less a jierson tlian
Mr. Tangle, attoniey-at-law, advanced to the thrtshold.

''Eh, Jem! V.'liat 's this? A thing from the buttercnps ?
Where did you pick it up?" cried C'apstick. Now tlie wench wa.-»
no jrramuiarLin, vet she seined to have a Ixmi knowld^e that
" it" applies! to one of the female gender w;is alike a violation of
grammar and good-breeding. Therefore she echosnl "^it" bcnreen
her teeth, with of course a signilicant tossing of the Itcjid.

Jem observed the working of the femuiine mind, and imme-
diately whis|M'red to the girl — " He's my master and a member
of Parliament ; but the best cretur in th'2 world." Jem then in a
bold voiee infornifd the senator tliat " the young 'oniau was come
uj) from the country to go to service at JSlr. Snipeton'.'^w"

" Bless me ! what a very strange accidt-nt ! Come to Mr.
Snipet^ju'.^, eh ? Uow very odd !" cried Tangle, feeling tliat h**
ought to speak.

In the me.-uitime Bright Jem, with commeuilablo brevity, wliis-
pered to Capstick the lii-vtory of his meeting with the gentle wav-
f:u-er. " Well, and she looks an innocent thing," saiil Capstick^
his face scarlet with indignation at Jem's story. " She k>oks
innocent; but after idl she's a woman, Jem; imd women can
look whatever they like. They 've a woudeiiul way of pawssiiig
pocket-pieces for virgin gold. I dijii't believe any ot' 'em ; never-
theless, Jem, mn for a coach ; ami :is Mr. Tangle and m^'self are
going to Snipeton's, we can all go together. I dare say, young
■woman, you 're tired of walking ? You look so ; if, as I say, looks
are anything. Jem, run for the conch. Come up stairs." And
with this invitation, Capstick gently cLisped the fU'in of the maiden
— a little awe-struck iliat she felt the pressure of that mysterious,,
solemn creature, a live member of parliament — and led her,
ascending, to his room. Mr. Tangle followed, much scandalised
at the familiarity of the legislator ; and fortitj'ing himself with

ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMES. 819

the determination, not, without a vehement renion.strance, to ride
ill the same hackney-coach with a maid-of-all-work.

Mr. Capsti.k liad, he wiw jiccnstomed to declare, funiisLcd Ida
room with a vigilant eye to Ids duties us a meudjer of parliament.
Over his mantel-piece was Magna ChartJi, fi-imed and glazed. " A
fine historic liclnon," he would say ; " a beautiful legend ; a nice
sing-song to send men to sleei), like the true and tragical history
of Cock I^jbin chaunted to children." He was wont to chuckle
mightily at the pa.ssage — a fine stretch of fancy he would call it —
abi)ut " selling or deferring justice," and vow it ought to be written
in blood-red letters in the Court of Cluuieery. "There is line,
grave comedy, in this sheet, sir ; an irony that strengthens the
nerves like a steid draught. They ouglit to hang it up on board
the Tower Tender ; 'twould make pretty reailing for tlie free-born
Englishman, kidnajiped from wife and children to fight, and, by
the grace of the cat, to be cut into a hero to vomit songs about."
And in this irreverent, rebellious fiu-<hion woulil the member for
Liquorisli talk of Magna Charta. lie ealle«l it a great national
romance ; and never failed to allude to it as evidence of the
value of tine fiction uptm a people. " Because it ought to be
true,'" he would say, "they think it is."

And the misanthrope member liad odd lucknack toys ; and all,
hs he said, to continually renund him of his duties as a senator
and a citizen- He had a model of George the Tldrd's new drop
in mahogany. " One of the institutions of my comitry," he would
say, " iiniM u.\ ed under the reign of my gi'acious sovereign. Some-
folks hang up the royal portrait. Now I prefer the work.s of a
m.m to his looks. Every ordinary monung I bow once to that
engine as a type of the wisdom :md philanthropy of a Chn.-stian
land ; once on common occasion;;, and three times on hanging-
days." besides this, he had a toy pillory ; with a dead mouse
fi.xed, and twirling in it. " And when T want an unbending of
tlie immortal mind within me — by the way," Capstick once said
to Tan<de, '" what a bow we do sometimes make of the inmiortal
mind, the better to shoot at one another with — when I want to
iud)end a Utile, I place the pillory before me, and pelt the mouse
with cherry-stones and crumtjs. And you wouldn't believe it, but
it does me quite as much good — quite as much — as if the dead
mouse w:is a living man, and the stones and crumbs were mud
and eggs."

There were other fantastic movables which, for the present,
■we must pass. Mr. Capstick, to the astonishment of Tangle,
approached a comer cujiboaril, takuig therefrom a decanter of
wme and a ghiss. " You are tired, young woman ; and sometimes
a little of this— just a little — is medicine to the weary." He

3^0 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

then poured out tlie wine ; which the wench obeiliently swallowed-
Had it been the nio-st nauseous drug, there was sucli a mixture of
kiudness and autliority in the manner of the raenibtir of pai-lia-
ment, — the jiliysic luust liave gone down.

" Mr. Capstiok, one word," said Tangle, and he drew the
BenaV>r to a corner of the room. " Doubtles.s, I made a mistake.
But you know we have iin]>nrt,'int busiiu-ss to transact : and no,
you never intend to go to Mr. Snipi-ton's in the same coach with
that gentleman's maid-of-all-work i"

'• She won't bite, will she?" asked C.apstick.

" Bite ! " echoed Tangle.

" Coach is at the door, sir," saiil Bright Jem, entering the
room.

" (Jo you fn-st," said Caj).stiek to T:uigle, in a tone not to be
mistaken; "I'll bring the young woman." And if Tangle h.id
been really .a four-footed dog, he would, as he went down staii-s,
have felt a great drpn-ssinu of the caudal nn-niber, whilst the
Ben.itori.-d inuniu-maker tri]it after him with the ignominious
niaid-of-idl-work.

CHAPTER XXXL

FoK some days Snij>eton hail half resolved to surprise his wife
with a j>ro.'?<'nt ; a dt>ar and touching gift, — the miniature of her
father. Again anil .ar^ain he ha*! determined upon the graceful
act ; and nn often put the expensive thought aside — trod the weak-
ness down ."w an pxtrav.agant folly. And tlicn it would occur to
his Itenevolence, th:it he might niake a bargain with himself, .ind
at the same time impait a p'ea-sure to his spouse. The miniature
w;is enriched with diamonds ; tirst-water g«'ms, he knew, for he
had lent gold upon them ; though his wife — at the time of the
loan she was yet unmanacled — w:i.s luiconscious of the reaily
money kindnes.s. Her father had withered, died, in the clutch of
the usurer ; who still cherished the jiortrait of the dead man — it
was so very dear to him. The picture had l)een a bridal present
to Clarissa's mother ; it had lain warm in her wedded bosom ;
though Snipetou, when he gi-asped the precious security, knew
nothiiif of its histon*. Well, he would certainly delight Clarissa
with this sweet remembrance of her father. She knew not of its
exi.><tence, ;uid woidd bless and love her husband for his .sudden
goodness. lie wovdd give the wife the niiuiaturo ; it w;is settled :
he would do it. " What ! with the diam..ida ^ " cried Snipeton's

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 321

careful genius, twitching liis heartstrings, to pull him up in his
headlong course. "With the dianiomls, Ebenezcr Sni})eton ?
Are you gi-own lunatic — iloting ? I>iamon(ls, eternal diamonds,
—diamonds everlasting a.s the sun — the spiritualised essence of
Gain — diamonds for one flickering look ; for one sick smile from
withering lijw ! - Have you forg«j(ton the woilh of wealth '? Lost
man ! are you suddenly dead to arithmetic ? Give diamonds to
your wife ? Pooh ! j)ooh ! As women love anything that glitters
— and as moreover they love Jack-o'-laiithorns just as well as
heaven's own stars— don't throw away vhe real treasure ; but
mock it ; sham it ; pass off a jewt- ller's lie, and let the picture
blaze with the best and brightest pa.ste. He 's a fool who throws
pearls to pigs, and thinks the jwrk will eat the richer for the
treasure. He 's no less a fool who showers diamonds upon his
wife when, knowing no better, ]ia.ste will make her just as
grateful." Ami Suipeton gave all his ears to this scoundrel
geniu.s, that lived in his heart like a maggot in a nut, consuming
and rotting it. Tliere were tinns, though, when the genius slejit ;
and then Suipeton — ignorant, unatlvised man — wjw determined to
be honest, generous. He would not countenance the fraud of
false setting. No ; his bird of Parailise ; his lamb ; his darling
Clarissa ; the queen flower in his life's gai-den — for she was this
aind all of these — should have the diamonds. Besides, if given to
her, they were still his own ; for according to the sweet rights of
a husband, property so bestowed — with no parchment to bind it —
might at any time be reclaimed by the lawful lord. After all, it
was but Icniling his wife tlie diamonds ; though — gentle simpleton !
— she might still be tickled with the thought that they were wholly
- hei-s.

It was the morning after the visit of Crossbone ; and
Snipeton seated betimes at his cottage window — his eye first
wandering among some flowers — his wife's only children as he once
bitterly called them — and at length fixed upon the labours of a
bee that toiled among the blossoms, taking sweet per-centage for
i-ts honey bank : it was at such a time that Snipeton again pondered
on the diamonds. Again he revolved the special pleading of his
thrifty genius : again attended to the counter-reasoning of his
aftections ; allowing that he had them, and again allowing that
affections do reason. He watched the bee — conscientious porter !
— load itself to its utmost strength, and then buzz heavily through
the casement. The insect had taken all it could cariy. Wise,
frugal, man-teaching insect. No : Snipeton woidd not give the
diamonds. He would keep all he could : in his own grasp. All.
And the determination, like a cordial, mightily comfoi-ted him.
At this moment Claris-sa entered the room from her cliamlier.

VOL. L ^

322 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

Snipeton suddenly rose as to an angelic visitor. His wife looked
so beautiful — so very lieautiful. Witli such new sweetness in her
face ; such beaming mildness in her eyes ; there was such /,Tace
in her motion, that love and vanity swelled in the old man's heart ;
and hia hand stningtly trembled a.s it greeted her. His prudential
genius was on the sudileu pjualysod and dumb. Clarissa looked
at her husb:uid, as he thought, never before so lo\'ingly — and for
the moment, the miser glowed with the prodigal.

" Why, yuu are better, love ; much better. Even Crossbone's
talk had re\'ived you. Ha ! and we '11 have this horse, and
straiglitway : and — and the rose of my life will bloom again.
Look here, my love." It wa.s done : even at the l;ust, one spiism
of the heart it cost, but it waa over. The miniature — that
dii mond-circled piece of ivory and paint — was in Clarissa's liand.
Aswnished, hapjiy, she naid no word, but ki.ssed the suilden gift ;
again and again kissed it, and her teara flowed. '* 1 have often
thought — indeed, li;ive long determined to give it you," cried
Sniih'ton.

'' Thank — thank yon, dear sir. Indeed, you have made me
veiy hapi\v," answered his wife.

His wiie ! iJid she answer like his wife ? Was it the voice of
his twin soul — did the tlesli of his flesh move with her lips ? Was
it his other incorporate self that sjioke ? Did lie listt-n to the
echoes of hia own he;irt ; or to the voice of an alien J Wlien tlie
ilevil jealou.sy begins to question, how rapid his inti-rrogations !

"I tell you," s<iiil Snipeton, '" I repeat — 1 have all along deter-
mined that you should have it ; in good season, have it. Your
tither's picture, wlio with so great a right to it i He told me
'trt-.is once yuur mother's. She wore it, till her death. Poor
thing ! He must have loved her very dearly. When he spoke
of her, and never willingly, he would tremble as with the ague."
Clarissa bowed her hesui ; was silent ; and again kissed the
picture. '' This fondness — these tears, Clarissa, must — if spirits
know such matters — be precious to your father, now once more
joined with your mother in heaven. Why, what 's the matter I
So pale — so lily white ; what is it, love t "

" Nothmg, sir ; nothing but the surprise — the joy at this gift,"
faintly answered Clai'Lssa.

. " Well, I see it has delighted you. I hoped so. Much
delighted you : very much. You have kissed the picture fifty
times, Clarissa. Is it not fifty — or have I falsely counted ? Tell
me. Fitlv— is it not ] "

"I cannot tell, sir," replied the wife, timidly. " Can they —
ought they to be counted ? "

** Why — but then, I am a cold arithmetician — I can count

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 323

them ; at least, all that fall to my lips. Can you not tell the
number vouchsafed to the gift / Strange ! I can count, ay»
every one, bestowed upon the giver." Mournfully, and with some
bitterness did Snipeton speak. His wife, with a slight tremor —
suppressed by strong, sudden will — approached him. Pale, shud-
dering victim ! with mixed emotions fighting in her face, she
bowed her head, and placing her cold arms about the old man's
neck, she closed her eyes, and kissed his lips.

" Indeed, sir, I thank you. Pardon me ; indeed I thank you
for this and all your goodness." She felt reUeved ; she had paid
the demanded debt.

And Snipeton — poor old man ! — was he made happy by that
caress ? How much real love was in it ? How much truth ?
How much hj'jwcrisy ] Or at the best, enforced obedience ? It
came not from the heart : no ; it wanted blood and soul. It was
not the fier}' eloquence of love, telling a life's devotion witli a
touch. It was not that sweet communing of common thoughts,
and common affections ; that deep, that earnest, and yet placid
interchange of wedded soul with soul. In his he;u-t, as in a
crucible, the old man sought to test that kiss. "Was it truth, or
falsehood ? ^ nd as he pondered — how mysteriously are we
fashioned ! — a thing of forty years ago rose freshly to his mind.
What brought it there ] — yet, there it was. The figure, the face of
one who with proved perjury at his lips kissed the book, sweaiing
the oath was time.

Chirissa saw her husband suddenly dashed with gloomy thoughts.

They reproached her ; and, instinctively, she returned to the 6ld

.man's side, and laying her hand upon his brow — had the hand

been a sunbeam, it had not hghted the face more suddenly, brightly

— she spoke to him very tenderly : " Are you not well, sir 1 "

" Quite well ; always well, Clarissa, with you at my side — with
you as even now." And she looked so cheerful, yes, so affection-
ate, — he had wronged her. He was a fool — an exacting fool — with
no allowance foi the natural reserve, the unconquerable timidity,
of so gentle a cj*eature. " And, as I was sajing, you are better ;

much better ; and we '11 have this horse ; and but. Clary,

love, we have fc>rgotten breakfast." Resolved upon a fall meal,
Snipeton moved to the table ; and whilst he strove to eat, he
talked quite carelessly, and, by the way, of a matter that a little
disturbed him. "And how do you find IVIi^. Wilton, eh,
deai-est ? "

Clarissa, with troubled looks, answered — " Find her, sir ? la
rfie not all we could wish ? "

" Oh, honest, quiet, and an excellent housekeeper, no doubt
Do you know her st«.iry 1 "

324 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

" Stoiy, sii- 1 " and Clai-issa trembled as slie sjAjke. " What
story ? "

^ Her storj' ? Haa she not one ? Everybody, it "s ray opinion,
h;is ; but here 's the rub : everj'body won't tell it, can't tell it,
mustn't tell it. Is it not so ? "

" It is never my thought, sir ; my wish to question your e.xpe-
rience. You know the world, you say. Fur my p;urt, I never
wi«?h to know it. My hope is, to die in my ignonmce."

" True ; you are right ; I W(jnld have it so. For it i» a know-
ledge that — but no matter. My learning nhall .serve for Kitii.
Well, she never told you her stoiy^ ? " With this, SnijHjton looked
piercingly at his wife, who at first answered not. At length she
asked, '* Do you know it, sir \ "

" No : but it is plain she has a story. I am firm in the faitli."
" S<jrae grief — w^nie sacred sorrow, perhaps," said Clarissa.
" We should resjiect it : t«hould we not \ "

" Why, grief and sorrow are convemeut worils, and often do
duty for sin and shame," cried SnijMjton.

" Sin and sliame are grief and sorrow, or should be so," replied
Claris^sa, mounifully.

" Humph ! Well, perhaps they are. However, Mrs. Wilton's
story is no affair of ours," sjiid Snijieton.
" Assuredly not," cried Clarissa, quickly.

" But her melancholy is. 'Tis catching ; and infects you. Her
bad spirits, her gloom, seem to touch all about her with mildew.
A bad conscience — or a great grief — "lis no matter which, throw.-*
a black shadow ab<iut it ; and to come at once to my meaning,
Clarissa, I think Mrs. Wilton had better quit."

" Oh, sir ! " exchumed Claris.s;i. " 'Twould break her heart — it
woulil indeetl, sir."

" It 's wonderful how long people live, ay, and enjoy themselves,
too, with broken hearts, Clarissa. I 've otlen thought broken
hearts were like broken china : to be put nicely together agabi,
and — but for the look of the thing — to be quite as useful for all
house-work as before. Now Mrs. Wilton's lieart " —

" Do not speak of it. If — if you have any love for me, sir " —
cried Clarissiu

" T/' I have love ! Well, what think you f Have I not — even
a few minutes since — given good proof ? ' it was somewhat
distasteful to the old man, that after the gill of such diamonds, his
love could be doubted. He had better have listened to his good,
his wise, his profitable genius, and pi-esented paste. How many
wives — however badly used and iuJustriously neglected — would
Btill bestow their love ! Now he, even with diamonds, could not
buv it. For liis wife to doubt his love, was to refuse her own,

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. S25

This his philosophy made certain. Aiul this after the <lia-
inoiuls !

" Nay, I am sure of your love, sir ; certalu ; most confident,"
said Clarissa, very calm in such assurance. " And therefore know
you will refuse me nothing. Eh, dear sir ? "

Again Snipetpn's heartstrings relaxml ; again, listening to tlie
music of the enchantress, his darker thouglits began to p:issaway,
and his soul enjoyed new sunlight. "Nothing — nothing," he sjiid,
" that is liealtliful."

" Then pron\Lse me that Mrs. Wilton shall remain. Indeed,
.\>n know not how much I have learne*! of her ; how much she
lOves me ; how much she respects you."

" RcsjHict is a cold viitue, I know, Clarissii ; very cold. Now,
with her 'tis freezing. I sometimes think she looks at mi?, ;is
though — but I '11 say no more. She blights yuur spirits ; darkens
your thoughts with her sorrow or her sin, or whatever it may be ;
and, in a word, she shall stay no longer. I am resolved."

" Blights me ! Darken-s my thoughts ! Oh, sir, I would you
hcjiril her talk. I would you knew the pauis she takes to make
me happy ; to make me cheerful ; to place all things in the
happiest light, shedding, ;is she does, the beauty of her spiiit
ever all. Doubtless, she has suffered, but "

" But — but she goes. I am resolved, Claris.sa ; she goes.
Resolved, I say."

And Ebenezer Snipeton struck the table with his fist ; and
threw himself back in his chair, as he believed, a statue of
humanity, hardened by resolution into flint. Ajid very proud he
felt of the petrifaction. Nor lightnings, nor thunderbolts should
melt or move him.

Clju-issa — her suit was for a mother — rose from her chair, and
stood beside her husband. She threw hei arms about his neck.
Flint as he was he felt they were not so lumpish, day-like as
when last they lay there. " Dear sir, you '11 not refuse me tiiis ?
You '11 not refuse me ? " And CLoiissa for once looked full in the
eyes of her husband.

" Resolved," said Snipeton thickly ; and something rose in his
throat. " Resolved."

" No ; no. You must promise me — you shall not leave me
without," and the arms pressed closer ; and the flint they
embraced became soft as any whetstone. " You will not deprive
me of her solicitude — her afiection ? " Snipeton answered not ;
when Chirissa — in such a cause what cared she for the sacrifice ?
— stooping, kissed her husband with a deep and fervent affection
for her mother. And the statue was suddenly turned to thrillmg
flesh : had the old man's heart been stuck with thorns, his wife's

S2(> ST. GILES AND ST. JAMLIS.

lips would have drawn them all away, and made it beat Mith
buraing blood. The man was kissed for an old woman ; but he
set the rai)tnre to his own accotint. and was directly ricli with
imatnnary wealth. Need we say the man consented ? What
otherwise could strong resolution do ?

A new man, with a newer, bri^^'hter world V>eaming about him,
Snipeton that day departed from his rustic home to St. Mary Axe.
His wife seemed to travel with liim, he was so haunted by her
looks of ntw-bom love. Anil now he hummed some ancient,
thout;litleas soui,' ; and now he sinacked his bp.s, as with fre.sheued
recollection of tlie touch that liad enriched them. The mist and
cloud of doubt that liad hung about his life bad passetl away, and
he saw peacefoliie.s.s and beauty clearly to the end. And these
thoughts went with him to his dark and dismal city nook, and
imparteil deeper ])leasnrea even to the bliss of money-making.

This once, at least, St. Gilc-s was in luck. A few minutes only
after Snij*ton's arrival, with his new happincs-s fresh ujion him,
the young man presentevl himself with a ktter from Crossbone.
" He looks an honest fellow ; a very honest fellow," thought
Snii)eton, eyeing him. " 'Tis a bad world ; a wicked world ;
yet, when all's saitl, there are some honest j>eople ; yea, there
must be some." And this charitable thoaght enhanced for the
nonce St. CJilos. He could not have come in happier season.
" Humph ! and you have known Mr. Crosslxiue some time ? To
1)6 sure, he told me, from a clnkl. And your father was killed,
trying to d'^ good ? That 's hard ; plaguy hard ; for people ar'n't
oft^en killed in that humour. And you 've been kind — very kind
to your mother ? "Well, that *s something ; I think I may trust
you. Yes : you may consider youi-self engaged. When can you
come ? "

" Directly, sir," said St. Giles ; who had been duly impressed
by Crossbone with the necessity of obtaining Snipeton's patron-
age ; it was so very essential to the happiness of his lordship.
" Be vigilant, be careful," thus had ran the a[X)thecary'» counsel,
"and his lordship will make a man of you!" What a golden
prospect for one who, with the hopes and worthy desires of a man,
knew himself to be a social wolf in the human fold ; a thing to be
destroyed, hung up ; a wholesome example to runaway vagabonds.
To be made a man of, what a load must he lay down ! What a
joy, a blessing, to stand erect in the world — and be allowed to
meet the eyes of men with confiding looks ! Now, he crept and
crawled ; and felt that his soul went ujxm all-fours. Now, he at
times shrunk from a sudden gaze, as from a drawn knife. And
his lordship would make a man of him ! Glorious lal>our, this ;
divine handiwork ! And there is plenty of such labour, too, in

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 327

this broad worM, if we had birt the earnest-hearted workers to
grapjjle with it. How many thousand thousands of human
animals ; creatures of outward humanity ; beings on two legs, are
yet to be made men of ! Again, what is a man ? You, reader,
may possibly have a pretty correct notion of what he is, or ought
to be : now, Mr.* Crossbone's ideal of a perfect man was but of a
perfect rascal. He would make a man as he would have made a
gin, a trap ; the more perfect the suare, the nobler the humanity.
And in this sense wjis St. Giles to be elevated into a man, for the
direct advantage of the young lord, and thesupjtlomentary benefit
of the aputhecary. And St. Giles himself — it must not be for-
gotten — had some misgivings of the model-excellence after which
he was to be fashioned. It just passed thi-ough his brain that
the man he was to be made, might be a man, if not nearer to the
gallows than himself, at least a man more deserving (if any
tleserved it) the elevation. There seemed to him new peril to be
made a man of. Yet, what could he do ? Nothing. He must
wait ; watch ; and take the chances as they felL

Suijieton read the letter. Nothing could have fallen out so
luckily. A friend of Crossbone's — a m;m of honour though he
dealt in horseflesh — had a beautiful thing to sell ; a thing of lamb-
like gentleness and beauty. The very thing for Mi-s. Suipeton.
A mare that might be reined with a thread of silk. Moreover,
Mr. Suipeton might have the beast at his own price ; and that, of
course, would be next to no price at all.

" Do you imderstand hoi-ses, my man ? " asked Snipeton, as he
finished the letter.

" Why, yes, sir," answered St. Giles ; and he must have
answered yes, had the question been of unicorns.

"Well, then" — but at this moment, Snipeton 's man brought
in the names of Capstick and Tangle. To the great relief of
St. Giles, he was ordered into an adjoining room, there to wait.
He withdrew as the new visitors entered.

" Mr. Snipeton, this — this " — why did Capstick pause ? — " this
gentleman is Mr. Tangle, attorney " —

" Solicitor," was Mr. Tangle's meek correction. " It 's of no
consequence, but — solicitor."

" Pooh, pooh ! It isn't my way, sir. I always say ' attorney,'
and then we know the worst," said Capstick.

" I have heard of 'Mr. Tangle. We never met before — but his
reputation has reached me," sneered Snipeton.

" Reputation, sir," observed Capstick, " is sometimes like a
polecat ; dead or alive, its odour -will spread."

" Very true ; it is ; it has," was the corroboration of Snipeton ;
and Tangle, though he tried to smile, fidgetted uneasily.

323 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

" You are, perhaps, not aware, Mr. Snipeton, that a petition is
to be presented to the House of Commons — my House — for the
pur])ose of turning out its present patriotic member for Liquorish 1"
said Capstick.

" Indeed ! Upon -what ground ? " inquired Snipeton.

" Briber)'. Would you imagine it ? Could you think it ?
Charge me with bribery ! " said the member.

" Pardon me. Not you ; oh, by no means ! "We never do that.
We 're not so ill-bred. No, sir, the crime — that is, the statutable
crime — for morals and statutes, sir, are sometimes ver}' different
things — the crime of bribery is laid at the door of Mr. Capstick'.T
agents. His agents, sir," said Tangle.

" I had none : none whatever. It is my pride — if, indeed, a
man should be proud of anything in tliis dirty, iniquitous world —
a world of flip-flaps and sumersets — my pride, that I was returned
]Mirely upon my own mei-its ; if, indeed, I have merits ; a matter
I am sometimes incUued to doubt, when I wake uj> from my first
sleep. / go into Parliament upon briljery ! I shcjuld think myself
one big blotch — a human boil. No; I can lay my hand ii\K>n my
breast — just where I carrj- my pocket-book — and answer it, before
the world, — except the price of the hackney coach that carried
me to the House, my seat didn't cost me sixpence."

" Ha, Mr. Capstick ! " cried Tangle, half closing his eyes ;
" you don't know what friends you had."

" Yes, sir, I do ; for I 've been intimate with them all my life.
Integrity, honour, out-speaking" — Capstick paused ; and the
next moment bluslied, as though detected in some gross fault.
Tlie truth is, he was ashamed of him.self for the vain-boasting.
Integiity and honour ! Supposing that he had them — what then ?
Was it a matter to make a noise about ? Capstick blushed ; then
hurriedly said — " I beg your pardon. Go on with the bribeiy."

" And so they want to turn you put, eh ? " cried Snipeton.
" The house of St. James can't swallow the muffin-maker. Ha !
ha ! I can only wish you had been a chimney-sweeper. 'Twould
have been a sweeter triumfth."

" I am quite contented, !Mr. Snipeton," said Capstick, majes-
tically, " as it is. Not that, as one of the social arts, I despise
chimney-sweeping. By no means. For there may be cases in
which it would not be such dirty work to clean folk's chimneys,
as to sweep their pockets."

" True ; very true," said Snipeton, who never selfishly took a
sarcasm to himself, when, as he thought, so many of his fellow-
creatures equally well deserved it. " And so to the bribery. We
must meet this petition."

" I thought so ; and therefore waited upon !Mr. Capstick to

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 329

offer my professional sei^cea. You see, sir, I have peculiar
advantiiges — very peculiar. For although, by that unfortunate
and most mysterious robbery of the gold, the bribery — on the
part of his lordshi]) — was limited, rather limited ; nevertheless, I
liave here, sir, — here " — and Tangle tapped at his breast — " such
facts, that "— •

" I see," said Snipeton ; " and you '11 turn yourself inside out
to oblige us 1 "

" I am a free agent ; quite free. Being no longer his lordship's
legal adviser — you wouldn't think that that paltry box of gold
could have parted us : but so it is— there is no gratitude in the
great ; — being, as I say, free, sir ; and in the possession of
secrets " —

" If you want a cheap pennj'worth of dirt you can buy it — you
can buy it," said Capstick.

" Mr. Capstick ! " exclaimed Tangle with a dai-kly solenm face,
" Mr. Capstick " — but the attorney thought it not profitable to
be indignant ; therefore he sutlered a smile to ovei-flow his cheek,
as he continued — " Mr. Capstick, you 're a wag." But Tangle had
in this a secret consolation : fur in his legal opinion he had as good
as called the muffin-maker " thief and housebreaker." Tangle
then proceeded. " What I sludl do, I shall do for justice. And
public justice, witli her scales " —

" Bless my soul ! I 'd quite forgot the girl. Mr. Snipeton, your
maid-of-all-work from Kent is below. A droll business. Quite an
escape, poor thing ! But she '11 tell your wife ail about it," said
Capstick.

" Your pardon. Just one minute ; " whereupon Snipeton
repaired to St. Giles. " You know my house ? Mind, I don't
want all the world to know it. Well, make the best of your way
there, and — ^stop. Come down stairs." And Snipeton left the room,
St. Giles following lum. St. Giles — so Snipeton deteiTniued —
should at once escort the wench to Hampstead. Another minute,
and to the joy and ill-concealed astonishment of the pair, the girl
saw in St. Giles the wanderer and vagrant to whom she had given
the shelter of a bam — and he beheld in his new fellow-servant,
Becky, the soft-hearted maiden of the Lamb and Star.

580 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

CHAPTER XXXIT.

" What is it you look at so earnestly ? " asked Mi-s. Wihon :
and Clari-ssa, with a flushed cheek, placed the iiiiuiature iu
her bosom. Suipeton had just quitted the house — for we must
take hack the readier to that point of time — anil Clarissa sat, with
her heart in her eyes, gazing at the youthful features of her
father. As she looked, with fond curiosity comparing those
features, iu their early bloom and strength, tempered with gent'e
frankness ; as she gazed upon their manly, loving openness, and,
with her memory, evoked that melanclu)ly, oare-woni face, that,
smiling on nought beside, wouhl always smile on her, she felt —
she shuddered — but still she felt anger, bitterness towards her
mother. Her eye, reading that face, could see where i>aiu liad
given a shai-per edge to time : could see where, in the living face,
care had doubled the work of years. Surely, she tliougbt, so fair
a morning promised a fairer night. That glad and hapj)y da)'
should have cli.wed with a golden .sunset, touching with sohinn
happiness all it shone upon, as slowly from the earth it pa.ssecf in
glory. These were the daughter's thoughts as she heard her
mother's voice. A momentary resentment glowed in her cheeit— ■
darkened her eyes.

" Claris.<i ! "

"It is nothing — a — a present from Mr. Snipeton — from ray hus-
band," said Claris, a cohLlv. Her mother took her dauj^hter's Iiand
between her own Atfectionately pressing it, and with all a
mother's tenderness beaming iu her face — the only look hypocrisy
could never yet assume — she .said, '" It is well, Clarissa — veiy well.
It makes me hajipy, deeply happy, to hear you. 1 think it is the
first time you have said ' husband.' "

" Is it 90 ? I cannot tell. The word escaped me. Yet I — must
learn to speak it."

" Oh, yes, C!aris.sa. Make it the music of your life ! Think
it a charm that, when pronounced, makes all earth's evils less —
doubling its blessings. A word that brings with it a sense of joy;
a strength ; a faith iu human existence. A word that may clothe
beggary itself with content, and make a hut a temple. You may
still pronounce it. Oh, never, never may you know what agony
it is, to forego that word. The living makes it a blessing ; and
the dead sanctities and hallows it."

Clarissa felt conscience-smitten, stung with remorse. All heed-

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 331

Icssly, cruelly, she had arraigned her mother ; thoughtless of the
daily misery tliat wore her :- regardless of the penitence that
corroded and consumed her. " Forgive me." she said : '■ forsrive
me, mother. I will lay this lesson to my heart. I will learn
to speak the word. You shall still teach me its sustaining
sweetness."

" A most unfit teacher ; most unfit," said the mother, with an
appealing look of anguish. " Your own hejirt will beat instruct
you." And then, with resolute calmness, she asked : " What is
this present ? "

" You shall not know to-day ; by-and-by, mother. And I have
a present, too, for you," said Clarissa ; ami she looked so light, so
happy, that her mother for the first time dared to hope. Did the
young victim feel at length the wife ? Would that seeming life-
long sorrow pass away, and the sunshine of the heart break in
that clouded face ?

" I will be patient, child ; nay, I will promise what you will, I
feel so grateful that I see you thus cheerful — happy. Shall I not
say, happy, Clarissa 1 "

" Oh yes ; very happy," answered the wife ; and a sudden
pang of heart punished tlie treason of the lips. " But I must not
be idle to-ilay, I have so much to do." And Clarissa seated her-
self at her work ; and the mother silently occupied hei*self And
80, hour after hour pa.ssed, .and scarce a word wjxs spoken. At
length Dorothy Vale, with noiseless step and folded arms, stood in
the room.

" They be come," said Dorothy, with unmoved face, rubbing
her arms.

" Who are come ? " asked Cliu-isaa.

"Why, Becky be come, and a man with her," answered
Dorothy ; and — it was strange — but her voice seemed to creak
with suppi-essed anger.

" I am glad of that," said Clarissa ; " tell the girl to come to me
— directly, Dorothy."

Dorothy stood, rubbing her withered arms with renew^ed
purpose. Her brow wrinkled, and her grey, cold eyes gleamed,
like sharp points, in her head ; then she laughed. " She was
brought up in the workhouse : and to be put over my head ! Well,
it 's a world ! The workhouse ; and i)ut over my head ! " Thu,s
muttering, she left the room. In a moment, Becky — possessed
with delight, swimming in a sea of happiness — was curtseying
before her new mistress. Now, were we not assured, past all
eiTor, that it was the same country wench that half laughed at,
half listened to, the flatteries of the deceitful Gum, we should deny
her identity with that radiant piece of fleshand blood, tliat, glowing

Z''.2 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES,

witli felicity, boMneil uikI coiitiimaliy b«>V>bed before Mrs. Snipeton.
Certainly, there is a subtle power of reliuenient in hapj)ines8 : a
Boniethini; elevating, jiuriryiuij. in that ex])ausion of the heart.
SuiMen hiisa invests with sudtleu grace ; an«l gives to homelinesa
itself a look of sweetness. The sonl, for a brief time, fl;ushes forth
■with brighter light ; asserting itself — .xs human priile is sometimes
aj)t to think — in the vulgai-est, oddest sort of jKJople. And so it
was with Becky. To be sure, all the way from St Mary Axe —
hanging, and sometimes at jniddles and crossings, with all her
weight on the arm of St. (iile.s, she li;ul felt the rcfming ])rocess
liinted at above. St. Giles had talked on what he thought
indifferent mattei-s ; but tlie weather, the shops, the passers-l>y —
whatever his silver tongue dwelt ui>on — became objects of the
dearest interest to the hungry listener ; who now laughed, she
knew not why, from her over-brimming heart; and now had much
ado to check her teai-s, that — she knew it — h:ul risen to her eyes,
and threatened to flow. She walke<l in a regi(ju of dreams ; and
intoxicating music broke at every footstep. Could it be true —
could it l»e real — tli;>t that wayfaring, wretohe<l man ; that unhappy
creature, with all the world hooting at him, chasing him to destruc-
tion, like a rabid cur, that vagabond, to a suspicious world, dyed
in murderous bhwxl, was the trinj, han<lsonie — to her, how beau-
tiful I — Voung fellow walking at her side; and now and then
smiling so kindly ujxin her that her heart seemed to grow too big
with the blessing ? Antl oh — extravagant excess of happiness ! —
he was to be her fellow -servant ! lie would dwell under the
same roof with her ! Now she was steeped in bliss : and now,
A shadow fell upon her. Yea : it could not be. The happiness
was too full ; all too com]>lete to endure.

And yet the bliss conlinuetl — nay, increased. Mrs. Snipeton,
that creatiire of goodness ; that angel of Becky's morning dreams
—gave smiling welcome to her new handmaid ; greeted her with
kindest words ; and, more than all, looked cordially on St. Giles,
who could not i-emain outside, but sidled into the room to pay his
duty to his handsome mistress. Tl»e sweetness with which she
spoke to both seemed to the heart of Becky to unite both. The
girl's affection for St. Giles — until tliat moment unknown to her in
its strength — ai)iieare«l sanctione<l by the equal smiles of her latly.

At this juncture, a new visitor — with a confidence which he was
wont to wear, as though it mightily became him — entered the
room, passing before the slow domestic, leisurely bent upon herald-
ing his coming. Sir. Crossbone was again in presence of his
patient ; again had hLs finger on her pulse ; again looked with
professional anxiety in Mrs. Snipeton's face ; as though his only
thought, his only mission :n this world was to coutuiually act the

ST. GILES AND ST. JA.ME9. 333

j)ai-t of her healing angel. " Better, much better, my dear ^Irs.
Suipeton. Yes ; we shall be all right, now : veiy soon all right.
And I liave brought you the best medicine in the world. Bless
me ! " — and Crossbone stared at Becky — " the little wench from
tlie Dog and Mo(»n."

"Lamb and- Star, sir," said Becky. "Wonder you 've forgot
the house, sir ; wonder you 've forgot Mrs. Bhck and all the
babies."

" I think it waa the Lamb and Star," .said Crossbone ; but
wlicn we consiiler that the apothecary had already promised him-
self a carriage in London, can we won(k>r that he should have
forgotti'ii the ])recise sign ; that he sliouUl have forgotten tlie ])oor
children (weeds that they wen-) who owed to him an introdnction
into this over-peopled world I " You are a fortunate young woman,
that you have been promoted from sucli a place to your present
service. One always has one 's doubtu of tlie lower ordei-s ; never-
theless, I hope you '11 bo grateful." And the apothecary looked
the patron.

" I hope she ool," said Dorothy, witli a sneer ; and as she turned
from tlie room, she went muttering al(jng — " She was bora in the
workhouse, and to be put over my head ! "

" I have great faith in Becky; she'll be a good, a prudent girl ;
I am sure of it. You may go now, child, to Dorothy. Bear with
her temjter a little, and soon she '11 be your friend." And with
this encouragement, Becky left her mistress, seeking the kitchen,
hojieful and happy, as pilgrims seek a shrine. Li a moment she
had resolved with herself to be a wonder of fidelity and patience.
And then for Dorothy, though the girl could not promise herself
to love her very much, nevertheless, she determined to be to her
a pattern of obedience. " She may walk over me if she likes, and
I won't say nothing," was Becky's resolution ; should Dorothy,
from the capriciousness of ill-temper, resolve upon such enjoy-
ment ; walking over people, giving at times, it must be owned, a
strange s;itisfaction to the tjTanny of the human heart. Now
Becky, tliough slie had at least nine thousand out of the nine
thousand and three good qualities that, according to the calcula-
tion of an anonymous philosopher, fall, a natural dower, to the lot
of woman, was not ordinarily so much distinguished by meeknes.s
as by any other of the nameless crowd of good gifts. Ordinarily,
any attemj)t " to walk over her," would have been a matter of
extreme difficulty to the stoutest pedestrian ; but Becky was mol-
litied, subdued. Her heart was newly ojicned, and gushed with
tenderness. She felt herself soothed to any powers of endurance.
Tlie house was made such a happy, serious place to her by the
presence of St. Giles. He would live there ; he would be her

S34 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

fliiily .siorht ; her daily music ; and with tliat thought, all the
world might wiilk over her, and she would not complain the
value of a single word. She w;us astonished at her own determined
meekness ; she could never have believed it.

" And Mr. Snipeton — excellent man I — has hired you ? " And
Crossbone looked up and down at St. Giles. " I trust, young
man, you 11 do no discredit to my good word. It 's a risk, a great
risk, at any time to answer for fV>lk3 of your condition ; but I
have ventured for the sake of — of your [)Oor father." St. Giles
winced. " 1 hope you '11 show yourself worthy of that honest
man. Tliough he was one of the weeils of the worM, neverthe-
less, J don't know how it was, but I M have trusted him with
untold gold. So, you '11 be sober and attentive in this house ;
study the interests of your master, the wishes of your excellent
mistress who stands before you ; and, yes, you '11 also contiime to
lie kind to your mother. And now, you 'd better go and lfX)k
to tlie horse tiiat I 've letl at the garden gate." St. Giles, glad
of the dismissal, hurried from the room. He had coloured and
looked coufusetl, and shifted so uneasily wliere he stood, that he
feared his mistress might note his awkwardness ; and thus suspect
him for the lies of the apothecary- — for whom St. Giles, in the
liberality of his shamefacedness, blushed exceedingly. Great,
however, was the serenity of Crossbone on all such occa.sions.
Indeed, he took the same pleasure in falsehood that an epicure
receives from a well-seasoned dish. He looked upon lies as the
j)epper, the sjnces of daily life ; they gave a rtlish to what would
otherwise be dat and insipid. Hence, he would now and then smack
his lips at a bouncing flam, as though throughout his whole moi'al
?.nd physical anatomy, he hugely enjoyed it : flourished, and grew
fat upon it.

"And now, my dear Mrs. Snipeton — Mrs. Wilton, with your
leave, I '11 talk a little with my patient;" and Crossbone, with an
imperious smile, waved his hand towards the door. Mrs. Wilton
stirred not from her sewing ; said not a word ; but looked full in
the face of her daughter.

"Oh no ; certaiuiy not," said Clarissa ; "Mrs. Wilton has had
too much trouble with her invalid, to refuse to listen to any
further complaints ; though, indeed, sir," said Clarissa signifi-
cantly, '' I fear 'tis your anxiety alone that makes them so very —
very dangerous."

" Ha ! my dear madam. You are not aware of it — patients
am't aware of it — perhaps it is wisely ordered so — but the eye of
the true doctor can see, madam — can see."

" Pray go on, sir," said Clarissa ; and Crossbone, a b'ttle puzzled,
needed such encouragement.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 835

And with erudite discourse did Crossbone strive to entertaiji
his patient ; who endured, with fullest female resignation, the
learning of the doctor.

St. Giles, leaving the house, hurried through the garden to take
charge of the horse. Arrived at tlie gate, he saw the animal led
by a man down the road, at a greater distance from the hoiise
than was neces.sary for mere exercise. Immediately he ran off,
calling to the fellow who led the animal ; but the man, although
he slackened his pace, never turned his head or answered a
syllable. " Hullo, my man ! " cried St. Giles, " where are you
leading that ? " — and then he paused ; for Tom Blast slowly
turned himself about, and letting the bridle fall in his arme,
stared at the spcjikor.

" Why, what 's the matter, mate ? I 'm only taking care o*
the gentleman's horse ; jest walking him that he mayn't catch
cold. You don't thhik I'd steal him, do you?" asked Bhvst,
wiidcing.

" What — what brings you here again, Blast ? " stammered
St. Giles, scarce knowing what lie said.

'■ What brmgs me here ? Why, bread brings me here. Bread
o' any sort, or any colour ; dry bread at the best ; for I can't get
\i buttered like some folks. Well, it's like the world. No
lespect for old age, wheii it walks arm in arm with want ; no
honour or nothiu' o' that sort paid to grey bail's, — when there 's
no silver in the pocket. Well, I must say it — I can't help it,
tho' it goes to my art to say it — but the sooner I 'm out o' this
world the better, for I 'm sick of men. Men ! They 're wipers
with legs," and the inimitable hj^pocrite spoke with so much
passion, so much seeming sincerity, that St. Giles was for a
moment confounded by a vague sense of ingratitude ; for a
moment he ceased to remember that the old crime-grained man
before him had been the huckster of his innocence, his liberty,
— had made him the banned creature that he was, breathing a
life of doubt and terror,

" What do you want ? What will satisfy you ? " asked St.
Giles, despairingly.

" Ha ! now you talk with some comfort in your woice. What
■will satisfy me ? There is some seuise in that. Now you remind
me of a little boy that was the apples of ray eyes, and would have
been the very likes o' you, but — well, I won't talk of that, for it
always makes my throat bum, and makes the world spin round
me like a top. I don't want much. No ; I 've outlived all the
rubbish and gingerbread of life, and care for nothing but the
simple solids. It 's a wonder, young man, what time does with
im. How, as I may .say, it puts spectacles to our eyes, and makes

336 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

U8 look into mill-stones. What •will satisfy me ? Well, I do
think I could go to the grave decent on a guinea a week."

" Veiy likely ; I should think so," said St. Giles.

" A guinea a-week, paid reglar on Saturdays. For regularity
doubles the sum. I might ha' saved as much for my old age,
for the money that 's been through my hands in my time. Only
the drawback upon thiev-ing is this, there 's nothing certain
in it. No man, let him be as steady as old times, no man as is
a thief"—

" Hush ! somebody may hear you," cried St. Giles, looking
terrified abovit him.

" I 'm 8i>eakin' of a man's misfortun, not his fault," cried the
immovable Bhtst ; "no man .-us v* a tliii-f can lay up for a decent
old age. Have what luck we will, that 's where the honest ftllars
get the better on us. And so you see, insteatl o' having ut)thLn' to
do but smoke my pipe and go to the public-house, I 'm obligated
in my old atje to crawl about and hold horses, and do anytliing ;
and anything is always the worst paid work a man can take
mrney for. Now, with a guinea a week, would'nt I be a happy,
fpiiet, nice, old gen'leman ! Don't you thiidc it 's in me, eh, young
man t "

" I wish you had it," said St. Giles. " I wish bo with all my
heart. But give me the bridle."

" By no means," saitl Bhust. " How do I know yoa was sent for
the horse ? How do I know you mightn't want to steal it ? "

" Steal it ! " crietl St. Giles, and the thought of the past made
him quiver with indignation-

" Why, horses are stole," observed Mr. Blast, with the serenity
of a philosophical demonstrator. "Look here, now : if I was to
give up thi.s horse, what hinders you — I don't say you would do
it — but what hinders you from taking a quiet gallop to Smith-
field, and when you got there, selling him to some okl gentleman,
and "—

" Silence ! Devil ! beast ! " exclaimed St. GUes, raising his fist
at the tormentor.

" No, no ; you don't mean it," — said Blast — " you wouldn't hit
a old man like me, I know you wouldn't. 'Cause if you was only to
knock me down, I know I should call out, I couldn't help myself.
And then, somebody might come up ; p'raps a constable ; and
thea — oh ! I 'm as close as a cockle with a secret, I am, when I'm
not put upon, but when my blood "s up, — bless your soul, I know
my weakness, I 'd hang my own brother. I should be very sorry,
in course, arterwards ; but he 'd swing — as I 'm a li^^ng sinner,
he 'd s-wiug," and Blast, as he stared at St. Giles, gently smacked
his lips, and gently rubbed his palm-s together.

ST. GILES AND SI. JA^IES. 337

" I ask your panloii ; I didn't know wliat I said. Here 's a
sliilling ; now give me the bridle," s;iid St. Giles.

" I s']M)se it 's ;dl riglit," s;iid Jila.st, it'ndering up his charge,
and .sign! tictiutly eyeing the coin. "I s'pose it's all right; bnt
only to think of tliis world ! Only to tliink that you should give
me a .shilling tor hiililiiig a horse ! "Well, if a man could only
know it, wouldn't it break hi« hwirt outriglit to look at the bits
o' bc)ys that, afore he dietl, would be put clean over his head ?
It's a good shillin\ isn't it?"

" To he sure it is ; and an honest one, too," said St. Giles.

" (.'AmI to hear that ; tho' I don't know it will go a penny the
further. I wish tlie colour had been yellow, eh ? "

" I wibh so, too, for your sjdce. Goo<l day," ;ui<l St. Giles sought
to shake his evil geniu.s oH".

" I 'ni in no hun-y. Time 's no good to me : you may have the
pick of any of tlie four-aiid-twenty hours at your own ])rice,'" said
Blast, following clo.se at his siile. '' And so, they 've turned you
over from St. James's-square to the old money-grubber ? Well,
he 's very rich ; though 1 don't think the sops in the pan will be
a-s many as you \l been gre.T.sed with at his lordship's. For all
that, he 's very rich ; and you wouldn't think what a lot of plate
tl\e old man 's got."

" How do you know that ? " asked St. Giles.

" I dream'^1 it only last night. I had a wision, and I thought
that the mother of little Jingo"

'' Don't talk of it, man — don't talk of it," exclaimed St. Giles,
" I won't hear it."

" I must talk on it," said Blast, sidling the clo-ser, and striding
!ls St. < files strode. " 1 must talk on it It comforts me. I
dreamed that the ])o<ir soul come to me, and told me to follow her,
and took me into old .Snipetoii'a cottage there, and showe<l me the
silver tankards, and silver dishes, anil even counted up the silver
tea-spoons, tliat there was no end of; and then, when she'd put
all the plate afore me, she vanitshed olf, and I was left alone with
it. In course you know what followed."

" I can LMiess," groaned St. Giles.

" How rich 1 was while I w;is snoring, last night ; and when I
woke I was as poor as goodness. But somehow, my dream 's fell
true — I can't help thinking it — since I 've fell in with you."

" How so, mjui ? What have I to do with Mr. Snipeton's plate,
but to see nobody steals it ? " said St. Giles, firmly.

" To be sui-e ; and yet when there 's so much silver about, and
a guinea a week — well, 1 '11 say a pound, then — a pound a week
■would make a fellow-cretur happy, and silent for life — I said,
silent for life "—

V</l,. L %

S38 ST. GILES AND ST. JAME.S.

St. Giles suddenly paused, and turned full upon Bla-st. " Go
your ways, man — go your ways. Silent or not silent, you
do not frighten nie. What 1 may do for you, I'll do of my
own free will, and with my own money, .such as it is. And,
after all, I think 't will serve you better to hold your tongue,
than "—

" I wouldn't kill the goose for all the eggs at once," said Blast^
grinning at the figure.

.St. Giles felt deadly sick. He had thouglit to brave — defy the
mrtian ; but the jxjwer of the ^•ill!lin, the fate tliat with a word
he could call downi upon his victim, unncrve<l him. St. Giles, with
entre.-ilin;,' look.'^, motioned him away ; an<l Blast, leerin;,' at him,
and then to.ssing up the sliilling with liis linger and thumb, jKussed
en, leaving St. Giles at the garden-gate, where stood Clarissa,
bn)Ught tliere by the earnest entreaties of Cio-ssbone, to view the
horse — the wondrous steed that was to endow its mistress with
new health and beauty.

" You may see at a glance, mailam, there 's Arab blood in the
thing ; and yet as gentle as a rab])it. Young man, just j)ut her
^through her paces. Bless you ! she 'il tmt over eggs, and never
crack 'em. A lovely ni:u-e ! " cried Crossbone, " all her brothera
ami sisters, I *m jussured of it, in the royal stables."

" I 'm afraid, too Wautiful — nmeh too spirited for me, sir," said
Clarissa, as St. Giles ambled the creature to and fro. Ere, how-
ever, Crossbone could make ivjdy — assiiring the lady, as he pro-
p«»sed to do, that she would sit the animal .-us securely and withal
a^ gracefully as .she would sit a throi\e, — Mr. Snij>eton, full of the
dust and cobwebs of St. Mary Axe, trotted to the gate. His tiiNt
feeling was disi>lea.snre, wlien he saw his wife exposed beneath the
ojHMi sky to the bold looks of any jtroliable pjussenger ; and then
she tuniwl such a kind and conlial face upon him, that, for the
ha|)py moment, he eoulil have wisheil all the dwellers of the earth
spectators of her beauty, beaming as it did upon her glorified
liusband. It was plain : love so long «lormant, timid within her
bosom, now flew boldly to her eyes, and curved her lips, with
fondest looks and sweetest smiles for her wedded lord. W'e have
before declared that Snipeton had an intimate acquaintance with
his own ugliness : unlike so many who carry the <lisu<.lva«itage
with them through life, yet are never brought to a pei-sonal
knowledge of it, Snipeton knew his plainness : it was not in the
power of mirrors to surpri.se and annoy him. And yet, in his
f)M age, he would feel ;is though his ugliness was, by some magic,
lessened, nay, refined into comelines.s, when his wife sniileil uj)on
him. His face, for the time, seemed to wear her bght. And
thus ! id tliis new belief in her aftectioii give the old man a certain

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 33D

faith in his amended plainness j as though beauty beautified what
it liived.

"There, Mr. Snipfton — there's a treasare. A lo\ety tiling,
eh ? " cried the tiiniiiphant Crossbone.

"Very liaiulsonie, very; but ia she well broken — h she quite
safe ?" said Siiil)it<>u, looking tenderly at his wite.

" A baby niiglit rein her. No more tricks than a judge ; no
more vice than a lady of quality."

" Hunijili ! " said Sni])eton, difiuiounting, arnl giving his horse
to St. Giles. " My dear, yon will catch cold." And then the
ancient gentleman placed his ann around hi.s wife's waist, and led
Iier from the gate ; Cnwsbone following, and s^tariiig at the endear-
ment wilh mo.st credulous looks. It \va.s .so strange, so odd ; it
seemed a» if Snipeton had taken a most \m warrantable liberty with
the lady of the hou.sc. And then the apotln-c.iry eouiforted him-
self with the belief th.it Mre. Sni}.K.4on only sulfereil the tendenu-s.'?
for the .sake of apjxarancea : no ; it was some satistaction to know
ahe ci)Hld not love the mjin. " And your new mai<l ia come. She
seems simple and Iionest,'^ said Suijkton.

" Oh, yes : a plain. goo<l-tem{H.'rcd soul, that will exactly serve
us," answered Clarissa.

" Very good — veiy good.'' And Snijieton turned into the house.
He had thought again to urge his dislike of Mi-s. Wilton ; to
suggest her dlsmisaid ; but he would take anotlier oppfirtunity —
for f'o she should : he was determined, birt would await his time.
As these thoughts busied him, M i-s. Wilton entered the room,
followed by Crossbone. Somewhat salleniy, Suipeton gazed at
the liou-siekeeptM- : and then his eyes lieeame tien-. and pointing.
*to the riliand th.it C'l:u-issa hail hung about her mother's neck —
the riband bearing the miniature, yet tmseen by the wearer, he
pnssionately asked — "Where got yon that? Woman! Thief!
WHiere stole you that ? "

" Stole I " e.xclaimed Mrs. Wilton, and she turned deathly pale ;
and on the instant tore the ril>and from her neck ; and then, for
tiie fii-st time, saw the minuiture. For a moment, her face was
livid with ai:ony, that seemed to tongue-tie her, and then she
shrieked—" Oh, God ! and is it he ? "

" Detected ! detected ! " cried Snipeton — " a detected thief."

" No, sir ; uo,"' exclaimed Clarissa, embracing her parent.
"You .shall now know all. She is " —

Clai-issa wj\s about to acknowledge her mother, when the
wretched woman cla.sped Iwr daughter's head to her bo.som,
stifling the words. "No thief, sir," she said, "but no longer
your servant. And then, kissiug Clarissa, and murmuring —
** Qot a word — not wne word," the mother hurried from the room,

2 2

340 ST. GILKS aN'D ST. JAMES.

• CHAPTER XXXIII.

Snipktox like«l to be duped. He hugged him.self in the know^
e<l<_'f of Iii.s wp.*\kiK'ss, mightily eiijoviug it. And so, he sufVered
his wife to nestle close to his ch;jir — to jiluce her li.iiid upon his
shoulder — to look with earnest, pleading eyes i\]K)u him — to talk
Miioli lUient sweetness, melting his lieart ! And wliil.st Chirissa
as:^ured him that, m a playful moment, uiie liail place<l the
niini:itnre about the housekeeper's neck, that it wa.s a wieke<lne8.s,
a calunuiy, to think otherwise, — that, in very trutii, it would
cause her — his wife, the wife he so professed to love — .such pain
and remoi-se to think suspiciously of Mi-s. Wilton, — Snipeton,
tljat learned man aa he deemed hinjself in the worut learning of
the world — that sage, who pieked his way through the earth lus
though its fairest places were all the eli.>selier set with gins and
snares, — he M'ould not see the sweet deceit in his wife's face; he
Would not hear the charitable falseluMxl flowing from her lips :
no. he would be tilled with i>elief. He would ci>nimit a violence
UjM.n his prudence and blindfold her. She might rebel an(l
Btrugi^le somewhat : nevertheless, she should wear the bandage.

This wise determination still grew in his heart ; in truth, the
soil was fuvoui-able to the deceit ; and therefore, next morning,
enjoying the amenities of brcakfiwt. Mr. Snipeton assured hia
wife that— whatever his thoughts had been— he now felt the
<leej)est, sweetest conildence in Mrs. Wilton. She had shown
hei'self A most considerate gentlewoman, and he should ever
respect her for it. " Poor thing ! I never knew anything of her
private history — for private histories, my dear" — this tenderne.ss
had become almost familiar to the husband — " jirivate histories
are very often like private wa.sps' nests ; things of danger, with
Uo profit in 'em : nevertheless, she always aj)peareil to me too goo«l
— ^)'es, too good for her aituation. That's always a pity," and
Sniix'tou continued to breakfiust very heartily.

" Tiiie, husband, true," said Clarissa ; " such inequalities of
fortune are veiy sad."

"Very inconvenient," cried Snipeton ; " for you see, ray dear,
people who are too good fn* their employment, are generally too
bad for their employei-s. There is no such lumber in tiie world aa
broken-down gentility. Always out of place — never fit for aiiy-
t'.iiiig. A decayed gentleman, as he 't; called, is a nuisance ; thai is,
J ratan. to a man of the world — to a man of luisiness. For yuit
•♦4V, laci'e's iUways impertinence in him He ftlua^-^ ieews to 'ui?

RT. <:ILKS AND ST. JAMF.S. Ul

thinking of what he has been— ^you can't get hira to tliiiik of wliat
lie is. He becomes your clerk, we '11 say. Well, yon tell him to
call a hackney-coach, and he sets about it in a maimer that
impu'icntly says to you — ' Once 1 kept my own carriage ! ' You
onter him to coyy n letter or what not ; and he draws down the
fornei-s of his mouth to let you know that — ' Once in his day, he
used to write cheques 1 ' Now this is unpleasant. In tlie tirst
]»lace one doesn't like any insolence from anybody ; and in the next,
if one ha[)pcns to be in a melancholy, thinking ninod, one doesn't
like to be reminded by the bit of decay about one, what, for all
one knows — for it 's a strange world — one may drop down to one's
self. A decayed gentleman to a rich man is — well — iie 's like a
deid tlref on a gibbet to the live highwayman. Ha! ha! Wlmt's
the matter?" — asked the mirthful man, fir he suw Chirissa
sh udder at the ilhistration, though so very truthful and excellent
to the maker. "To l)e sure, I'd forgot; you've a tender heart —
I love you all the better for it — and don't like t<i he^ir about such
matters. And then again I'd forgot — to 1k' sure, what a fool I
a:u '' — And then Mr. Snipeton ri'membcred that, in his virtuous
denunciation of b,inkru}it Phitus, he had forgott<?n — led away \>}
the dazzling light of simile — the condition of CLorissa's father :
had, in the heat of s]ieech, failetl to rem»'mber that he had bought
the bridid victim of the necessities of her jiareut. But, Mr.
Snipeton, Jis he tliotiglit, miule imme<Hate amemls. For taking
his wife's hand, he preaseil it very tenderly; kissed her, and then
repeated — " What a fool I am ! "

(Now this confes.-<iou — a conft-ssion that the very wisest of u.s
-might, without any h^sif^ation make to himself three times a day;
and we much question whether the discipline so exercised would
not carry with it more jirotitalile castigatiun than aught laid on
with knotted rope — this confession wa.s not to be expected of so
Bage ;u)d close a man as Ebenezer Snipeton. Some sudden
Batisfaction must have betrayed him into the avowal : some
unexpected pleasure, tripping up habitual gi-avity, and showing
its unthought-of weakness. Much, indeed, did the wife of his
bosom, as he would call her — and why not ? for do not rocks bear
flowci-s ? — much did she marvel at the humility of her husl)and
that, even for a moment, placed him on the flat level with other
men. But great happiness, like great sorrow, will sometimes
knock the stilts from under us ; axlmirable stilts, upon which so
many of us walk abroad, aye, and at home too : though the
world, provoking in its blindness, will often not perceive how very
tall we are.)

" But the truth is, dear Clarissa " — continued Snipeton — " 1
bad a sort of respect for ^Mrs. Wilton, and though I often spcjke

842 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

of it, I reaHy had not the heai-t to turn her from the house. 1
often tlire.-itt'ued it : but it's a WHufwrt to know it— I c<.uldii't
Lave done it. Now she's gone, I feel it."

" Gone ! " exclainie<l Clarissa.

'* Di6ch.irf,'efl hei-self, my dear," said SnijM^ton, as upon his
defence. " I found this upon the lM-i'akf;wt table." Hereu|HMi,
Snij)eton, unfoliiimrj a iiote, phictd it in his wife's hand. Silently,
with trickling teai-s, she gjized ujxin the paper. " I shall have
no objection to ;^vc lier a character ; nour at all: for I fei-l very
eawy about the plate. I 've no doul>t, though I've made no impiiry
as yet, that all 's safe to a salt-.'s[x>ou. Not that she tells us where
she's gone ; nevertheless, I feel my lieart at ease alM.ut the pro-
p<>rty. Come, come, now — »lon 't he we;ik — iloii't be silly. You
should not aUach youi-self in this way to a servant. It 's weakness
— Worse than weakness." Thus s|>oke Snij>eton to his wife, who
had sunk bjiek in lier chair, and covering her fjice with her hamls,
wjis sobbing piteously.

At this moment Dorothy Vale moved into the room. " Will
mistress ride to-day, the man wants to know ?"

" Yes, she will. Yes, luy d»-ar, you will" — repeated Snipeton,
moving Ui Clarissa, and verj- tenderly phvcing his anna around her;
and sliuddi-ring. she endun-d him. " Vou hear; let the horses be
ready in half-aa-hour. (Jo." And Dorothy went; but not a thought
the faster for the thundering monosyllable discharged at her.
" You 'U see me on my way to town ? Stmie way ; not far ; no,
a mile or so. 'Tis such a moniing ; there 's so much heaven come
down Ufwn the earth. Such weather ! You'll take health with
every breath. Eh, ('laris.s,a ? " And again the old man tlireateued
an embrace, when the victim rose.

" R; it .as you will, sir," — said Clarissa — "in half-aii-hour I
shall l>e ready." And she left the room.

Now was Siiiivton ilcHghte<l with her obedience ; and now, he
pause<I in his triumpliant strides about the room, to li.sten. Had
she really gone to lier chamber ? Ashamed of the doubt, he
walke<l the fister — walke<l and whistlerl. And then he was so
happy, the room was too small for his folicity : he would fortii,
and e.xpand himself in the garilen. He so loved a garden ; and
then he could walk atai<l the shrubs and flowers, with hi.s eye ujjon
the window that enshrined the saint, his soul so reverently lK)wed
to. How frankly .she yielded to his wish ! Every day — he was
quite sure of it — he was becoming a happier and happier husbainl.
He looked forward to yeai-s and years of gnjwing joy. To be
sure, he was growing old : but still looking onward, the nearer tlie
^•ave, the less we see of it.

** If you please, sir," — said St. Giles to his new master, oj

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 343

lie entered the gartlen, — " do you put up both the horses in the
fi<y ? ■'

"No : your mistress will come back," said Snipeton.

" Alone, sir?" asked St. Giles; and the husbaud, as though the
Words liad stung him, staiicd.

" Alutie ! WTiy, no: dolt. Alone!" There was something
hideous in the question : sometliing that called up a throng vi
termi-s. Clarissa alone, with the world's wicked eyes staiijig,
Bniiliijg, winking at her !

" I-liinii»h ! I had forgotten. As yet, we have but two horses.
Fool that I am ! " A second confcs.sion, and yet early day ! And
Snipeton, musing, walked up and down the path : and plucking a
llowci-, rtiUi-d it betwi.xt hia linger and thumb to a-ssist his medi-
tation. She had consented— so kiinlly, blithely consented to his
wish, that it would be cruel tu her — cruel to himself — to dis-
ajipoint her. "Now, my man, be quick. Kun to the Flask, and
in my name, get a horse for yourself. In a da}' or two, we niu.st
see and mount you — ^must see and light upon a decent penn 'ortli.
Quick. We musnt keep your mistres-s waiting. And harkye I
take my hist orders now. ^V^leu you return, you will ride close —
very close to your lady : so close that you may grasp the bridle :
the horse may be skittish : ami we cannot be too cautious. Obey
me ; and you know not how you may serve youi-self. Go." St.
Giles ran ujx>n his errand, and Snipeton, after a turn or two,
atler another look at the chamber-window where, it so strangely
comforted luui, to see, through the curtain, his wiie p:iss and
repass — walked towai-ds the stable. He began to hum a time.
Suddenly he stopped. He had never thought of it before ; but — it
wiis a whim, a foolish whim, he knew that — nevertheless he now
remembered that his wife never sang. Not a single note. Perhaps
she could not sing. Pshaw! There was an idleness of the heart
that always sang — somehow. And thus, for a minute, Snipeton
pondered, ;uid theu laughed — a Uttle hollowly, but still he laughed
— at the childishness of his folly.

;Mr. Snipeton was by no means a proud man. He was not one
of those incarnate contradictions that, in the way of busuie.^s,
would wipe the shoes of a customer in the counting-house, yet ring
up the servant to poke the fire at home. No: he was not jjroud.
He refused not to put hia hands to his own snulfei-s if the candle,
or his own convenience, needed them. And so, entering the
staVjle, and seeing the mare yet unsaddled, he tliought he would
make her ready. And then he patted and caressed the beast as
the thing that was to bear the treasure of his life : even already
he felt a sort of regai'd for the creature. He was about to saddle
the animal, when he heard, as he thought, his wife ic the garden.

3U ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

He hurru'd out, ;iii'l fouiul C'iiuis.-vi, uUvjuly l»al)itc<l, a\v;iitin(»
liim. Aiul still iiiit heart ^l-w liiL'^t-r witli new juiile, wlieii he
saw Ilia wif.< ; hhc IcMiked au newlv l>e;»iitif\il. What wondruim
excellence she hail I Umk-r every new .-tspect, she shuwcd another
loveliness ! If he Cfmhl only l>e .sine thai h'j »weet — so ;,'racioua a
creature loved him — bini — so old and — and — bo unconkely annkii!
And then she wanly smiled ; and he felt sure of her heart : yi-s,
it waa heatinj; with, a j>art and parcel of, hLs own — pul.s*' with
j»ul«e — thrwh fid throlj — their LKkhI eoniniingled — and their sjiirits,
like llame meeting flajue — were one I

'* Why, (JlariKHjL, love, you never looked so In-autiful — never
— indef»l, ulv, r," K;ud Snij»eton, and the nil man felt .-iek with
bappiuesK.

" Btautiful, miwtter, i.nn't miiwus I" wiid IVeky, and witli her
opened hands, she smoothed ih>wn the f.»hls of the riding dress, ha
though it wii» siuue living thing she luve<l ; and then she gazoi at
the beauty of her niistteiis, believiag it wuuld lie wrong to think
her quitv au angel, and jitst sm wrong not to think her very ne:u:
one.

" Your horse Lb not yet saddled, love," said Snipeton, U-iking hia
wife's hiuid, " not yet, deare.st."

" Ulesw you. maater, now missas is drost, I'll saddle her," crieil
Becky, and she ran to the stable. Most adroit of handmaids !
]%qu:d to tie a bobbin, as to buckle a girth I And ere St. Gilea
airivcd from the Fhisk with his l«orruwe«l stee«l — it luul a sorry,
]KU.-khor8e look, but na the lamllord asstireil the borrower, w;ts
" quite giKjd enough for liim ; w ho wjis he ? " — the uiaix* was reiidy.

"Well, 'twill serve for t<>-day, but next time we niu.st do
better than that," aai»l Snijieton, glanciiig at St. < J ilea's hoi>e ;
and then he turned to lift his wife into the saddle. Untouched by
his luuid, .she was in a moni'-nt in her w-at : .another nj.«ment,
nay, longer, .Snij>eton jKiu3e\l to I'M.k at Inr ; he luid never before
Been Wr on horseback. At length the riders went their way,
Becky, liani,'ing over the gate, now lookinir nt her mi.stress — and
now, witli red, red face and s|>arkling eyes, bobbing her head, and
showing her let?th to St. Giles, doing his first service as groom to
Snii>eton — and doing it with a sail, unea.sy he.-irt : for he felt that
he was the iutendel for some mi.nchief — the bondslave to
.xome wrong. And with this thought in his brain, he hx^ketl dull
and mootly, and answered the eloquent farewells of Becky, with a
brief, heavy nofl.

" Well, I 'm sure ! " said Becky, as she thought, to her own
snubbed soul.

"What 's the matter?" asked Dorothy Vale, who stood rubbing
her jums, a pace or two behind her.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 345

" Nothin'. Wlmt should Ix* ? I never l»4s anything be the
matter. (Jtily when j>en|»K' hxik good-hy's, ])eoj>le miiilit iinswer,'

"Ha ! chiUI," ivjilieil Mi-s. V'aK-, witli an extrtiitrilin.iry j^iish of
elo(|uonce, — " nifii uimn tout Ls uin; tiling — men uj>on horsjeb.n-k 13
.inolluT." lli<w itwiu* that Mr*. Vale cmiilescended to the utter-
ance of this wisclom, we eaiinot safely K\y ; for no thrifty house-
wife ever kept her tea and siiyar under elos»'r lock tiian did she
the truth.s, uiuiuestioiiahly within her. Perliajw she thought it
•Would twit the new maid — tlie inlerlo|>er — brought to be put over
lior hejid. And [H'lhaiw she nn-.iiit it as a kindly warning : for
certainly, Dorothy tidl hei-st-lf charitably dis|M>se<l. Mi-s Wilton
Inul left the cotUige ; and of course that girl — tliat chit — eouUl
never 1h! mad>- housi-ket-jM-r. However, leaving the mati\>ii and
the maid, let us follow the riilcrs.

Great was the deliglit of Snipeton, as he ambled on, his wife at
his sitle ; her long curls dancing in the air ; the nimble blood In
her face ; and, ;is he thought, dec|H'r, keener atfoctioii sjKirkling
ill her eyes. Never l»efoiv had he t^ikeii such delight in liorse-
nianship : never had felt the quick puL-uition — the new |R>wer, as
though the hoi-st? coianiunicated its strength to the rider — the
buoyancy, the youthfuliicss of that time. An<l still he nxlc ; and
8fill, at his side, his wife smile<l, and glowc<l with fresher I>eauty,
and her ringlets — as they were blown now about her cheeks, and
Uow u|>on her lips, how he envied them I — still danced and llut-
teii'd, :uid when suddenly — as at some blithe wortl dropt from
him — she laughed with such a honie«l chuckle, she seenuil to him
an incvu-nate sjh-II, at whose every motion, liK»k, ami sjuiid, an
♦atmosphere of love iuid ple.isure brnke on all arouml her. Poor
old man ! At that <lelicious moment, every wrinkle had vanished
from his lirow and heart. He felt as though he had caught time
by the U-ard, and had made him rentier liack every sfK)il <»f youth.
His brain sjiiig with happiness ; and his bUtfMl burned like l.iva.

And so rode they on ; and SiiiiK'ton little heeded — he was so
young, so newly-made — the steed th.il, with .xsilimatic roar, toiled
he.ivily behind. They ci*ossetl the health, — turned into Higligate,
and with more careful pace descended the hill. Every minute
Snipeton felt more ]>recious, it was .so close to the last, when he
must leave, for some long houi-s, his life of life ! —

(Now, is it not sail — we esj)ecially put the que.stion to the Eve
■whose eyes may chance t<.) rest upon these ink-stiiined thoughts —
L>< it not a m.atfer, tears being upon hand, to weep ove*', to think
of love in love's paralysis, or dotage ? I-iove, with clierub ftice and
pale gold lo<ks, may ch;ise his butterflies — may, monkey as he is,
climb the Hesperian timber, pluck the fruit : he is in the gay
audacity of ^oulh, and the tender years of the ott'ender sink

£48 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

felonies to petty larcenies, lint love — eUlerly K»ve — to go liinpiug
after |<aiiileil fancies — to try to icacli the golden applea wilii a
crutch stick, — wliy, set the oflemler in the pillory, and shower
U]Min him laughter.)

\Vu have written thi.s panij;rai)h whilst Mr. Snipeton — in the
kini,''s higltw^ay, auil, nion^tver, u|M)n hoi-sehack — kis.se<l his young
wife, (Jlan.-wa. Althi>ugh the man ki.sseil the woman thiouifh a
wcililingring — a lawful cinlf, and not a Pyramus and Thi.sbe
chink— we have no excuse for him, save this, it had been draggtnl
frmn him. She — ])(>tent highwaywoman — had maile him surrender
liis lips l>y the f^rce of dealh-<l>armg weapons. He w.-ts alniut to
separate from her. ile took her by the hand — gra.sped it— she
limked in his eyes, and — we say it^the old husband kissed his
young wife I

"Caw — caw — caw I" At that very moment— yea, timing the
Very smack— a caiTion crow, llap)>ed its vans alM>ve the heads oi
luan and wife, and hovi-ring, thrice cried " caw— caw — caw," —
and then tlew to the northward, it might l»e to tell to gossip crows
of human intirmity ; it might l»e, like coward saindal, to feed
upon the dead. However, the m.arrieil j»air sejKirated. He woidd
nlurn early — very early that day — to dinner. And she would
gently amble homeward ; and — Jis she knew she was the tre^isure
of liis soul— she would In- very careful not to take cold. She
Would promi.se him — aye, tliat she would.

" Remember — close — very close," sjiid Snij)eton, in a low voice
to St. Giles ; .and then again and agjiin he ki.s.seil his hands to
his wile's back. " She might look once U-hind," tliought Snipeton,
gravely ; and then he smiled and played with his whip. It was
Uot imiKKssibk' — n.iy, it was very likely — she was in tears ; and
Woulil not show the sweet, delicious weakness to the servant.
And still Snipett>n p.iused and watched. How beautifully she
rode ! Sti-ait :ts a pillar ! And how the feather in her hat sank
an<l rose and fluttered, and how liis heart ol>eyed the motion, as
though the plume were waved by some eucluuitress.

He wished he hiul taken her with liiiu to St. Mary Axe.
"What ! Eide with her thnnigli the city ? And tiieu he recoiled
from tlie very tlnAight of the thousand eyes opened and staring
at her — as though by very looking they could steal the bloom
they gazed at — recoiled as from so many daggei-s. Still lie
watched her. Somethuig made him, on the sudden, unquiet.
And then, as if at that moment it had only stinick uj)ou his ear,
he heard the chuiging cry of the crow. Another moment, and
he loudly laughed. Was it anything strange, he asked himself^
til at crows should caw J And then ayaiu he looked (rloomier
than before..

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. ciT

He would go home, he thought. Fur once he would make
holiday, doing double work ou the morrow. Yes; he would
not toil in the gold-mine to-day. And now slie had turned the
lane. It was too late. Besides, business was ever jealous —
revengeful. Li»ve her as you would for years, the beldame
bi-ooked no after neglect. She would have her dues — or her
revenge. And with this thought, Snipeb^u stuck his spui-s to
his hoi-se, and rode ;id though he w;is riding to Piuadise or a
hundreii per cent.

" I a-sk your pardon, ma'am," said St. Giles to Clari.ssa, about
to put her horse to its speed, " but niiuster t<ild me tu follow close,
and — indeed I ask your pardon — but 'tun't possible, mounted as I
am. I 've had a hanl bout to keep uj), Jis 'tis. No ort'euce, ma'am,"
said St. Giles, very humbly.

" Oh, no ; we shall soon be at home — 'tis not so far," answered
Clarissa ; and her altered look, her mournful voice sur|)risetl him.
It w;us plain her cheerfulness hatl been lussumed ; for on the
sudden, she looked we;u-ied, sick at heart. Poor gentlewoman !
perhajts it was jiarting with lier huslwuid. No : that generous
thought w;is banisheil, soon as it rose. Already St. Giles had
more than a servant's love ior his young mistress ; she spoke so
' ^eetly, gently, to all al)out her. And then — though he had
piu^seil but one evening with his fellow-servant, Becky — he had
learneil from her so much goixlncss of the lady of the house.
Again and agjiin he looked at her ; it was plain, she Lad over-
tasked her spirits ; she looked so faint — so pale.

"Dear laily — beg yom- pardon — but you're not well," cried
4 St. Giles. " Shall I try and galloji after master ? "

" i«Jo — no ; it is nothing. A little fatigued— no more. I Jim
unused to so much exercise — and — nothing more. Let us hasteu
home," — and controlling herself, she put her hoi-se to au amble,
St. Giles whipping and spurring hard his wretched beast, to
follow, that, nevertheless, lagged many yai^ds behind. A hoi-se-
mau overtook him.

" My good man," said the stranger, ** can you tell me the way
to IIani})steail church ! "

" I don't know — I 'm in a Imrry," and in vain St. Giles whipped
and spurred.

" Plumph ! Your beast is not of your mind, any how.
'Twould be hard work to steal a hoi-se, like that, wouldn't it ?"
asked the man.

" Steal it ! " and St. Giles looked full in the speaker's face,
Uid saw it one indign;mt smile. Sui-ely, he had met that man
before.

- Come, fellow, you know me ? " said the stranger. " Once would

R18 BT. GILES A>'D ST. JAMES.

li.ivi; done rae a j;oo<l turn. I see — now you recollect nie. Ye« ;
we are oM acquaintance, are we not ? "

" No, sir ; 1 know nothing," siiiil St. Giles, l)ut lie .sliook with
the lie he utteretl. Ti>o well he knew the man who, with looks of
triuinplumt vi n;,'eance, scowled anil smiled upon him. It wius
liohert Willis ; the munlerer looseil fn>m his bonds liy the magic
tongue of Mr. .Montecute Crawk-y. " I \ivg, sir, you "11 not slop
me. For the love of gooduess, don't, sir," — and St. Giles treml-leil,
as though palsied.

" For the love of gotxlneas ! Ha ! ha ! For the fear of the
gallowa, you nicaiu Now, linten to me ; felon — retuined tr:uis-
')oi-t. That l:idy must not go hack to her home. Nay — 'tis all
Bottled. She goes not back to old Snipeton — the old l>liMi.l--,ii.ker !
—that 's flat."

'• What do you mean ? " crie<l St. Giles, stunned, l>e\vildered.

'"My meaning's plain — plain as a haltvr. When we last met,
vou 'd have put the roj»e arouini my neek. Riiise one cry — stir a
foot faster tlian 'tis my will, and — and as sure as green leaves
li.iii'_' from the Ixtughs jihoveyou — so surely — but I see you luidcr-
siaiid — yes, you are no fool, M;iater St. Gile-s, tho\igh Hog-lane
was your birth-place and scIuxjI, and Mister Thom.'is Bhu>t — ^j^ou
see I know your history — your only teiichcr."

" Do what you will ! Hang, gibbet me ! — you shan't lay finger
on that blessed lady I " And St. Giles, throwing himself from his
useless horse, nui, like a deer, after his mistress, Willis, with
thre.ato and ciirses, following. St. CJilos. finding his pursuer gain
uj'on him, .suddenly stopiK^fi, and, a-s Willis came n\t, leaj)t at him,
with the purjtose of dragging him frouj the saddle, and mounting
his hofve. In a moment, Willis, l>eneath his avsaiLiiit, wxs rolling
in the dust ; but as St. (iiles was about to le.ip upon the horse,
he W.1S leveUet, who — he
w;us a wonderful man for his age I — sprang with the agility of
youth, from a he<lge.

" What ! " crietl his early teacher to the prostrate St. Giles, —
"you'd do it agin, would you? Well, there never was sich a
fellow for stealing horse-flesh I You wj\s h<jni with it, I s*[>08e,"
— .sai<l the niihan, with alTected commiseration, balancing the
cudgel that had struck down the van<jui.shed — "you was born
•with it, and — j>oc)r fellar — it 's no use a bl;iming you."

In a moment, Willis had remounted his horse, and shaking his
cleuthcd fist over St. Giles, galloped off.

'' How now I " gai*j>e<l St. Giles, his sense returning, " how
now," he cried, ojK-ning his eyes, and staring stujtidly iu the fjice
of Blast, " what 's the matter ? What 's all this ? "

" Why, the matter is jest this," said Blast, " Your missus is

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 349

inueli too good fur your master. That 's the 'piuiou of somebody
»s shall l)e iiaiueless. Ami so ymi may go home, and tell 'em nut
to wait dinner for her. It 's wickcdnees to spile moat."

*• Tell me — where is she ] — where have they carrieil her ? — tell
Uie, or — " and St. Giles, seizing Blast, was speechless with
passion.

'• 1 11 jest tell you this mut-li. Your lady 's in very good
compiuiy. And I '11 tell you thi.'^, jjai-tic'larly for yourself:
if you go on tearing my Sunday coat in that manner, I know
•where the con3tal)le lives, and won't I call him ! " With this
dignified rebuke ^Ir. Blast released hiiuHtlf from the hands of
his capttir, who — with a look of stupid misery — suffered him to
walk a\\ay.

CnAITEH XXXIV.

And now is Snipcton widowed. Yes : with a livnig wife, damned
to worst widowhootl. It would have worn and toiiured the
epirit witliin him sometimes to wander from the desk to the
churchyard, and there look down upon Clarissa's grave. To have
reail, ;uid read with dreamy, vacant ej'ea, the few tombstone
syllables that sum uji — soleundy biief — the hopes, and fears, and
wrongs, and wretchedness ; the pleasant thoughts and aching
wearine-ss that breath begins and ends. " Clarissa, wife ut"
Ebenezer Snipeton, died." — Words to dim a husband's eyes ;
to caiTV heuxincss to the heai"t ; to numb the soul ; and for a time
to make the lone man, with his foot at the trea.su re-holding grave,
ff^l the whole world di'ifted from him, and he left lauded on the
little spot he looks on. And then breaks small, mournful music
from those woriis : j)leasiuit, hopeful sounds, that will mijigle
her name with his ; that will make hira ovm the dear, the still
incorj.>oi-ate dead. The flesh of his flesh, the bone of his boue, is
U lapsed into the disgrace of death : it is becoming the nourishment
of grass ; and still his heart yearns to the changing form ; still it
is a part of him ; and his tender thoughts may, with the coffined
dead, love to renew the bridal vow the dead absolves him of. And
Snipeton, his wife in her winding-sheet, might so have soleimiised
a second wedlock. For surely there are such nuptials. Yes ;
Becond mjUTiages of the gnive between the qtuck and the dead,
witli God and his angels the sole witnesses.

And Snipeton was denied such consolation. His widowhood
permittet.1 no such second troth. Living to the world, liis wife wvt

i60 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

»\eafl to hiiQ ; yet, iLough fltaul, uot severeil. — ^Tlipre was tlie
hurmr : tlioiv, tlie f(j*il coiulitinn «»f <H.>H:raceii we«Uuck : tlit- flesh
Wius still of Ills llesh, cuicerou.*}, uliL-mn.-* ; willi a life in il to
torture him. V>y day, that flesh of his flush wuiild wear him ; by
l.Lj;ht, with time ami ilarkness lyiii^' like a weight n\>t<i\ him, wuulj
he to him as a ficiKi tliat would cling to him ; that would touch
hi.s Ups ; tliat woold murmur in liis ear. And let him writhe, and
stru^'fjle, and, with a strong man's strong will, det^niiine to put
awav tltiit ch)se tiunuentor, it would not he. The flvsh was still
of his flesh, alike kncf>rj)onite in guilt ami truth.

But Snipotou is still a happy man. Aa yet he knows not of hi»
mi.sery : «lreams not of the desolation tluit, in ;ui hour or so, shall
lilasl h'uu at hi.s threshold. He is still at his desk ;. haiipy in his
day-dre;un ; his in\;igination running over, as in wayward momenta
of half-thrift, half-idleiie.ss, it was wnnt to do, uiion the j)aper on
liis de.sk before luuj. — ImagLiiatioii, complete and eireling ; and
making that dim sanctuary of ilirty Plutus a gUateuing palace I
The pen — the ragged stump, that iu his hand had worked jis
surely as Italian steel, striking throUL,'h a heart or so, but drawing
no blood — the i)en, aa it kid been })l\>eked from the winged heel
of the thief s ginl, Mercury, worked strange sorcery; crept and
ecratched about the pa]>er, conjuring glories there, that made the
old man sternly smile ; even !us an enchanter smiles at the inytant
handiwork of all-obe<hent fiends, liwuler, look upon the lofigic
that, cunningly exerei*^d by the SniiK-tnns of the world, tills it
with beauty ; b<lu>l<l the jottings of the black art that, simple a»
they look, liohl, like the knotted ropes of Lii].>hind witche.s, a
power invincible. Here they are ; faithfully copied fioni ikit
piece of iNijKjr — the tablet (A' old iSuijjeton's deajest ihought-Sy
diviuest as[iirationji : —

" £70,000 "— " i85,T(X> "— " £90,000 "— " i.. 00,000 "—

" £i:io,uoo "— " i:i,o<jo,oiH3 ! "

In this way did Snipeton — m pleasant, tlu-ifty i<Uenes8 — pour out
his heart ; dallying with ho{)e, and giving to tlie umittered wish
a cerUdn sum in black aiul white ; running up the ligures as a
rapturous singer climbs the gamut, touching the highest heavea
of music to his own delight, and tke wonder of the applauding
world.

In this mamier would Suipeton take pastime with his spirit.
In this maimer was the paper on his desk writ and over-wiit with
promised sujns that, it was liLs hope. Ids day-dream, would surely
some day lilcss him. And the munerals ever rose with hLs spirits,
^^'hen veiy ilumpish — with the world going all wrong with him —
Le would write himself down a uti'iper ; iu bitterness of heart

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 851

lovipg to eulargeupon liis beggary, as tiius : (.K>(M)O(i,(»(W),OO0.
but to-' '.ay, he luul li.lJen with Chuissji ; she h:«l luokeil so hjvily
and so loving ; he was so re-assured of her ;ilVectiou ; could proiniso
to hiiusclf.sucb honied days and uiglits that, dreaming over this;
smiling at her flushed faee ; and with half-closed eyes, and curving
mouth, gazing jn fancy at her dancing jiluine, — he somehow took
the pen between liis tiugei-s, and made himself a pai-adise out of
aiithmetic. — Thus he laid out liis garden of Eden, circling it with
rivei-s of running gold ! Iluw the paradise smiled upon pajx^r !
How the trees, clustered with ruddy hearing, rose up ; how
odorous the flowers — and what a breath of immortality came
fluttering to his cheek ! Snipeton had written —

"£1,000,000;"

and then he sjink gently Ixick in his chair, and soAly drew his
bleat h a.s he looked upon what should be his, fore.sliadowed by
Lis hopes.

Now, at the very moment — yes, by Sjitan's liest chronometer —
at the very moment, C'hu-issa wjui lifted from her hoi-se, placed in
a carriage, and whirled away from home and husbiind. And he
saw not her face of terror — lieard not her sliriek for help. How
could he I {}ocn\ man ! was he not in Paradise ? Let us not
break in ui>on him. No; for a while, blind luid innocent, we will
leave him there.

The reader may remember that Mr. Cajwtick was threatened
with an ignominious ilismissal from tlie British senate, Jis having,
it w<a.s alleged, bought an honour that, like chastity, is too pre-
cious to be sold. 'J'he misanthropic member for Liijuorish, in his
deep contempt of all human dealings, took little heed of the peti-
tion against him ; whilst Tangle called it an ugly business, a3
though in truth he secretly rejoiced in such uncomeliness.
Snijieton. too, looked grave ; and then, as taking heart from the
depth of his jHicket, said he would " tight the young profligate to
his hist guinea ; " (and when the weapons are gold, how bloody
oft the battle !) Whorenjxjn Cajistick relented a little in his
savage thouglits ; believing that jjuiv patriotism did exist in
human nature, and had one dwelling-place at least in the heart of
Mr. Snijieton.

" Turn you out of Parliament, sir ; they might chuck you out
o' the window, sir, for what he 'd care, if it warn't for his spite.
I 've told you that all along, and you won't see it," said Bright
Jem.

" I am sorry, Jem, that in your declining years — for there 's no
disguising it, J:mies — you 're getting old and earthy — cracking
like dry clay, Jem," said Capstick,

5^2 ST. c;lLi:S AND ST. JAMES.

"T floii't wai.t t<« liiilf the oniok.s,"' int.mipti-<l Jem: " wliv
should I J No: I'm imt jitVaitl t<> l<M.k Time iti the face, and toll
Liiii U) do Ilia worst, lie never could spile much, that's ouo
ecnifort."

" I am sorry, nevfrtliel«w, tliat you have not a little charity.
I. I diiu't tliink well of juiyliody myself, that's no reason vou
Bhoiildn't ; on the omtr.irv. it is .slightly an inijM'rtinence in vou
to interfeix' with what I 've Ikh-u u.h«-<1 to consiiler my own pri>'i-
lejre." Thus, with dignity, 8|>«>ke Cajistick.

" All I know is this — and I 'm sure of it — if Mrs. Snijieton liail
as l»ig a wall ujxtn her no.se as her husband, you 'd never have
been .Meml>er for Li<juori.Nli," sjiid .Tern, with new em|>ha.His.

" Keally, Mr. Aniseed" — for Ca]vstick became very lofty
indeed — •" I eaniiot |HTiiive liow Mi-s. S "s wart — that is,

if .she 'd had one — c«»uld in any way ii. \sitli mv seat in

Parliament."

" In this manner," .said .fern ; laying one haml flat u|>on the
other. "In this in.inner. If »hu'd had a wart u|><>n her no.sp,
youm; St. Jaiut-M, when he went to liorrow money of her hu.slmnd,
would liave bvhavetl himself like a honest younij gentleiuiin ;
Wouldn't have written letters, and tried to send prvsents, and so
forth, till old Sni^Htun — jnior old fellow I for thou/h he wjis a fiM)l
to marry such a young bwmty, there 's no knowing how any on us
may l>« tempt, d " —

" You and I ;ire safe. I think. Jamca ? " said ('.iiHtiik, with a
smile.

"I think f>*i ; but tion't |.t 's l>o pn-sM Ib.wever,

tliat 's u<i reiisoii we shouMn'l pity the un: ." s;ki<l Jem.

'• Well, old 8ni|>eton wouMn't have been force«l to senrl his vonnjf
wife into the country, where his young lonl.ship went after her —
I've heanl all n' •' •' And then Sni|H'ton wouldn't ha' beeu
jealous of the yot.. loman, and then you 'd have been at the

Tub, happy with the pigs and the geese, as if they was your own
fl' ' ' ' ' ' ' 1 'd still h.V Inen an ' '. . • untrv

g' ^ I ;t in your own gai : i^j, as

you used to do, to }*oar own trees and flr)wers, that minded you —
I "m Knind for it — more than anybody in the house o' Parliament
will do."

" Don't you be too sure of that, Mr. Anisoe<l. "Wlien the Minister
heai-? my speech " —

"Well, I only hope my dro.ira of hist night won'i .hi. true.
I dre^Tint you 'd made your .sjKech, and as stjuu ;u« you "d made it,
I thought you was changetl into a ganlen roller, antl the Minister,
as you c.'dl him. did nothing but turn you rmind and round.
Hi wsomever, tli^a. » nothing to do with what I was s.»ying, —

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. C.'3

savinj; vour prcscii"(?, T don't like vou to be niaile a t^i)3
ou."

"A tool, Mr. Ani8e«'<l ! A tool— define, if you plea-se, for tliia
is sfrious. Wlj;it tool ?" ;ui<l Capstit-k fniwned.

" Weil, I don't know wliat .sort of tool they 8en<l to Parliament ;
but, if you'll be so g.)0<l, just feel here." Saying this, Jem took
olf his hat, aiid^turning himself, prcseuted the back part of his
head to the toueh of Capstick.

" Bless my heart ! Dear me — a very drea-ilful wound ! My
poor fellow — gixnl Jem " — and Caj»stick p»it his arm upon Jem's
iieck, ami with a tixjubled lu..k, cried — "Who wjis the atrocious
misereant i — eh I — the scoundrel ! "

" Oh no : he didn't mean nothing. You see, it was last night,
while 1 W!u* waiting for you till tlje House was up. Taking a
quiet pint and a piiu* ajnong the other sen'ants, some on 'em
K'gun to talk alxiut bribery ;ujil corruption : and didn't they .sit
then.' and pull their masters to pieces ; I should think a little
more than they ]>ullcd one another to bits inside. Well, your
n;uiie come up, and all about the jvtition ; and somebotly s;iid
you "d Ite turned out ; condomtieil like a stale salmon at Billings-
gate. I «lidn't sjiy nothing to this: till R-iIph tium — the saucy
Viumint, though he 's my own flcjsh and blood ; that is, aa far aa
marriiige can make it " —

■" -Marruige cjiu do a good deal that way," said Capstick, smiling
pensively.

" Till Ralph Gum — he was waiting for the Marquis — cried out,
* What ! CajKstick, the muffin-nniker ? ' "

" I do not forget the muftins," siiid Capi?tiek, meekly. " On the
coutrai-y ; in I'ai'lianient I sh:dl l>e proud U> stand upon them."

'• But he sjiid more than that : ' Why, he 's a thing we '11 turn
out nt ek and heels ; he 's only a to^d ! ' "

" (-»h, a tool ! " cried Cajwtick, " I am a tool, am I ? Very
well ; a tool I What said you to this ? "

" Nothing — only this. He was sitting next to me, and 1 said,
— ' Yt)U saucy moidcev, hold your tongue, or learn better manners,'
— and with this, in the softest way in the world, I broke my pijje
over his head : whereuixin, the Manjuis's coachman and footmen
all swore you was a tool, and nothing but a tool — and they
wouldn't see their liveiy insulted, ainl — I forget how it ended,
but there was a changuig of jiewter-pots, and somehow or other
this " — and Jem passed his hand over his bruised head — " this is
one on 'em."

For a few minutes Capstick remained silent. At length he
said, determinedly — '•Jem, I feel that it would be some satisfactioQ
to me to see this Mrs. Snipeton."

VOL. L A A

S^l

ST. GH-ES AND ST. JAMES.

I>oople

" WHiat for?" jwke«l Jem, in his simplicity.

" Wliy — Wfll — I floi/t kn.iw; l>ut if sli'
fcav. there caii \>e no h.ann in looking ou ft ' „ .. \ :„.ui.

" Well, I don't know — but for certain, they 'd never do no liarm,
if thev never wa» Inokwl u|M>n," said Jem.

**Jeni, you >••' •' ' '■' know me l»y tliin time; ought to know
that since Mn- k die<l I l"H)k ujxm beauty a« no mure tluoi

a i»a!nte<l picture."

" Well, th.it 'fl all right •ii'.u-li, h,, {..t,,^ .%.■< w.- don't H.sk the
picturs to walk out o' their fr:im<M," ai.-'W. n-.l Jem. " Hut, sir,
in this Piu-liament matter — ami I 'd »x»ner die than tell a lie to
you, in the saine way m I think it my lx>und iluty to tell
you all the truth, though y<>u do sometimes call nte James and
Mr. Anisc<e<^, instead of Jem, for doing it — in this Parliament
nutttT. master," — and Jem paused, ami Iuoke«l mournfully at
CR|*»tii-k.

" « Mil with it," uaifl the Meml»er for Liquorish. " After the
hu«rtii»£p«, surely I can boar anj'thing. Speak."

"W " •' "'•"•' "• ' d? But if ever th.r..
was H ' 'u't lie hurt — »/ou aif i

toi>l, and nothing better than a tool. There ! When they were
fli; ' " 4ht, I didn't c'i<><»*f to own jih

mn - -. I. I nujst say it. Meml)er for

Liquorish ! La, bless yuu ! aa I wiid afore, you 're Member f<>r
Spite ami 1 * i all sort.s of wi -."

" I certiui... "Ml .-. .■ Mrs. Sni|>eton, .-...•. Cajistick, "and to-
morrow, Jem ; yes, to-niorrow."

lu pursuit of this determination, Mr. Capstick — with no foro-
wui '" * " ' ' • •,. the nuister of the hou.>«e — open»-<l

til- I up the jiath to the cottage, fol-

low»>d by Bright Jem ; who in his heart was liu^'i-ly pleased at
th»; till which hi.** st.ilktil, like a

sheritl - ... .. ...: ...luary of w-. .... vi-, or what is

uore, of wwldeil jealousy : calm, authoritative, self-contained, a*
though he came to take jKwsession of the dove-cote. Even Dorothy
Vale was startled by the .ibrupt iiitnHi"n ; and looking from tJe
door, ami rubliin;.^ her anus with nuickene<l energy, begged to
know " what they wantetl there ? " Ere, however, Capstick could
dfsoend to make ■' -wer. Becky ran from the dtx)r, with

many a voluble '" li'
** is your honor well i "

" Very wvll, my maid ; verj- well," said Capstick. " I should
like to see Mrs. Sui|>eton."

" La ! now, what ill luck," crie^i Becky, " she 's gone out a
Loi-8c>»ack with master ; but she won't be long, if you 'II only l»e

i I ! " and " who 'd ha' thought it ! " and

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMKS. 355

») goo»l a.s to \v;ilk in, ami waif a little while ; she's such a sweet
lH<ly, she '11 be j,'l:ul to see you."

Dorothy siiid nothing ; but hugging and rubbing her arms,
looked sidelong at the new maid ; looked at her, as one, whose
glib tongue had in one minute talked away her place ; for
as.suredly did Domthy, even in her dim \'i.sion, see Becky with lier
bundle truntlled from the house, as soon as Mr. Suipetou sliould
learn the treason of his handmaid.

'• I '11 walk alxnit the gjinh-n till they come back," said Capstick ;
" I 'm fond of llowers ; very fond."

■• They won't come back together ; for Master 's gone to
Lunnun ; but the young man, the new servant "

" Ha ! the young man that took you from St. ^laryAxe," said
Jem ; ami IJecky iio<liled and cohjureil.

" lioth of you new together, it seems," olisen'ed Cajwtick, mean-
ing nothing; thou ' 1' ky, colouring still deeiR-r, thought she
paw a worl'i of si_ e in the cart-leiw words of the MemWr

of Parlijunent. Hut then it wa.<» a Member of Parliament who
sjKike ; and there must l>e sonutliiiig in evrry syllable he uttered.
That he sh«iuld couple hfi-self and t>t. (iiK*a w;i.s vi-ry odd ; ipiito
a proof that he knew more than most people.

Capstick had loungt-d uji the ganlen, Dorothy marvelling at
Ills ijuse ; whilst Jem held short discourse with Becky. "And
he 's a good honest young mau, eh ? Well, he looks like it,"
said Jem.

'• I never goes by looks, I don't," said Becky. '' Talking about
looks, how Is that dark young man you knocked in the gutter I
Your never, sir, isn't he ? How is he 1 "

"Why, I !uay Kiy, my dear, he's in the guiur .still, and there
Kt him be. But as for your fellow-servant, I thiuk " — siiid Jem
— " I think he's an honest young fellow."

" I sIkiuKI break my heart, do you know — I mean — I should be
BO sorrv — iu course I should — if he wasn't. He's so good-tem-
pered ; so quiet-spoken ; so willing to give a helping-hand to
anybody. And yet for all this ; somehow or t'other, he doesn't
seem himself. One minute he '11 be merry as a mountebank ; and
afore you can si>eak, his face will go all into a shadow. Can't be
hapjiy, I thiuk ?"

" Perhai« not," said Jem ; " I wasn't myself when I was about
his time of life. Perhaps, Becky, perhaps he 's in love."

"Don't know, I 'm sure ; how should I ?'" said Becky, turning
short u}X)U her heel ; whilst Jem followed his master, at length
resolved to narrate to him the history of St. Giles. Again and
again Jem had attempted it ; and then stopt, huddling up the
Btory as best he could. For the new dignity of Capstick had

Zo', m GILES AND ST. JAMES.

ludflii hiin — AS Jem soiuetiuu's thon;,'hl — •cultl uikI cautiuus ; ,-uiJ
after all, it iiii!.'!it nut be projxT U> hr'uv^ tn^^etht-r a rftiiiiud
transport mjil a Meiuher nf I'sirliaim-nt. Tiie ganlcu was w jmlin;^
and lai-ge ; but Jem could not well uiis^ liitt unutter, iniu»uiiicli luj
the onitor was h«.ard ver>- loudly declaiming ; anil Jem, foUuwuig
the sound, fiiHicdily came nji wiih L'a|»»liik, who, with his hat
Ujion the ground, his right arm outsiretched, aitd hijt kit tucked
under his Icfl coat-tail, wa.4 vehemently udling u)M>n "tho attention
and the common-sense, if he wa.s not too liold in Ji«king .such a
favour," of a triple row of tall lioUyhoekM, representing for the
time the Members of the House of Counuona, and unconsciously
jiliying tlifir ))art,s with great fidt-lity, by nodtling — nodding at
every sentence that fell from the honourable orator. "There in
nothing like exercising the lungs in the pure air," said CafMtick,
slightly confus<.-d ; aud picking up his hat, and falling into his
usual manner.

'• I think I should know what it wiis," 8.aid Jem, " calling
co.iche.s in a November fog ; just like hallooing through wet
blankets."

'* 1 )eu»<islhenea — you never luard of him — but that 'a no matter:
** Demosthenes," sjiid Cajwtick, '* u.sed to »j»eak to the sea."

''Well; he'd the l>est on it in one way," said Jem ; "the
fishes couldn't contradict him. But surely, now — uj)on your
word, sir — yoti don't really mean to makeas|*eech in Parliament ?"
Caj)stick'3 eye glistened. — "You t/b / Lord help you! when,
sir. — when 1 "

" \\l»y, Jem, I can't an.swer for myself. Perhaps, to-night—
perhaps, to-morrow. If I 'm provoke* 1, Jem."

'* Pi\)voke«l, sir ! "VMio 's to provoke you, if you 're determined
to .sit with your mouth shut i " sjiid Jem.

" The truth [a, Jem, I ha»l resolvefl to sit a whole session, and
not say a .syllable. But I shall l»e aggravate<l to speak, I know
I shall. The fact i.s, I did think I should be abiished — knocked
clean down — by the tremendous wisdom before, behind me, on
all sides of me. Now — it isn't so, Jem," and Capstick looked
big. " I did think my great difliculty would be to speak ;
"whereas, hearing what I do he.or, the difficulty for me is to hold
my tongiie. In this way — I feel it — I shall be made an orator
of against my w-ill. By the way, Jem, talking of orator>', ju.st
sit down in that ai'bour, and fancy yourself the House of
Commons."

" Couldn't do it, sir." Capstick imperatively waved hi.s arm.
'• Well, then, — there, sir," said Jem ; and he seated himself
bolt upiight in a hone}-suckle bower, and took off his hat, and
smoothed down his few speckled hairs ; and put on a fa«!e of gravity.

ST. GILIiS AND ST. J.VMiCS. 357

"That won't do .it all," cried Capstick. " I just vraiit to try
a little 8]>eech, and that's not a bit like the House of Commons.
No ; roll youi-self aKout ; and now whistle a little bit ; and now
jmt on your hat : and now throw your k-gs upon tiie seat ; ant.1,
.ibove !ill, seenftu be doing anything but listening to me. If ynu
seem to attend to what I say, you '11 put me out at once. Not at
all pai'Iiamentary, Jem."

" Sliall I shufllo my hgs, and dioim my fingei*s upon the table ?
Will that do ? " cried Jem.

" IVetty well : that will be sometliinir," answered Capstiek.

"Or I tell yuu wh.it, sir; — if, while y« u was ntaking your
onitiou, I was to play upon this jew's-liarji" — and Jem produced
that harmonious iron from his waistcoat pocket^ — "' would that be
parliamentary an»l noisy enough } "

" We '11 try the jew's-harp," replied Capstick, " for I have
he:u-d much worse noises since I sat for Litjuorish. "Wait a
minute" — for Jem cs.'Viyed to preludise — "and let me exiilain.
The motion I am going to make, J«'m, is to shorten the time in
tiie pillory." Jem shook his licad hopelessly. " Accoi\Ung to
the law, as at present oj)ei-ating, the time of the pilhuy is one
hour. Now, I don't want to be called a revolutionist, Jem ; I
duu't want to army all the respectability and all the property of
the hmd against me "

" Dttn't, sir, don't ; if you love your precious peace of mind,
don't think of it," crievl Jem.

" Therefore, I do not at pi'esent intend to move the total
aUilition of the pillory," said Cajtstick.

" You 'd be stoned in the streets, if you did. People will bear
a f^ood deal, sir ; but they won't have their rights interfered with
in that m;umer. Do take care of yoursi-lf, pray do. I shouldn't
like to see you in the Tower," s;dd Jem, v.ith genuine tenderness.
" Let the pillorj' alone, sir ; touch that, and folks will swear
you 're going to lay your hands upon the golden crown next ; for
it 's wonderlul what they do mix up with the crown sometimes,
to be sure."

" FeiiT not, Jem. I shidl i-espect the wholesome prejudices of
my countiymen ; and thei-efore shall only move that the time in
the pillory be henceforth reduced from an hour to half an hour.
That 's gentle, I think ? '

J em stroked his chin — shook his head. " I know what they '11
call it, sir; interfering with the liljerty of the subject. No,
they 11 say — our forefathei-s, and theii- fathers afore 'em, all stood
s u hour, and why shoiddn't we l "

" I am prejiared for a little opposition, Jem ; but, just fancy
y.jui-self the House, wliile I speak my speech. Make as much

S53 ST. GILES AND ST. JA1IH3.

noise, and be as inattentive as po8siV)le, ami then I shall jjo' on."
Jem olx-«liently buzzed — buzzed witli tlie jew's-harp, sliaiulded
with his feet, rocked liinisoif baekwaids and fon^aids ; and, to
the extent of his genius, endeavoured lo niulliplv hini.self into a
very full IIous«'.

Ca]»>tifk t<H»k off his hat — held forth his ric;ht arm a.-^ before,
with the siijiph-mfntHrv atldition of a piece of j>aper in his hund,
ajid a^ain with his other arm supjtorted his left coat-tail. "Sir"
— sjiid (':i|>.Htiek. lookinij as full as he could at Jem, who rocketl
and shifted every minute — "Sir, it w.is au ubservatiou of a
I^oman emperor "

" Which one ? " aske<l Jem.

" That 's immaterijil," answentl Capstick. " A question that
will certaiidy not W asked in debate. I tiike a Kouian enifx-ror
as something strong to begin with — of a lioninn emperor that
(^iii flint pff alium "

'* Hallo I " cne<l Jem, hoMing the jew's-harp wide away from
his mouth ; " what 's that— Ijitin ] "

" I^itin," answered Ca|i«ti<'k.

"Well — my stars I " — said Jem — "I nev.T Vncw.-.! fljit you
knowed Ijitin."

"Nor tlid I, Jem," repliol Ca|>stick snjilingly. '• liui I don't
know how it is ; when a man once gets into Parliament, Latin
seems to come ujion him as a matter of course. Now go on with
your jewVharp, and make as much noise as you like, but don't
sj^eak to me. 'T isn't parliaraentarj'. Now tlien," ami Cap.stick
re^umeil the senator — "'it was an ol>servatinn of a Itoman
empeixir

" If voxi ple,n.s4^. sir, I 've laid some bread and clu esc an<l ale in
the parlour," saiil Ik-cky, breaking in ujjon the debate. '• It 's a
hot day, sir, anti T thought you might be tired."

" Well, — I don't know. What, Jem," asked Capstick, smacking
his lii>s, — '• what do you proj>ose J "

" Why," answered Jem rising, " I prof>ose that the House do
now adjourn."

Capstick retunievl the paper to his ix>cket, and takhig up lii.s
hat, said — "I second the motion." After .1 very short pause, he
added — "And it is adjourned accordingly." Whereupfin he and Jem
tumeil to follow Becky, who had nm on before them, down another
path. In less than a minute a shriek rang through the garden.

" Wliy, that 's the girl I she 's hurt, surely," cried Jem.

" Pooh, noixsense," said Capstick, quickening his pace, " it 'a
nothing ; taken a frog for a crocodile— or something of the soi-t.
Women love to squall ; it shows their weakness. It can't bo
anythiujr '*

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. SZlti

"Oil. sir — sir — sir — " cried ^cky, fljiug up the garden, and
rusliiiirj to CajKstick, — " they 've stole her — carried her oflf — my
diar, dear missus I "

" Carried otl" ! Mrs. Snipeton — the lady " — exclaimed Capstick.

" Stole liLT itvvay by force — oh, my ix)or master — oh, my dear
nii.ssu.s — the youug man will tell you all — master's heail will
l)n-ak — my sweet lady ! " And Becky with flowing tears, wniug
her iiaiids.

" Why f Eh— what is all this ? " said Capstick to St. Giles,
who looked pale and .stupitied. " Felluw, what 'a this I "

" I 11 tell you all about it, sir,"— said St. Giles. "The lady's
hoi-se w;us swifter than mine — I could no how keep up with
her. And wlien we turned out of Highi,'ate we " — here St. Giles
turne<l deathly pale, and his feet sliding from under him, he fell
to the earth.

" lie 's tlead — he's deail," crie<l IVcky, falling upon her knees
at his side, and lifting up his Le.id, when her hands were instantly
covered with blood, drawn by the cmlgel of Bla.st. On this she
renewt-<I her screams ; renewed her exclamation.s of despair,
"lie w;is dead — murdered !"

At this moment old Snipeton ran, reeling up the path. Dorothy
Vale, more by her ch.dk-like face, tlian by her tongue, had
revealed the mischief to her master. " Missus was gone — carried
otf — the man was up the garden." His life — nothing but his life
— shoidd .satisfy the cheated husband. Snipeton rushed to the
group ; and when he saw St. Giles prostrate, insensible ; the old
man, grinding his teeth, howled his curses ; and in veiy impotence,
worked his hands like a demon balked of Ids revenge.

CHAPTER XXXV.

We will not linger with Snipeton. For why cast away sympathy
— that essence of our moral being — upon an old, money-loving
man, gulled of his youthful wife ? Wherefore pity him, made,
by the lucky boKlness of hired knavery — retained and paid by
scoundrel cowardice — the living joke of the best society, shaking
its sides at the best of cluV>s ? Had the miserable man been left
upon the road, with out-turned pockets, and a medicable bruis«
or gash or two, why there would have been no jest whatever
in the dull mishap; the robbery and the woimd might have
|>;tssed among the serious things that lengthen even careless
faces. But how different the casualty ! A man— an old man —
and the quintessence of the di'ollery lay in his wi'inkles — liad

S60 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

been robbed of his other self; had liail liis very Iteiiifj rent in
twain, anil to think of his loss was rarest c<iine<ly — to picture him
writliinj,' in the agony of that firceil sfjKiration was to crow
with laughter. Such was the compjissiou bestowed by men
upon the old money-inc''ehai\t, as nnnour, like a wiM-goose,
cackknl as she flew. Therefore, for a time, we will leave Snipetoii
at his solitary hearth. No ; not 8<>litarj'. For now the figure,
the features of hi.s wife — the mn-away ; yi-s, there was the
horror ; there the burning tnith that poisoned the wouiul — were
multiplied about him. It would have Iteen some relief to the
tortured — a jiassing breath cooling the ilaraneil — to thir.k that
beautiful mischief the victim of -s-iolence : but no; she liad
cIuMkiI l»er share of cunning ; she had ])l.ayed a free pnrt in the
wickedness ; she had fled from him ; and he could hear her
laugliter at the trick. And then those very numerals — things
that in ple;i8;int idlene.ss of heart he liad jotted »lown. as fancietl
guards and retinue of wealth, to glorify and do liomage to thac
idol of his hi •nit.' — they rose in his brain like sjiarks of fire, and
he howled and whined like idiotcy. And at the same time, as
we have said, there was great laugliter — very great enjoyment
at the clubs.

The scene is shifted — night has pas.<4e<l away. For a time poor
Snipeton sat with his eyes uf>on tJie hand of the clock as though
he watcheil a dagger aimed to strike him. And the hand moved
from hour to hour ; and then, in deep night, as one on whom
desjiair had fastened, not to be Kx>3e<l but at the gi"ave, he sat iu
silent, sullen miser}'.

The Scene is sliif'ted. "We are miles away in pleasant Sun-ey.
In an old house — oKl a.s the gnarled elms and t>aks that majes-
tically stand, the sylvan guards, around it — is Snif)eton's stolen
wife. That house is the abiding-] tlace of the luckless hoi-somau
thrown from his steed at Hamietead, and duly tended by Crosa-
bone, and duly robbed by Blast. Accident and sickness save a
world of ceremony', and the i)atieut and the surgeon were in
briefest season, fast frieud-s. You may grow a friendship quick
as a salad, that like the salatl, shall serve the required purpose ;
and so it was with the intimacy sprung up 'twixt Shoveller and
Crossbone. Shoveller was pleased to call himself — a man of the
worhl. AVe say pleased ; for he proclaimed his title, as though
it was one of honour to he mightily proud of. He would say,
" I am a man of the world ;" indicating that he was wholly and
entiitly I 1 the world : that he dealt with facts; hard facts;
h;ird and real as the world he felt with his soles ; and quite a
different matter ti-om the misty, cloudy world, that swam above
Lis iiv^ad.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMESu S«l

Ant] Crossbone was also a man of the world. Hence, he felt
iiimse If drawn towards ShovelltT, even as two dead logs in a pond
are attracted together. In the very dawn and roseate l>hisli
of their fnendshi|>, Mr. Shoveller had informed Crossbone that he
was the owner 6f a snug, retire.l nouk, buried away amid trees in
a wild jLitch of country ; a solitary house, without, as he obsei-ved
the curse of neighbours. He had seen so nuich of town life in his
days— at times, too, mixed so very actively amongst the company
of London— that now and then, he felt it ab.^^ulntely necessary to
the prescrvatiun of his health, nay, even of his Ufe— to be turned
out to a bit of grass. And as Mr. Shoveller spoke, the face of
Crossbone was hghted from an inn<'r liglit ; for his fancy glowed
witli a ])leasant picture — that of Mrs. Snipeton si)irited from her
cluustised lord, justly punished for the offence of man-i.-j^^e — and
dwelling, like a wood-ilove, for a timely season at least, in that
pleasant hermitage.

Briefly, Mr. Shoveller offered his house and household devils —
for his lai-ea had cloven feet and barbed tails — to the service oi
Mr. Crossbone ; who, without offence to the s[)irit of huspit.-dity,
in the prettiest manner hinted at hard jjayment at an early day.
Whereupon, Mr. Shoveller professed his readiness to engage a
dear and valued friend or two (he had a large bosom for friends,
that man ; and could, u])on occa.sion, have lodged all Newgate)
to form an escort for the lady, from the perils of the join-ney.
And Mr. Shoveller kejit his word ; it was his pride to do so : and
the greater the mischief to be done, the more binding did he ever
hold the engagement.

It was the morning after the .<5e^^^ce accomplished by Mr.
Shoveller, and he and Crossbone walked in the little orch;ird :
walked as friends should walk, newly knit together by rascal
wrong ; they both took such pains to be at ease. " A sweet place,
here : a very sweet place," said Crossbone.

" Why, yes ; the grass is as green here Jis any^vhere ; the birds
sing as well, and the flowers are as fresh ; but what of that ? "
answered the philosopliic Shoveller, " I never care to brag."

" No man of the world does,'' said Crossbone. " Uless me !
what a crop of apples you '11 have ! "

" And ])ears, and jjlums, and cherries," said Shovellei*, slowly ;
and then he added, " Mrs. Snipeton has a devili.sh pretty mouth.
And to think her lips should keep so red ; when, I doubt not,
winter has touched them so often. Ha ! ha ! Poor little kitten:
how she pouted ! Well, if I love to see an\-thing, it is now and
then to look upon a pretty woman in a tearing rage."

We know not what recollection darkened Crossbone's mind — he
had known the sorrows of widowhood, and perhaps felt them anew

86i ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

— but he g.'ize<l ^\'ith mixed saduess aiul surprise at Mr. Slmvoller
"Tiiste is everything ; it's the salt of life ; witliout it we shoulil
be as like one luiother aa suaiLs ; auil tor what I kuow, have ju.st
as much enjoyiuent. Nevertheless there is a taste that grows
into a (lisejise ; aiitl, p.-vr-loii me, my dear friend, if I think a taste
for a Ijuly m a ragt^, is a taste of that very sort. Now cannibalism
*js only a ta.ste, nothing more. Nevertheless, though — as men of
tlie world — we may flay one another, we respect the ilecenciea of
life, and stop tliere." Thus spoke ('rossVjone.

" It is such a pretty sight" — said Shoveller, returning to the
picture — " to see what they would do, with what they only do.
"NVhen I lifted her from her hoi-se, lier little white hand gi"aspe<l
me, as it would tear me to bits. ' Don't madam,' said I ; * I ni
ticklish, and shall laugh :' and when I put her into the carriage,
and placed myself beside her, she looked at me, as though she
thought lier eyes burning-gl.usses that must make tinder of me ;
and worked her precious lips, as though they were crcssljows
shooting twenty deaths at me. And tiien — but I .xsked her panlon
like a gentleman — an<l then I laughed — I couldn't help it. Oh. I do
love a woman in a rage ; it gives the pretty tiling such animation ;
tunis so much that seems china-work into real flesh and blood."

" And nails," Cro.ssbone was about to say: but with an after-
thought he waive<l the subject jus jiaiiiful, and observed — " Vou
don 't think it possible Mrs. Snipeton can see me hei-e ] Because,
my dear frieml, I must not be known in this business; that is,
unle.ss professionally."

" Do you see that hand ? " said Shoveller, exhiViiting liis right
palm close under Crossbone's eye.

" Perfectly well ; I once studie<l chiromancy — that is, as a bov
— and I can see that your haml was uiiule "

" For roastol chc-stnuts."

Crossbone stared.

" Nay, nay, you are, you know it, a man of the world. The
chestnut is in the hou.se there ; and this is the hand — the paw of
poor puss— that you, knowing pug that you are — that you have
used to "

" Now, my dear friend." exclaimed Crossbone, apprehending
the intended application, " if I thought you thought so, I assure
3"ou it would make me very unhappy. Very unhappy, indeed.
You see, mine is a very ditlicult, a very delicate part. For to-
morrow, I must see Mr. Snipeton."

" And, perhaps," said Shoveller with his best gravity, "perhaps
prescxnbe for him."

" Should his condition require it " — assented Crossbone — " pre-
scribe for hhu."

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 303

" W.'ll, as you know the seat of his complaint," — and Shoveller
jerked his head towards the house — "no one better — you'll have
but little trouble with hiiu. Pour olil man ! Don't bleed liiiu
much. Ha ! ha ! "

" Don 't spoilt with surgery. It has been my weakness — I
may say, very uni)rutitable weakness — to have too much respect
for my profession. I love it so deai-ly, I can 't suffer a joke
uj)on it. Hark ! " cried Crossbone, and he turned towards the
road and listened — "hark ! Confess me a wizard, now. That's
a horse."

" Well, in the woi-st of times, you couldn 't have been burned
for that pniphecv," said Shoveller.

"Yes; but a horse that carries a lover. There's a beatir,sc
heart at full gallop and — did I not say so ?" and Cros.sbone reced-
ing bi'liiud a slirub pointed to young St. James as he slackened
his j)ace at the house. " Now, my dear friend, I nmst leave you ;
I must wait upon his lordship. You know your promise — I mean
— our bargain ? The house "

" Is his lorilshii)'s," cried Shoveller ; and that man o{ the
world looked very wise. "The house, and all that 's in it. I know
t^-ue hospitality ; especially, when paid for. 1 have the honour,
Doctor Crossbone "

" Not yet ; no diploma just yet," said Crossbone, meekly : and
witli a faint smile.

"Oil, it's coming f;i.st, now. "When rascality — not, my dear
friend, that I mean rascality — I would speak as a man of the
world — when rascality succeeds, dignity as a matter of course
must follow. Therefore, again Doctor Crossbone, I have the
honour to wish you a good morning ; and more, the unboiuidcd
gratitude of your excellent and noble employer." With this
wish, gravely delivered, and a dignified movement of the hat,
Mr. Shoveller resigned his place of host to the apothecary, and
struck dovn.! the garden, away into the fields ; perhaps to medi-
tate on life, and all its doings.

Ere the reader coiild learn this much, Crossbone was at the
side of his lordship, who, dismounting, resigned his hoi-se to Ealph
Gum : and that very intelligent youth looked at Crossbone, and
*hen looked at the house, as though his moral sense took a good,
hearty sniff at some mysterious mischief, and enjoyed it hugely.

" Your lordshij>," said Crossbone, " shall not the horses be put
up ? Thei-e "s stabling — "

" No : at least, not for the present. He has his orders,"
Raid St. James, who was then bowed uito the house, and Gum,
Juried in thought, walked the horses down the road. It was
very certain that his lordship was committed to some piece of

S*^* ST. GILES AXD ST. JAiinS.

pleasant knavery ; and the yonnu nian felt flattered that, ever
80 humbly, he had been permitted to mix in it. Wages must be
raised.

Croaslwne let! St. James into a large low room, plainly, but
solidly apjKjinted. The oaken furniture was black and shining
with age and huswifery ; and a few pictures on the walls
— portraits of long-since forgotten churchyard earth — looked
coldly, gloomily, on the intruders. The young lord seemed
ill at ease ; like one who had given up his conscience to the
keeping of another, yet feared to cull him to account for
the trust. Now he glanced nxiodily at Cros.sbone, ami now
with his whip, beat at his boot. But Crossbone — happy in
his triunij)h ! — marked it not. He h;id succeeded in so great
an attempt ; he had such a radiant captive to adoni his victoiy,
that he marked not the ingratitude of the man so undeservedly
made happy. Crosslwne exj)anded himself, Imdy and soul, tliat
he might receive all the blessings to be i>oured <lown ujn'u him.
And at length his lordship, looking full at his benefactor, observed,
"Well, sir?"

Crossbone winced a little ; only for a moment. And then
vigorously smiling, and bowing, and thrownng apart his arms, a.s
if with the action he would ()])en his verj' heart, said, "!My lord
— my dear lord — if, on this ha])py occasion, you will allow me to
call you so — I congi-atulate you. At length, you are in the very
house "

" And whose house may it be?" qtiestioned St. James, glancing
to and fro.

" Oh, for that matter, my lord, your lonlship's own ; that I have
settled — your own, so long as you shall fleign to use it. You are
master" — and Crossb<ine laughed like a tickled demon — " master
of the house, and all tlie house contains."

" And that, ^^r. Crossbone, doesn't seem to promise much,"
said the ungrateful nobleman.

Crossbone smiled, a.s conscious knowledge may be allowed to
smile, and with his lell-h.and fingers coaxed his chin. He then
mincingly approached St. James, and like one about to speak a
spell inetfable, said " ili-s. Snipeton " — and then the apothecary
paused, and stared. As well he might : for that very anient
young nobleman, the Lord St. James, did not spring to his feet,
re-echoing the silver name. No : his lordship — gravely as he
would have sat in Parliament, had not the democratic misan-
thropic muffin-maker defeated him — his lordship for the second
time, made answer " Well, sir ? "

" Mrs. Snipeton, my lord, is at this moment in this house,
cried Crossbone, with the emphasis of an injured man.

ST. GILES A1\D ST. JAJIES. 36&

" Is it possible ? " exclaiiued St. Jarnefi, aud his blood ros.3 tQ
Ills face.

" Permit mo to observe, my lord " — said Crossbone, naturally
affected, hurt by th(i placidity of his patrou — " that to devo-
tion, aud fidelity, with a little intelligence — for true wisdom
never brags — I defy my enemies to say it of me — all things are
purisible. ^Irs. Snipeton is here ; here, my lord, without " — aud
the aputhocary chuckled at the thought, it was so droll — " without
Mr. Snipeton."

It wuj very strange — very odd — what could his lordship be
made of? He showed no sign of an attempt to snatch the
apothecary to his lunus ; in the gratitude of that warm embrace,
forgetful, for one fleeting moment, of tlie world and its ceremonies
that ougiit to make the gap between them. No : as though his
lordship was sitting ibr a statue of patrit)tism, or stoicism, or any
other viitue to be wrought in stone fur a very miserable posterity
— for as the worhl, upon the best authority, with every generation
gets worse aud wui-se, in due time, tlie demi-gods of one age will
of coui-Sf become the Troglodytes or Cretijis of another — as though
we say, his lordship had posed himself for a sculptor, to go down
a seated giant to future dwai-fs, so did he listen to the tremendous
iuteUigence uttered by Ci'ossbone. Is gratitude extinct I — thought
Ciossboue ; parsed from the world with its dragons and griffins ?
Crossbone was not a man to weep : nevertheless, he believed he
felt a moistening of the eyes, as he looked upon the extra-
ordinary indiHerence of his fiiend and patrou. Would he never
speak /

At length his lordship somewhat relieved his faithful vassal.
'" Mi-s. Snipeton here ? Alone I "Without her husband, you say i
And how is this ? "

" You know not, my lord — no, aud you never shall know — the
pains I have taken, the danger I have risked, to insure your happi-
ness ui this matter. You never shall know it."

" And was the lady carried off by force 1 " Crossbone paused.
" Answer me, man : was violence used 1 Speak," cried St. James.

"Why, that is — gentle \iolence. The — the sort of violence
that is not displeasing to any of the sex. Just a violence that is
nothing more than compUmentaiy to the dear things : enough to
keep up appciu-ances ; not a bit beyond."

'' She struggled — screamed — and — "

" Yes ; there were all the graces, all the etceteras, and Uttler
flourishes used on such occasions ; but, as I say, not a whit more,
my lord, than enough to keep up appearances. ITie lady felt that
she was being torn — yes, torn is the word with the w^orld — torn
from an old, and ugly husband j and submitted to the operation

3'-.6 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

with ])i-oper. fuiliturle. But for aiipoarancu'S, as I say, she'd have
t5<[uoale<l 110 luoie tlian a rose-bud pulled from a bush — a uectarine
twiti-lu-d from a In-t-."

"(Joiue, sir," — and young St. James smiled, though soniewliat
sourly, — "you sli.ill toll mt- all about it."

Never did veteiiui tell the storv of liis laurtls with greatt-r
i>elUh thiUi CroBaboue felt a-s he narrated the history of his con-
(iiiost. " You see, my lord, I knew your heart wjuh set ui>on this
iiialter ; and therefore, though tlien- are jxtiple ui the worlil who
m.iy alTeet to lit't their eyebrows at the tnin.s:iction, therefore,
urged by n suihK-n frienthihip for your lonlship — if you will ]>ermit
nil- to u.se tl, ' ' iitful wonl — I w;w detennine*! to gratify you.
J;u( it w;is I iv for Iw'th of us, that I should go warily to

wi.rk. Hence, iu my professiomil cajmcity, I thiew in the pre-
MM-ipliou of horse-flesh, that I might get the huly from uiuh-r her
huMliainl's roof This settled, my next c:u'e wa.s to secure a sweet,
sequiMteretl spot, far fi'om the meddling intrusion of a scjuidalous
wi>rhl ; ]uid fortune, 8econ<ling my wish, flung the owner of this
house into my h:uid.s, — a jdiant, easy man, my lord, who knows
tin- Worth of money. Ly the way, my lord, your sei-vaiit — I mean
the fellow you gave me aa a follower — is, by no means, a man for
our Work. \\1i'n the woman w.us in our jK>wer — that is, in tlie
|>.>wer of my fiitiid.s, for it would have sjioilt all had I mixed
niy.self iu the matter — the rascal would have fought for her, when
he was levelled by as pretty a blow, I am told, a.s ever fell to the
lot of a fool. We mu-st get rid of him, my lon.1, that 's plain.
Well, my lord, my friend Mr. Shoveller — "

" And who is Mr. Shoveller I " asked St. James, drily.

" Uh. the owner of this quiet little castle. A snug, silent
retreat, is it not, my loi\l I"

St. Jame^ cjist no complimentary look at the walls, and then
motioned Cn)SiilK>ne to continue.

'* My story," said the apothecary, with commendable spirit,
considering tlie colduetis of his hearer, " my story is now soon
told. The lady had left her husbjmd on his road to London — to
St. !Mary Axe, my lord ; you know the den — strewed with the
bones of young spendthril'ts, though we can't see 'em, my lord —
well, she had left him, and her rascal servant, mounted on a
wreteheil hoi-se — Shoveller, deep fellow, had taken care of that
— could not keep up with her, and to bring the story to an
end, there was a little squealing — just for appearance — when
Mrs. Suij)eton was safely lifted into a carriage. The hoi"ses
tore along — and here she is." •

" You are a bold practitioner, "Mr. Crossbone," said St. James,
with a dLstorbed look : a look that showed perplexed thoughta

ST GILES AND ST. JAMES. 8^:7

•^increaiiing liesitaliou. " And tliere was not niuco violence ? "
a<l(le<l the vouiif' K«nl, sluwlv.

"Just ;u> niucli as I have saM, my lord; nay, hardly that.
The truth is, I believe — intlecd, I am sure — the pretty creature
kiimv — for wonun have shrewd gui'ssi*s in such mattei*3 — knew
wlu-re she wa.< coming — knew wliom «he was to meet — and so,
yes, so, my lurd, behaved herself accordingly."

'• Well, it may be. I wish I could thiuk it," muttered
St. James.

" Yi»u may soon assure youi-self, my lord. The lady Ls, I say,
in this lii'use. After much toil and trouble and — but, as I have
8,iiil. I Won't brag, it isn't my way — she is here — under this root
— uj- stairs" — fur the coldness of St. James made Crosslxjue
emphatically precise — " and, in a wonl, my lord, here Ls the key."

As tlie ajujlhecary suddeidy pre.st.nted that domestic implement
to .St. James lie uncon.sciuusly rccuiled fn>m it as from some
mortal mischief. "A ]irisoner — locked up!" cried the young
man.

" ^^^ly, my lord, after so much ado to cage the bird, think you
I \\ leave the door open ? " Thus spoke L'rossbone, aiul with an
impatience a little disrespectful of his hearer's rank. liut, it must
be Confessed, even by tlie most ceremonious, that when a man
for the sake of friendshij) and a little alloy of gold, risks the
re\vai\l of felony, it is somewhat trying to the spirit to be met
witli the bhuik face and wandering eye of the gentleman assisted.
C'rossbone felt smitten to the soul as he still felt the key between
his fingers — still s.i\v the young nobleman regard the piece of cold
iron as iron, nothing more ; and not the instrument that, with a
turn, would c>iK^'n a gate of Paradise. And then pride — it was
Very natural — arose in the breiist of the apothecary ; and with a
cold, thick voice, he said — " What am I to understand, my lord ?
Will vuu take the key, or will you " — the alternative was tremen-
dous — " leave it alone 1 "

Instantly, St. James snatched the key, and Crossbone felt lighter
by m;uiy a hundreil weight. " Upstairs ? " crie<l St. James.

" I'i>stau-s, my dear lord " — answered Crossbone — " along the
])ass;vge, and the fii-st door to the right." St. James quitted the
room ; and the apothecary sank in a chair, one heap of thank-
fulness. Deluded man ! He had little cause for thanksgi\dng ;
but then, he knew not as St. James mounted the stairs what
virtuous resolution accompanied that good young gentleman ;
knew not that his noble friend — the friend for whom he had
Worked so hai-dly, had risked so much — turned, loathingly from
him, as frcm so much moral carrion. Again and again had the
visionary (-.uriage- wheels rumbled in the ears of Crossbone : again

8(58 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

had he seen himself the court physician ; again had he laid his
fiii<:ir on that most woinlrous meohaniMm, a roval ])ul8e, — and
now, whilst St. Jauu-a trod the stairs, the day-dream came full
and flowing on the rapt apothecary ; and he sat in clouds of
Iiai»|iiiies.s.

Now and then it is well for tlio peace, tlie self-complacency of
folks^letermined to consider themselves very worthy individuaL*
— that the world i.s a world of ma.sks ; that thought, the face of
the ijilnd, may laugh or frown uihseen behind that vizor of flesh
bestowed ujMjn all men. Indeed, it is only by mejuis of such
\nz4)i"3 that the masquerade of human life is carried on ; for when
the mask drops, eai'th ends. Had it \toen otherwise, could Cross-
lione have looked ujHjn the mind of St. James, he would have
given up all thoughts of carriage-wheels, and [wssibly — like many
a disiippoiiited varlet — felt an instant yearning for virtue, if
lussurcd with bodily safety. With Newgate suddenly frowning
\\[xin his soul, he might liave welconunl his old abode ; and
thought more ten<lerly of the human weeds of earth, all (mreless
of itn llowers. But Crosslxjne was denieil this knowledge ; and
therefore aat hapj)y in his ignonince ; still listening to the lies of
harlot fortune. And her silver tongue so beat u{)on his brain —
with such sweet harmony posse.ssetl him — that it was not until she
had twice sixikt-n ih.it l'ros.HlM)ne heanl the syllables of a real
woman ; and then fortune was silent, and melted away in a
golden mist, and the a|)<«thoe,irj' s-hw .Nfother Daws — for so she
•was atfeotionatelv named bv Shoveller — standin;: at the door.

It wjia difficult to think her of the sisterhood of Eve. However,
the mind was fain to submit to the tvraniiy of pctticoat-s, .and —
thougli not without a struggle — believe their In-arer, woman.
There was that about her would make a reasonable man, with
affectionate thoughts for the pa-st, think tenderly of the times
when that old, human husk with blinking eyes and mumbling
tongue, would have been to the world no more than a Cliristmas-
log ; a thing to cast upon a fire, to mitke men merry with. In
those good times, not a cow would have suffered that woman to
api)roach her, but would have inexorably refused the eventide
milk ; not a porker would have caught her eye, but would have
obetliently sickened and <li<d of the witch. Hea\'y, 8e<late hay-
stacks, at the step of that old woman, would have taken a thousan<l
wings and flown upon a sudden hurricane. And, worse than all,
impudently, most irreverently taking to herself the form of a hare,
elie would have led poor Squire October's hounds some twenty
miles and more, and then have vanished in a flash of light. She
would have fed little children upon a diet of crooked pins, and
bhujttxl the hopes of butter-chums. And now, Mother Daws was

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. SOe

ail \x<;\y buiicli cf :ui old whiikui, and noUiiiig more ! Ami tlius it
is, by the pivsuuiijtiun and L;ud u.sage of luau, Time — like a
vcuui-able sire, fobbed by uutilial sons — is wronged, — iu liis old age,
cheated, and dekiriwl of deaix^t rights, and wholesomest amuse-
ments. We have long since taken witches from him ; and there
are men who, al'Kr all his losses, would deprive him of the gallows !
^\'hat^ in time, will be left, to Time !

CHAPTER XXXYI.

" You didn't call ? " said Mi-s. Daws ; and Croasbone looked a
savage assent. " The gentleman 's gone ujvstaii-s," added the
unnioveil woman ; for it w:is not in the face or words of tyrannic
man to shake her. "Well, I only say what I said when you
brought lur heiv — I know what I know."

" To tlie devil with you, and all your knowledge at your back !"
cried Croasbone, aiul he jumi>ed fix»m his seat, and strode towards
the dctor. Tliere he paused ; and tVom his lips di-oj>t that manna
of life, gtK»d counsel. " I tell you what, Mother Sulphurtongue ;
let me advise you neither to see nor hear. — At your age, you
ought to be ashamed of yourself, not to be blind and deaf too."
And Crossbone quitteil the house, .'ind strolling down the lane,
turnetl into a little wood ; possibly to think of iht i-ewaixl awaiting
him ; possibly to a«ld to his knowledge of herbs and simples. A>f
to !^L•s. Daws, she lookeii full of slumbering desti-uction ; and
*with a pjis.sing smile of conscious mischief, she betook herself
to household Jiflaire, calmly, patiently awaiting her time. She
would wash up the breakfast-things, and well contemplate her
me;isures.

We left St. James uix>u the stairs. In a moment he was at
Claiissii's himil>er-door. Determine*! upon making the amplest
atonement within liis power, he had resolved to restore the lady
to her injured husband. Yes; he would himself lead her back to
Mr. Suipeton's home ; and, confessing the pai-t that his weakness
had Consented to in the plot which, whilst unacted, seemed of such
light account, — beg the good man's paixlon. Pledging his noble
word never again to otiend, he would cure himself of the un-
la\s-ful p.nssion by foreign travel ; or he would fall in love with
another woman. At all events, he was determined to make a
sacritice ; and would crown himself, the conqueror of his own
passions. What a vile, base, inconceivable scoundrel was that
dirt-eating apotliecary ; how atrocious was the part he had

VOL. I. B B

870 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMF-S.

I>layeil ; liow (lejrrfulinjj the association of a njomcnt with him ;
;iii(I then, how 8ati«f:wU>r\-, how tnily rnnoblinp to confess a fault,
the uonfeswion C()U|ilc)l with a dett-nuinatiun of future aniendinenl !
Aiul these varied thuu<;lit.s jtossessed young St. Janifs, as pausing,
with the key in \\U liand, ho was alxMit to oj>en the «lixir : he
liateiiinl ; all was silent. Well, there was nothing stninge in that.
Again he li.stened : no, slie was not sohliing — there was no sound
of grief. Perhaps, she was fiust asleep. There was an air of
|x-aoefulness — of re|H..He — in all things, tli.it even ct>nfuH«»<l him.
Arter all, he had |H»ssiMy wronged the ai>otlieoai-}' : the nwui had
iHMjn a little over-zealous ; nothing more. Still, all was silent.
He li.stoned : yes; he thought — or then trie<l to think — that he
hoanl a luw breathing, as of tleep slumber. (Jrief never .slept so
soundly — a torn heart sank not so suddenly to rest. It was {>!ain,
he had l>een too ]>reeipitate ; that is, in his determination to
ix*store the woman to her husKind. She might, in her lieart,
d' .ipise him f jr his pusillanimity. In her heart, she might rejoiee
at the violence that supplied her own want of c«»urage by hearing
1. An<l then, wh.it a jest wouM it In- for the world — f-ir

li i — ^h<luld he think to ]>lay the moralist I He might \n;

nicknajneil Scipio for life. Still there was no sound, save that
of lowest bi • What a simpleton he had nearly shown

himself! Th 11 l>e no doubt that the woman loved him ;

and, the step taken, was profoundly happy for her deliverance.
Placing the key in his jM^-ket, St. James descend«'<l the stairs to
liave home further talk with the apothecary ; the ill-usetl man
who had sutVered in the hani judgment of his noble friend.

Now, whilst St. James, following Crossbone, takes counsel of that
^" idly man, we will return to the Ilonoumbie MemlK-r for

1. , . : ; all the time treni'iidously imlignant at the violence
otVereil to Sni|)eton's household g'xls, and resolve*!, at the cost of
any exertion or |H'ril, to i it.

Mr. L'ajwtiek left Sniji : le in the evening, ha\nng exacted

from him a promise that he would attend a council to be held at
the senator's lolgings, in Long Acre, early next morning, should
no news be obtained of the fugitive ere then. In the meantime,
Cajkstick, advised by Bright Jem, ha<l summoned Jerry Whistle,
that meekest of human bloodhounds, to assist them. Late at
night, ^Ir.^Vlli3tle had been acquaintcti with all the circumstances.
Whereujx)n, he had played with his watch-chain, and observed —
" This sort of caper, you know, Mr. Cajwtick, is very often a put-up
thing ; verk' often, indeed. And I nnist say it, tlie evidence is all
against the 'oman. Yes, I must say it, against the "oman."

" But you have heard that the young man says she was carried
off ? " said Capstick. '' Ue '11 swear to it."

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 371

*' No doubt on it, so fiir as ' he could see ; veiy honest young
num, that; I hojK?, too, he'll take ciu-e of himself. Still, it's
ai:aiiist the 'omau, aiid it's my 'jtiuion, any jury would so lind it.
Why, bless my heart, Mr. Cajwtiek, and liave they sent you to
Parliament, and sjiving your presience, do you know no more of
life tli.'ui that f Why, look you here. Tlie young 'oman, they
say. Is like a full-blown rose, and the old man 's as wrinkled as a
prune ; there 's a young nobleman, too, in the case, and — well,
Well ; depend upon it, if we find her out — and I 'ni safe to .lothat,
or my nanii; 's nut Whihtle — .she '11 nut tliank us fur our piiins,
1 'm iKiund for it." And Whistle went his way.

Now, C'apstiek, though he would not confess it to him.self, was
nevertlielefis shaken in his faith by the officer: he s|)oke with
such a weight of official ex|}erieuce. *' Jem, I don't b«dieve a word
of it ; Mr. Whistle h:ts seen so much of the black of life, poor man,
he cjin't believe in :uiy white at ail — eh, Jem f"

'' He hjis siHjn a goixl de;U, sir ; goo<l deal. Wonder he doesn't
look ijuito worn out, and quit« wicketl," said Jem. " For I don't
know how it i.s, tliough wiekeilnens juid miser}- ain't catching, to
look at 'em, nevertheleKS they do set-m to leave a shadow in a
man's face; a something that's a jwirt on 'em. I know now,
when I \v In-en tligging among the Howei-s — ha ! I wi>niler who's
looking at them j)recious carnations, now i 1 've always felt as if
I \\ got some of their brightness about me. A man that looks
upon tulips, and roses, and flowers of all sorts all his life, — why,
it 's quite plain, he c/itches tlieir good looks as I may sav ; for
that 's the beauty of dowers, they always look ha])py and good-
temj>ered ; bits of innocence that almost seem to make us iimocent
while we stare at 'em."

" This Is not a time to talk of such trumjieiy, Jem," said Cap-
stick : and Jem winced at the contemptuous word, which, to Siiy
the truth, came from the throat, and not the heart of the sjteaker.
" My oijiniou is, that }>hs. Snipeton has been carried ofi' by i-uffian
violence. I hope I don't think too well of anybody — I tinist not
— I never did in all my life, and I 'm not going to b^in now ; but
I must believe her to be a guiltless, ill-used gentlewoman. And
then the man w;is knocked ilown in her defein-.- — and, by the way,
I was going to speak to you about that young man."

" Yes, sir, to be sure ; he 's now searching all comei-s, and
swears he '11 find his mistress, if he dies for it. A nice, honest
young fellow that, sir," said Jem. "Has it all in his face,
hasn't he ? "

" Why, to say the tinith, I think he has ; that is, he looks too
honest. People who 've so much of it in their faces, people who
somehow make a show window of theii* countenance — well, some-

B E 2

372 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

how, I fli.stni.st 'era. Where does he come from ? Wlio wen' 1ii«
fvuviitri f }\iin he got a character, aiul «liil the ji.-vrson <»f the
|tjinflli sign it i If lit.' lia«u't, I duii't In-lieve in him. Tin- tWt is,
1 've been too eauy all my life ; aud will never take a man'8
char:ict»-r n'.'.iin if it isn't writU-n in a pixxl Ik.)Ii1 hauii, and ]>r<v-
jhtIv iiuth •nlicaU'«l. Wlio is lie ? Kvt-r &uuh' he called at iIkj
Tub — Well, those \)ec» have a nice time of it, they have; tlu-v
hav'n't to go downi to th»! Uouiw — ever sinoo then, he 's l>een flitting
al>ont me. as if he was some n»y*«tcri<nia puzzle of a va-.'aliond
that — why, Ji-m, what arc you Iniking »o haul at ? What 's the
n).iti->r. man f "

" Wj'll, xir. I niiist say it ; ih'High yi>u .•vrr- a ni«Mnl>er «^f Parlia-
mont — henv.-n help you in .'dl your niiJ-tortuniv, nay I — y«>u
h.iv'u't (H^wn the wiser on that aooonnt. Don't ynu remcmlier a
p«>»r litth- piece of a dirt of a )>oy mlUxl St. CJilea /'*

" CVrtniidy ; one of the thin^'H rai-sotl to l>e hanped ; one of the
little ntscalitics of life n-ared uj) that re«|)ecta)»le folks may seem
all the more respectable ; one of the Hhail<>9t of the fine picture oi
lite, 1 ' •:* Ml.' bright colours all the stronger. It's a

]>ity t I hiiu. Mercy 's a bungling virt4ie, after all,

.lem ; aiid nine tinieH out of ten, do*-* just as much hirnn aa
nii.'*<bief it.H«'lf W.-ll. what of .St. (Jiles f " crii>«l ('ai*«tirk, qnito
relieved bv hU biii>t of cvnit'i.siu — ouife ri-fri-slii-d witli his own
vinegar.

*' Why. yi'U know, he w.is trHUs]>i>i-teil f.r life. A long time
that, sir, fi»r fourteen to lix<k for'anl to," wiid Jem.

" Fooh, pooh ; he went to a fine place, Jeni : Br>tany Flay ;
lovely climate ; six cro[« of peas in a year ; pine-nj)plefl for a
jKMUiy ; and . '- ' -i so plenty, tliey put 'em in pies instead of
pigeoiui, St. < lie! he I — a great man now, I 've no <l<»ubt.

Shouldn't wonder if he hunts k.^ngarom with fox-houn<ls, and
driven a > l-four."

" Well, .ly chance of that. I should say he 'd never come

back a^u," said Jem, very g^ravely.

"Back .xgain I Why, Mr. Ani.-^ecd, are you ignorant of the laws
of your country ? " crie<l Ca{»tick, hi.s eye twinkling.

" I am," crie<l Jem ; "and when I kn<>w wh.it a lot of \ricke<l-
oess id in some of 'em, I can't say that I 'ra not glarl I don't know
any more : sa'ving yf>ur prt'sence, agin, as a member of Pai'lia-
m<'nt. and a m.ikerof the Kime."

'•Well, then, you do not know, perhaps, that if St. Giles was
to put his f'lot in merry England, they'd hang him for the imper-
tinence ? Are you aware of that inlereatiug fact, .Mr. Aniseed i "
cried Capstick.

" Wliy, without any conceit, I should hope I did kn^w tha*^

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMKS. S73

much. B\it you »et;, sir, love of country is stroug ; though I dou't
kuuNv why it shouM l)i'," iyii<l Ji-in.

" Nor I. liut a man's love f >r his country is vcr\- oftf>n like a
woman's love for her huslwiml ; tlif worse the treatment, th^
ileejK'r the atfet-tiou. To b* sure, we're all of one family — all
men ; and that, I 8in>j)0«e, is why we quarrel aiul go to mju' so
ofleu. And a <lr<>ll family we are, too, Jem. I declare, Jem,
when I sometimes sit and look at that glohe — for since I was
ina«le a memlnr, of coui*8e I could do no other than huy a couple,
onf for tlie e.-irlh and one for the stai-s ; in case anything should
x»me up alnuit )Kjun<larie8 of — "

" Of what i The stai-s ? " cried Jem.

" No ; not of the stars. And — though I wouldn't answer for

nnvthin;; an Act of Pai'liiunent couldu 't meddle with — when 1 sit

juul hiok at the glolte, I do think that the family of man, a« we

call ourselves — even while we "re grinding swords ti> cut some of

the fiunily's throat.s — the family is, after all, a droll hit. I often

do pity my milhons of hixtthers. When 1 'm in lied, I think there 's

my brother in UrtHjnlautl going to turu out in the snow, lo catch

a seiU for dinner. And tin ix' 's my brother in Ivalhrhuul milking

him.self a very handsome siush of sheep's entrails. And there 's my

brother in India laying down his b«jdy for wh^vls to roll him into

jKuste. And another Orientid brother standing upon one leg fur

twenty yeaj-a, tliat he Ui.-iy pass to Brama as a cock passes to

uleep. .\n<l there ;u-e thousjinds of other brothei-s notching,

cutting, tatttxiiug fraterii.d flesh iu all shajK-s and all jjatterus.

And there is a brother on the baJiks of tlie Bosphorus going

liome from the purchase of a fiftieth wife, thinking no more of the

li;irt;aiu than if he hail lK>ught a tame rabbiL And there are

crowils of other gluttonous brothers ilaucing roiuid a brother tied

to a st.oke, ei-e he shall be roasted — djincing round him, and, with

sparkling eyi-s, anticipating the tit-bits of the living animal. And

tiiei-e is another brother dymg, with a cows tail iu his hand, as

though that tufty queue tied heaven to earth, and he could climb

to bliss ui>on it. And there are millions of brothers playing such

tricks, and, wliat is woi-se, permitting such tricks to be played

ui)on them, that sometimes, Jem, I do feel ashamed of the fjunily.

1 do. And then I have wished myself — since I have a habit of

walking uix>n two leg<!. and any other manner of going would be

inconvenient — I have wi.>.hed myself, Jem,au old, grave, patriarchal

balxwn, deeply burieil in some forest ; some thick, impervious,

abidino-place — some gix-en garrison, made uuaijproacliable bjr

spikes and thorns, :uid matte<-l canes and reeds, and all the

armoury that nature grows, to guard her solitudes. Yes, Jem ;

Sometimes when I have been out of humour with my family — that

STi ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

most quarrelsome bipwl lot — I have •wished myself, aa I 8.iy, an
old hai>)un."

" Well, I never did that. But I do recollect this," said Jem.
"Once, when I was a little boy, and hatl l)een licked fur di>iii}»
uothinfj, but snyintj I was hiinjjry, and .standing to it, — once I tlid
wish myself a monkey, at a |»;irli)ur wimlow in a square, ojitiii'^
chennes like any Christian, tliouj;h at the time they couldu 't lia'
been less than a shiilinr; a-pound. I di i wi.sh that, and th<»ui,'Iit
it %'en,' wicked artei-wards ; but I never did, in my proper senses.
wish nivself a kilMion, str.iddliii£j aUiut with a vouuir tree for a
walking-stick, like 1 've seen 'em in the pictui^books. I never
did wish th.it."

" Tliat only shows you want ambition, Jem. Hut to return to
our love of country, Jem, ami young St. Giles."

'* Wfll, .'dl I waH >,"'ini; to sjiy is this, Sup]>n«e he waa here —
what would you do ?" asked Jem.

" Do ! As a law-maker, re»i»ect the laws. Give up the mi.>v-
crejuit, of course," sjiid Cajwtlck.

" Yi>u couldn't do it, sir ; no, you couldn "t do it," cried Jem
with liespairiiii; em|>h;isia ; and Capstiek, thi>u<j;h he tried t^j l<>uk
astonisheti at the contradiction, cared not, it was plain, to pursue
the HrL,nimvnt.

Kiriy the UfXt morning, Mr. Whistle made his ni)i»earance at
Cajwtiek's liMljjings ; ami Mr. Whistle waa so calm, so self-jws-
sessed, app.ni"«'ntly so content with him.>«elf and all the worl<l aUmf
him, that it w.-w clejir he hiul p.i.ss*"*! the last night in a mantier
mo«t protitable to the entis of justice. With the cust»>niary tlowir
in his mouth, he still hummed a tune, still playe«l with his watch-
chain, lie .s«.H>me*l ini-fectly happy ; his heart wjw warnietl with
a great secret.

'•Well, Mr. Whi.Htle, about this most unfortunate la«ly," said
Ca|>stiek. " .\iiy new.s?"

" News ! To Ik.- sure. She 's all rijjht," crie.1 Whi.'^tle.

" Ivight ! " echoetl Capstick. " Carried otT— toni away from
her hu.sKind— and all right ? Mr. Wlii.stle ! "

" This is rather a serious Vmsiness ; not at nil a common matter,
Mr. Capstick, A ver>' nice and delicat-e atlViir, I can tell you :
and fur this re.ison " — said Whistle, with bis tiuger at his nose, —
" there 's nobility in it."

" Nobility ! That makes it more atrocious," cried Capstick.
" That nobility should -violate the laws — "

'' Well, I don't know," obsei-ve^l Mr. Whistle ; " as they 're V»om
to make 'era, perhaps they think they 've the best right t<» do wh;»t
they like with 'em. Howsomever, it will l>e a ditlicult job ; a verv
difficult job," and Wlustle shook his bead.

ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMES. 375

" I can't see it. You say — at leitst I understand as much— that
you liave got tjocxl scent of the runaway I"

"Scent ! Vvhat diil I come into the worUl fi)r ? I was made
on purpose for the work. lu course I have. Before I went into
my Mankets la.-<t night, I cnuhl ahncst have sworn wliere to put
my hand upon >ni ; and afore I gut up tliis morning, I was moral
certain of it : and it 'a turned out as I thouglit ; in course, a.s I
tliouglit."

"Well, then, Mr. Whistle," crie<I Oapstick, "there's no time to
be lost ] "

"We've tlie day before us,*' answered the officer ; "and we
niusn't 8iM>il it l»y too much hurry, you see."

JJut here Mr. Whistle was interrupt*.-*! by the announced
arrival of Mr. SnijK-tou'a sorvaoit ; and St. Giles, pale and
liaggjird, pn'.scnt4'<l him.self. He winc*.*d, ajul the colour flew
to hiii check as he s;iw ti»e ulhoir, wh<) — still chewing the
flower-stalk — looked cahuly, nay kindly, upon the returned
trans] Mjrt.

" Well, young mail," said Whlsth-, " and what news do you
bring?"

" None at all, .sir : none. 1 've not l>oen otf my legs all night ;
and I cui ])c;u- nothing — nothing," siiid St. Giles.

'• Humph I I believe you know one Crossboue, an apothecary i
He was Mrs. Snipeton's doctor down in Kent, eh ? Perhajw I 'ni
vvi\>ng, but I've heard so," s;ud Whistle, and he looked with a
t-hi-ewil, mug|)ie look at tlie interrogated. " And I beUeve this
Mr. Crossl)one is the friend of a young nobleman, somewhere
alKjut St. James's-stpiare, eh ? An.l it w;is the ajx/thecary, I thiiik^
*who recommended you to good Mr. Snipeton I "

To all these questions St. Giles silently assented.

"Pray, my man," cried Whistle sharply, "do you know a
gentleman, by name Thom;is Bhtst ? "

" No," cried St. Giles, quickly ; and then he coloured at the
falsehiXHL " Why do you ai»k ? "' he stammered.

" Nothing: I thought you might have known him. Howsomever,
it seems you don't ; and as hLs acquaintance isn't^o be bragged
of, why"— adde<l Whistle, with a sidelong look, — "why you
don't lose nothing."

Capstick, who for the kst few minutes had been shifting his
feet, and \'igorously biting his thumb, here cried out, " Well, but
Mr. Whistle, it strikes me that we shoulil immediately commu-
nicate with Mr. Snipeton. That wronged, that worthy man — "

"Left his home a little after daylight, sir," cried St. Giles-
** I 've been to Hampstead, sir. He 's gone, nobody knows where."

•• Poor man ! " cried Capstick, " let 's hoiie the best ; but I 'm

»76 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMK3.

afnad he's tlt-iiin'mtc. Wluit '» to Ix- il>n»-, >fr. ^^liistlr* i \V),.Tt
>\i> you pri>|««*c ? I'' ''^ •jK'ttk, sir ; fi«r I'm in ku. h :\ tUunr, «»r —
praj Hjifjik ! "

" Tb« f»n*l thiuff to be doue." i«ai«l WliUile, " b to hire »
flifti* — "

"»>f courw, iiMitnntlr. A cliaiite ainl four, Jt-m ; trin-ctlr,"
crtcH^ i 'n|Mti<-k. ** Wi-ll, ami wkit in*\l f "

" Wt II, tli.it I'll I " wIk'u lh<* ihaisc cotiu-n," au«wcn<i

Wliintl*- ; JUi>I, with ; -Mf<T. wi- fur is »b<>rt l»n»e U^avv the

{Kirt y, n'tuniing lo the n«>tgiilionrho(i(J cA the bouM of Shoveller ;
— tht' h<MiH<' eu koafnUihhy svrretxlerc^i, for so murb caBh, to
ilr. t'n'»w«lHnit'.

Ill A Hiiuill nx^n in an ol<l fkmt-hoti]^, abnnt two miles distant
from the priiMtu of Clarisjwv, sat a pnrty of thn-e ; two wcnr

e: 1 u Iu»m awl •■.'i'"*. simI roniitrr ale ; • - '- > :- - t,

t'. . ;'■ to thriu h.>'i no othiT <luti«'i». t

ami Mwi ; with a heavy, l<-n>ifn Imik, that twcuinf to arr nothii);;.
Now, til' ' ' Toiu \" T!i'*

olil nuin i , ^ >> luive i : (f hi?*

profuntional coiucieuce ; aixl tm hij* n«il to town hiwl met Tom
lilaiit ; who, an 1. i>"«l, hrul rW-ti early th.it In* na^jbt »• «k

the iliMCoUMoUtv 1... .. . .. .\Uit |ionr into hi.t cnr i-ouiwiLttory tiliti^'H.

Mr. lUaiit IkAil Hpent part of iW )>n'viouit iu>.:ht in oait'-inpljitiii 4
the iniquity of the cnav ; aiul il> u-rmining within hunwlf at on<-<-
the wLmiit anil ni<*t ]\ ■ ' ' ' '. u-t. It w:. ' 'h. th»t

Mr. ShovflUr look«-«l iij- th a rery ^-luons

e^'o, and, therefore, thou;;li he luul duly uMtiLHtcd nt the alMiiK;tir>i)
of the Lidy, V 1 >»ith a stem *-n<'-

of duty iuid ^ — .^ .. ....... ..v ;i.; tluU be shonkl Htill

bist pi-rfurm his duty to hiM cuu.Heieoct> and h» iutert'st hy dtAiij^
^•rvice to Mr. SniiHtoo. He wonkl, no doubt, }<iy a ^o«mI huui
for the knowlttl^u of hi.^ wile'* wlicn'alx.nt ; ai. ' ' • tore I5l.t-l
fiwe early, like an honest, thrifty man, to n. -r of th<-

pennyworth. Ami this intention Mr. libwt merely indicAt««I to
ii9tit|)eti>i) on ;' i-'^aarin^r '

older, the in; ,-n ; an<i ' , ■ ' t '»

took Bbst with him to the house of Tan^e. It wa» here that
Mr. I1L1J4 *i«oke out. It wi>ul<l [n: hid ruin for lifi- — there was no
doubt of lluit — if it was known that he h.-id jn-aihed : he would
bt- hunted all over the world, aixl never know a moment's quiet ;
yet he Lul, he hoped, a con.ncience ; he K-vl In-en an unfortunal*-
ui;ui, always trying to do the right thi; * -r the world never
V'tting himdo it : uevertheles*, he would : lir of honesty and

a good ch:irarter , yea, with a quiet, happy, comfortable ohi a:.,"?
to end wi'Ju And so, as it wait a wicked thiug to {larl man and

ST. GILES AN1> ST. J.VMES. :C7

>* iff, ;iii.l Ik- i<ml<J nut think wln-n- |M(,]ile who did such wickolmsa
could evtT ex|H'('t to go to, lie Would at once tell Mr. SiiiiMt'ii
where Mrs Snii>eton wan for — yea, for ten pnineas. Anyb<xly
who ilitl not care to bo hon»"st wotdd have a.'ikwl twenty, l>ut he
would a-iy ten at u wnnl ; leaving Hn^lhing Ix-yond that tu the
generosity of worthy Mr. SniiH»t<in.

" And you are not awan.*, Mr. Bliwt," said Tangle, "that at^this
moment we may take you ujt for an accessary ; that we ni:iy rage
you, instead of |>.'iying you, eh f "

" Well, and what if you «lid ? " ai^kcl Rlai<t. " You miijht l-K-k
me up, I know ; l.ut you couldn't unl<K-k my mouth. 15ut il'.s like
the way of the world ; you won't let a jHKir man be honest, if he
would. A tine handsome voung gentleman 's nui off with thi.s oM

gentleman's wife, and "

" Tliere — no matter — hold your jware," cridl Snijx'tnn. " You
shall have the money" — whereuin.n IMant miniediately hehl out
hin luuul — " when the — the woman 'h found," said SniiK-ton.

" I can't give cre<lit, «ir ; I can't, ind- ' 1 for thi.H reason,

— you see, my character won't let me. 1 , HUpiKw^ing I give

you up your wife, and you diin*t gi%'e me the giiiueas, well, I 've
such a Iwl name, and you 're sich a resiKvtahle gentlenuui, all
tiie World wtiuld l»e on your side, and nolnMly on mine." We
know n>'t whether this rejusoning weighe»l with Snijwton ; but he
counteil out the ten giiineas ujKin the table, which Bhwt duly to<jk
«iji, counting them a^'ain.

" Kor .sich a K-autiful cretur as your wife, it's cheap, sir; I
must say it, dog cheap."

" No rtMuarks. fellow," cricil Tangle; "but let lis to Imsinesa
' directly." WhereuiN.n they left lied Lion S^juare ; aJid, a few
hours i>a.st, wei-e in the county of Surrey, at the farm-house
already nameil. Tlieir meal tini»he<l, Mr. Tangle rose, and with
Snijieton held whi.>«|>«_'ring counstd. Then Tangle left the house,
recommending lila.-*t to remain with his patron, who was duly
adNTseil to watch him, in the fear of trea<.*hery. And so two houi-s
jxi&jetl, when T:uigle ivturnetl ; and again whi.'«i»ering with Snipe-
ton, the huskuid, with nige newiy lighted in hi.s cuuntenanoe,
quitteil the house ; Tangle, in his tuni, taking charge of Bla.st.

To return to St. James. His goo.i genius — shall we say go<xl,
fur he thought it so ? — le»l him to Cn.issboue, who, it will l>e
reeollecteil, "had walkevl forth, it may be to contemplate tlie
profitable prosi>ects of his future life ; it may be, as we said,
to peep and peer in hedge an<l ditch for health -restoring hei-b.
CrossU.no — there was magic in that knowing man — speedily
reassured the timid nobleman. Clarissa doated upon him —
was only too happy that violence had been ased — and, in a

873 ST. GILt:S AND ST. JAMEa

Word, what woiilil she think of hitii if, witli the iluvc ixi hi*
li.'Util, he agniii tiling; it ititu the sky, whcu it luuMt ueeUs gu
home ? II.i<l lie, bo haiuLsoiuc — »o spirited a genth'inaii — no fear
of the Uu^hter, the ridicule of the worUl i What woiiM the
World stay of him f

It w.'uH ver}- Htrange, that tlie thouglit^ of the apotlicairy should
Ao harmoniously accuni with hia own. St. Janira wax detenuined.
1' * '1 Mcc Clariiwa ; would ■ ' ' •' .'\ ,: ! i^re

:.:m. Ho must l»e an ^ i ;!ik

otherwiM. And with this new r«»olutiun, St. Janiea rvtumed to
il'o house ; Cnxwbune prumining to follow him.

" And lio you mean to munler the swtn't lady T ** acked Mra.
ItKWN of St. JamcH, who 8tarto<l at the hanl qucntioii.

" Munh'r I my good woman 1 What do you mean T" And
iiid li>rilf«hi|> ' ' ' !.

" You 've ■ .of the d(^->r, an<l alie ha'n't hail no dinner,"

wan the old woman's cutting aiuiwer.

" IIrr\> in — stop I I will niymlf (*<•<• i ' ■."

$.iying ihi*, St. James mounted the .itiu. , - . ti

the liK-k. One moment, rea<ler, ere he turns it.

An opptMite duor, unseen hv St. Jannw, is ajar ; m- ,4

like a MKik.'" 1 •■^- •■•■ •■• ;•'-'- 1.- .. ...t....... ». . A

SnijMton'i*. I : .: .;

over Mm. Daws ; no dilhculi aehievenienl, lor the ol«l cre;»ture —
warjHil. wiihere«l, di-jtpi- ' "' ' -. — had a woman's

heart th.it n*vult»il at i .<t l.y Ikt m.'cster.

Sni|ietun had nniulve«i to watch from his hidin(;-place ; to listen
to the wonls of St. .^ ' -'i

U-tween treachery :i. . - ,- • ■ -t

that he would suOer the interview, and calmly — very culmly —

li.-»t«n. Su.-h was his thought. Weak man I St. .'

alx.ut to tuni the key, when Snijx'ton, with the stn-ngii. ■ . ......

nt-.-vs. fijimiig u|x)u him, and whirUil him fn.»ni the door In a
moment, St. James's swonl was in his liand ; in the next, through
the Ixxly of Si who, rwli' ' ' ruid tire«I.

St Jamea wa.H s" , but the )»; : ; for Tom

Bla^t, rushing up stairs, received the piece of lead — it must btj
owntnl, a <lan>aging alloy, to tlie tei

And now the cottage i^ tilU-.l w.,.. ...;.., ; r Capstick, St.
Oiles, Bright Jem, and Jerry Whistle — with a couple of official
friends — arrive at the door. Snij»eton, speechless, with hxjks of
a^onv ."uid hatred, pointed towanis St. J;uut^ Whi.ntle at once
divine<l the truth. " My lonl, I ax your lardou," Kiiil the polite
otlioial, "but you 're my prisoner." St. James slightly bowed,
and turned away, followed bv the two officers.

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 379

" .Villi there 's .-mother," crieil Tom lil.i-st, '* there 3 St. Giles —
hor«e-ste;iler — returned convii t — vuu know him, Jerry: yuu
must know him — 1 'm done for — but it a souieliiiug to liang
that «l..g."

" Tin loo true, mate," tviid Whintle to St Giles, "you must go
tdonfi with me."

" With nil my henrt," an>iwere<l St. Gilea. " I see there 'a
nothiiii; left i\H' but to die ; I nmy l>c at j>eaoe then."

Cui^tick trii-*! to 8i>i*.'ik, wlu-n hiit eyi-u fdlwl with teal-*, and he
8eizo<l St. GileH by the hand, and ^tjwjrhI it. " I knew ^ou — and
bope<l l>etter — but tiike heart yet, man, take heart," said Caji-stick,
whilst Hri^ht Jem hIiooL hiii hejul and ^'ro.initl.

"'('••me in, couje in, directly," cried .Mi>.. 1 ):iwk, with her handd
fiwt U]>ou CroMslioDe, then at the thrutthuld. " Here 's the good
geutlemaii killed — munlereil."

Cru»»bone KMik«*<l at Snipvton — felt hia pulse — and said, " Whu'd
have thought it I So he is."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

It was but the walk of a few minutes, and the two culprits,
St. James and St. tJilei*, — who could have prophesied this com-
panionship of jjuilt ! — iluly eH4-ort««<l by the ollicers, sirrived at the
little publie-housi>, where (."ajwiick and his companioUB on the
jt>urn»'y lunl left the carriage. The muflin-m.'dier himself remained
l"!iindat tlie cottage, insi.stini; th.it <' -' •• should not ijuit
til'- woundol Sni|K'tou ; a«, in tiie avo\v , i-.mce of Capstick,
" it was quite im]>os.sible that he should be de;ul." Crosslx>no
i"oulil only smile ct>ntemptuoU8ly at the hopeful man, and look
a1>out him, as one looking for :ui easy escape. "The body is the
l>o«ly of a ileiul miui, sir," said C'r.->ssboue. " I thiiik I ought to
know : I have not pnictise*! so many years not to have an intimate
ac»]u.Tintance with death."

'*i)i;id! HK^as my heart I Really dea«l, and alive but this
niuuite ! " cried Capstick, vacantly.

** Of course. What do you exj>oct he:irt8 are made of ? The
left ventricle — I 'm sure of it — cut quite tlirough," said Crossbone.
" So ! a pretty piece of news to tell the Marquis — and that
blesso<l woman, — it will kill her — the Marchioness."

"And the wife of the nuinlered man ?" cried Capstick— " but
dear soul ! she mustn't see this sight : " and he withdrew the key
from the uuturne<l Iocs. '* Let us remove the body."

:so

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMI-S.

"Not by aiiy inejum," said Tiuigle. "i^uile illegal. Here it
muMt lie for ill' "

" lie here I \'. ■.-. ...;Ui, tin pcv.r Koul must tstep ticrom it to
tlestceud the Klairs. " Her.*, Ji-m ; hilp luc to hrvnk the Uw jmit
a littJe, will you. In tliat room, Jem ; in thul nxmi." And
<'.i|»>t;ck ' 'in lift.-. I ■' ' il inrin into the <haJulK?r whence
l.r hiiil ! iijion li !. ; Mr. Tangle, ilurin]i; the Vnief

o|ientiou, h*udly declnring that not f'»r the l>e«t fifty p»und»t would
he have a hand in it. " And m.w, Mr. « nxBibone," «u<l < ';t|wliok,
" we Ml go clown Ht&ini to that jK».>r wn-toh."

" I really have not any time to woirte uf»on •uch people now,"
Raid the aj* • " And wln-n 1 r^ that, al thi« very
iuon> ■ • * t) may have the grt.. • 1 ■■( uie, "

•* ^ :..n> this houiie'— «uhI < k, with calmeat

detennmatton, gTaj»potl the ft|K>ihecarv*« cii.ir — "until you •«•
the man. You' ' " '■ .d upon 1 ' '• ."

•* //ij life ! " . X • , I III I. . .Htaken

if it '• Worth a •ixjH'nny ro|ie."

"1 l.ul M the life of

an ij.;. ... , , •• . . 'I save one f"r tho

other'iL I t^ll you, iiir, yi>u iiiuitt : and there'* an end of it.**
With thin deci.-ion, ' n led the n fv in cw ito

t'- •-•i ■— •• »: - • •■ ■•' . the C<'i.,... . ;.-ikii

u to hill feiiturv* the

luiMt terrible expn>wtt<iti. All the hidden wicke<lncMof the uuut't
heart !«eem«««l br^rtij:' ' " •' > ' ... y^,,

poiir Women hover , - uIjxkI

apart, contemplatiiii; with a curi'Mity that M>euie«l at onc« to

fa-xri' irible hi '1.

C'l •• ■»* ' ., .'... .'nnight to the

woii! ill ; \%h with new hal«, buii.cd upon

the diH-tor ; and wlrnne voice, nUtlin;; in bin throat, growled
inarf- ' • '• ' ' ' .^t"i». Crumlione roe<jilc<l from th>- f>atientf
but \< by the gmap of CaiHtiok. "('«'ine, sir;

what do you think of him I " a^ked the aeuator. " There '■ life
yet, eh 1 "

"A nothing, sir ; I can «ee it— oh, yea ; a mere nothing. The
ball Is somewhere here," and the apothccarj* mani|mlated, with a
^ ind, tho .xufTiTer. "Can't get at it ju«t n<>w ; but a little

J.. ,..v — eomethiug cooling — and in a d.iy or two we' 11 extract
the le.id."

** You 're sure of that, Mr. Doctor t Quite sure ? " a.-»ked Blaat,
with a f r • ^ ;;^n.

" Qnit' il," answered Crossbone. "I'll pledjje even Diy

proft-s-jional reputation upon it.''

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 381

" Well, thfiJ, tlmt 'a notliiiig but right," ga.'<|>ed the wounded
mjui ; still torriMy fVeiri^' hin i>i-<jfeHsin^' pri'server. " For aa the
bullet tame nil ali'iig of y<«u — why y<m (."an't do better than "

" A little lij,'ht-heade<l juMt now," crie<l Cro8»lK)ne, as Blast failed
in his - " Milt, my de;ir sir, since you take an intere^it in

the j» 1 ideil the ni"illurary to Caj^tifk, " 1 can j)romLse you,

that tu a few dayu yuu shall have the bullet now in his btniy in
your own haudi^, sir ; and hin life safe — that is, unilertitaud me,
■afe from irad. All he waiiUt is ijuiet — merely quieL"

Caiwtiek, for a moment, looked thoujihtful. He then ol>8ervetl
— " Well, then, we must nurse him." And saying this, the

senator tx ' ! - ' V: with Bright Jem, who, with his Inst

aigniticiiiii i . i ai**«-nt. Ix'ave we, then, for a slutrt

time the dead m:iU, lying atark for the coroner, and the wounded
nidiaii • ■ ' " . , f,ir lh< " •■ future benefit.

Mr. >^ - . , ilie puln .'•-• with his prisoners,

with miuiy ajiulogieii rvqui'Sted Lis lonUhip to make himself as
comfortable aa )KMisible under all the e i re ums Lances. It was an

Ujjiy busiiuiw ; verj* u^dy. IIa«l ») '! g<-ntleman been merely

pinke<l a iuile. it would not have i ; but death, downrij^lit

death, matle the alTjiir extremely disagrei'able. Nevertheleas, iiis
lor! ' ' ' • .. ' Would si-e that he had justice done him

— t ^ that became his slAtiou as a uot'leinan

and a gentleman. And reiterating this consolation, Jerry Whi.stle
ai;ain K|>-'i.>i.as«*d that he miiht call U{K>n his lordship to consider
himiiell a prisoner ; and, for a time, until it was «juile necessary to
apitear U'fore the unigistrate, to acc*->mmo<late himself to the lje«t
room of the public-house. As to the rutlion, St. (Jiles — well, it
was Very oiKI, Mr. Whii*tle ol>Merved, that things should so fall
out — but surely his lordship would be goo<l enough to remember
the little vagnmt wretch that stole his lordship's feathereil hat
when quite a kiby ; or, if his lordship*- ly could not go

so far back, at le;ust his lonlship must i i the jH^ny stolen

by tlie youtli, St. tJiles — he was then, the rascal, fourteen, and
must have known l>etter, — and for which he was to have l>een
hanired ; only, fo«.>li.-*hly enough, he had been sent to Botany Buy ;
whence, not knowing when he was really well ot^ he had run
away, that he might put his head into a halter at Newgate. He
inust say it : it was odd, that a gentleman like his lordship,
St. James, and such an old utfender aa St. Giles, should be, so to
speak, in trouble together.

•• l*'K.r wretch !" s;iid the nobleui.an. " And where is St. Giles?"

" Why. my lord, he is proj»erly secured in a bit of an out-
house. There 's a nice clean wisp of straw for him and his o\vti
thoughts. And, moreover, for though it's weak, 1 somehow like

892 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

to treat a. prisoner like a man — moreover, I have on cred liiin a
j>int of beer and 8(jme bread an<l clieese. The county pay.s for it
— and if it didn't, why, though I don't brag, 'twould be all the
s.'\rae to Jerr)' Whistle."

St. Jamis w.'us alxiut to reply to this, when, after a slij^dit, briei
knock, the door opened, ainl Mr. Tangle, with a face of most
tremendous woe, and his whole fiijure full of alHiction, crawled
into the room. lie looke<l mounifully at St. J]uue«, bowetl, and
tleejily siyhed.

" Do you come to reproach me, Mr. Tangle," said St. Jameh
" with the death of your ohl friend I "

*' Not I, my dear lord," crifil Tanj/lf, quickly, " not for wurlds.
I would rejtroach no man in his trnuKU-, nuicli U-ss a genthiuan —
I beg your {uii-don, my lord — 1 Hhould .say, much less a nobleman,
litsidert, allow me to disaltuseyour lonlship'.'* mind. Mr. SnijH'ton
w.is no friend of mine, cci-tninly not. No two couhl Ik; les-s alike
— I hojH.'. We were only professionally lK>und together, nothing
more. Ties of re<l tape, my lord ; ties «>f re<l tai>e — that's all."

" To what, then," a^kt^l St. James, " may I owe the favour of
this visit ? "

"t>h, my dear lonl ! " exclaimed Tangle, at the same time
sl.'wly t.iking hi.s h.andkerchief from hi.s pocket, and well shaking
it ere he applied it to his eyes. "Oh, my hud !" he reiK^-ated,
with his face coveretl.

" Kxcuse me, Mr. Tangle," .-^aid Whistle, " but I cannot have
his lordship distressed after this manner. I 'm a man of busi-
ness, whatever the grief may l>e. Now, if you 've anj-thing to

8.iy that will serve the pris , what am I about ? — his lordship,

I .nhoidd say, why, put aside your i>ocket-handkerchief, and give
it mouth."

Mr. Tangle seemed to struggle with liimself to obey this
injunction. At length, howevt-r, he di^playe<l his naked face,
and N-igorously winking his eye-lids as though to well dry them,
he said — " It is not, my lonl, for me to forget that I was once
honoured with tlie patronage of your n<«ble house. At a time
like the present, when an accidental death — "

" Yes, I know," said St. James, and he shuddered from head
to foot — " I know : the man is dvad."

" He is, my lord," saiil the consolatory Tangle. " What then ?
We all nmst die."

" What a blighted wretch am I ! " exclaimed the young man ;
"blood, blood ujKjn my hands ! "

" Not at all, my lord," cried the attorney ; " for depend upon it,
a verdict must wipe 'em clean. And that, saving your lordshijj's
presence, that I have ventured to come about." St. James i<lly

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. S:-3

■tared at liim. " Tliere will, of course, be a trinl : that is, a form,
an honourable form to clear your lordship. And, my lord, it
Would be an htiiour to nie in my declining a^'e — at a time,
too, my lord, when honour is doubly precious to a professional
map — to be ajlowed to attend your lordship throii;.jh this
uuph'.'usant business."

" Tliat can't be, very well, can it," asked "Whistle, " for won't
they call upon you as a witness ? "

"Impossible. I saw nothing of the ti-ansaction, I'll take my
oath " — and Tau'de became even enthusiastic in his asseverations
— '* I '11 take my oath, I saw nothing of it. Will you, therefore,
my lord, honour me by your ai)pro\'ing commands 1 " And Tangle
bnwod to the floor.

" As you will, Mr. Tangle ; du w hat you please," said St. James,
ii:diff«'reiitly.

" Thank you, my lord. I am delighted, my lord, at the opjwr-
tunity— that is, I am grateful, my lord ; i)ailicularly grateful ;
and now, your lordshij> " — and Tangle suddenly fell into a solemn,
urgan-like strain, befitting his words — "and now, to business."

" Well, business. NVhat is it — what of it ? Do as you please,"
cried St. Jimies.

■ " Oh, my lord, this confidence is, I must say it, affecting. Well,
then, my lord, you must have counsel."
" Go on, sir.""

" Permit me, then, my lord, to recommend — the oiJy man —
Mr. Montecute Crawley."

'' Montecute Crawley," ftiintly echoed St. James ; and at the
sound, he was in the criminal court of the county of Kent, and
saw that weeping advocate of hapless innocence.

•' AVere my own brother in djuiger — no, I mean, were I myself,
— I know no man like Mr. Crawley. Bless you, he has all thy
hcai-t strings of the jury in his fuigei-s, like the fellow with Punch,
ar.d pulls 'em just which way he likes. He 's safe for office —
nothing can keep him out of it. As I heard a yoimg banister
say oidy a week since, * Crawley,' says he, ' will take the tuin ci
the tide, and float into oftioe on his o\\'u teais.' Wliat a sjioech
he will make about your lordship ! Not a dry eye in court, and
for what I know, folks weeping outside. Well, then, my dear
lord, say Mr. Montecute Crawley. There isn't a moment to lose.
Tn a matter of murder — that is, what the fiction of the law calls
mm'der — he 's in first request. At this moment, for all I know,
we may be too late. And should they have him on the other side
— pardon me, my lord — though I know your case is admii-able,
nothing stronger — nevertheless, pardon me, my lord, I must
tremble. I s:iy it with resjiect — I must tremble."

884 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

" Well, Mr. Moutecuto CrawK-y, if yuu will," .saiil St. Jamea,
carelesjsly.

Ere, the wonU were well out, Mr. Tangle had caught his
assenting client hy th« huml, ami with a fenuur more than
j)rofes.siunal, exclaimed — '"Thank yuu, my lord — hle.s.s yuu, my
lurd — y<»u have maile me a hapny man, my lord. I '11 ride myself
for jxwt-hc>r»e« to Kingston, and In-'fore I sleep, depend uikju it,
Mr. Crawley's clerk Ikus the retainer in his haiul. Keep your
spirits up, my «lear hml, and remember — if I may be so Udd to
say it — that you live under a constitution in which a nobleman
is not to be outraged by the liand of plebeian violence without —
•.Mlhout— "

** Enough, sir — I knov/ what you would say," cned St James
with di.-'gii.st.

'* It 'n Very kind of your lorxlship to say so," and, with hi.4
humblest Imw, Tangle letl the room.

" Wc shidl not stay long here, Mr. WliLstle 1 " Oiiketl St. Jame.s.
" Of course, there is another ceremony ? "

" To be sure, my lord : of course, my lonl. "We liave to go
liefoi-e the magi.strate : a matter of fonn. But every respect will
be paid to your 1' i ' '" A terrible aiciilcnt, my lonl, but
uotiting more. Ne\ . -s, it can't be denittl that, just now,

Juries are getting a sort of spite again.st folks of nobility, and
thertfore, my lord, I am ghul — yes, I will s/iy it, I am ghi"! —
tnat, tc prt-vent aii}' accident, you 'vc got Mr. Montecute Ci-awley.
lli.'ss you ! He 's such a man for wjujhiug blackymoors white —
got ijiiite a name for it."

" Will you gi-ant me one favour, M r. \\lu»tle 1 " askctl St. James,
suihlenly rousing himself from deep thought.

" I wish you could ask twenty, my lord ; any favour, except —
of course, your lord.ship knows what I mean — any favour
out that one. Never lost a prisoner yet, my lord ; and
though I 'd do auvthing for your lordship's noble fjunily, — still
I couldn't do that :" and Tangle looked at the door, and shook
his ht\id.

* You misun<lersta«id me, Mr. Wliistle ; I have no such pur-
pose. AVhatever may V^e the result of this most miserable deed,
I must and will await it. The favour I would ask is thi.s.
Can you let me have some conversation with — with my fellow-
jaisoner ? "

"Whistle stared. " Fellow-prisoner ! " he echoed. " Well, there
isn't a bit of pride in your lordship I If. of course, you wish it,
why, of course, it 'a done. But y<»ur lordship should recollect,
he '« a rtrturncd transport, a rebellious cou^-ict, that 's a^in flown
in the fcioe of his mother couuti7 by coming back to her. A;*

ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. 385

sure as you 're alive, my lord, he '11 be hanged, and — however, it a
for your lordship to cliotwe your own conipany ; of coui"se."

''Then I am to uuderstaini, .Mr. Whistle, that you couaeut ? "
a^ked St. Jame.s, a little impatiently.

"To lie sure ; whatever your lord.ship wi.shes — in reason. Here,
Wix ;" — and Wki.stle, opening the door, called to one of hia
n.-8istant,s — " liring your jirisoner afore liis lordship, and bear
a liand with liini. Not a bit of juide, 1 do declare," repeated
"Whistle to himself, aa he suox-yed St. Jamea with wonder and
admiration.

St. .laJiics, in silence, pwu-ed the room, and WhLtle continued to
contemplate him aa a marvel of condescension ; and then Whistle's
thouijlits tonk another current. "To be sure, when the best of
pi-opie are lirout,'lit in danger of the gallows, it does a little Uike
tlie stjirch of pritle out of 'em." This all uncon.sciously tloated
through Whistle's brain, ils still he looked U|x»n the young noble-
man, and with all his might endeavoured to consider him a
paragon of humility.

In brief time St. (Jiles, in custcxly of the officer, stood at the
door. " Mr. Whistle," tvi'u] St. .Tames, with the most jxilished
courtesy, " may 1 request tiiat, for a few minutes, this young man
ajid myself be left together." Whistle wtis melted, awed by the
p-Miteness, yet, neverthelc&.s, looked doubtingly about him. " You
can still keep watch through the window. There is but one — one
door, too."

'• Of course, your lordshij) — to be sure ; not that I thought of
that — by no means ; " lunl \\'liistle, iissuring himself that he eoiUd
keep a.s cert;iin watch outside the room .is withui, l)Owe«l, and
biistily retired.

" So, young man," said St. James, with a forced calmness, "so,
we have met, it seem.s, in eai-ly — very early life."

" Yes, my lord ; very early," answered St. Giles. " I take it,
I remember the matter better than your lordship."

" JIow so ? "

" Why, my lord, wretches such as I am, and such as I have
always been, have — saving your presence — quicker memories
than gentlefolks like you. We take a sharper account of life, for we
feel it sharjK'r — earlier. I recollect when I was little more than
a babe, I may say, robbing your lordship. Well, it was my fate."'

" Not so, St. Giles — not so."

"How was I to know otherwise ? Who taught me otherwise?
How did I know that 1 was not made to steal and be whipped for
it — and still to steal and — and — be hangea for it ? Y'our lord.ship,
when a child, was — I know it — kind to the boy-thief. You said
a good word for him ; they told me all about it, and my heart

VOL. L c c

386 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

felt rttmnpt-ly enmijjjh — »oftcui*«l, I ilionght. Ami still I Wfiit on
— ami .still VDU w;uj uiy fnt-ml."

"Ami will still Ikj w*," uaiil St. James; "if, imlec<1, micli a
nilseniUle cre.itnre us I am may jiromi.^i' anylliin^'. N<»w, tt-U
iiu^ ; Mi"s. Sni|>i't<>n — tlitl she tka-m a wiiiiiijj agent ? Wa.s her
reslBtaitoe, \vlu>n cnrrietl off, a ival {uussiuu ; or was it, think yuu,
but a eolnuraltK' hIiow of o|>|Hisition ]"

•' I cauuul say, my lonl ; tliat is, I ciinnot si>eak from what I
saw ; I wad unhursetl, struck to the groun<l, stunned anil
l>lef<rmjT. The worse luck it wiuj so — othfrwi.so, I think, the
latlv ha<l Ix'en now at home, and the old man alive, and vour
lonUhij^— •'

" Uustaine<l by munler. Oh. that my life could bring bark
yestcnlay ! " exelainx-d St. .Tames ; juul, for the first time, his
j^rief burst forth in all tlie bitt<'rneas of remorse. ^\ ith his fa-e
ill his hands, he wept convulsively.

" I lun afniitl, my lonl," wtid St. Oiles, " I am afniid that
ntaii Crossboue has wickftlly <loccive<l you. I "m .sure on it ;
nothing short of force would have taken the sweet young cretur
fiom hrr home."

" You are sui-e of it ? Waa she, then, so fond — bo tenueily
attached to — to Mr. Sni|)eton ? "

" Oh, Dot 80, my lord — not so, so far as I could see : but,
Bomchow, when the old ni.an looke<l at her as if his own hiart
w:ls in lur bnsom, I could see — evoc for the time I was with
'em — I could see she pitied him too much to run away from him.
Ble:« you I she wa** t<M> giKnl ;u)d too — "

" Enough — we will talk no more of it. I have l>een gulled,
duj)ed — the vain, yet guilty victim of a scoundrel ; and the end ia
—I am a bliKxl-shedder."

** 1 can't say vi^ir lonlship 's been witliout blame ; bad a.-< I
nm, I can't say that. Neverthelesw, you tlidn't me.-ui to kill the
old man — I 'm sure you didn't. 'Twas a hot minute, and it 's a
bad job ; for all that, your lonlship will, I hope, .«ee many happy
days to come. ThoU'^'h my time 's short, I '11 pray for that, my
lord, with all my soul."

" I tell you, St. Oile.<», you shall still find frieniU in my family.
Your life shall still be spared."

" And what for, my lonl ? To be shipped-off again ; to l>e
chained and worked worse than a be;iat ; to have every bit of
manhood crushed ; to have no u.se for thought but to think curses ?
No, my lord ! Fate 's against me. I was sent into the world to
be uiatle, as they call it, an example of; and the sooner it's all
over the better. I was lx)m and .ruckled a thitf. I was whipfxd,
ir.i[iisontd, ti-ansportcd, for a thief; and sojuething better grcvr

ST. GILES AND ST. J.VMKS. 387

up in me, and T re.solvwl to tin-n upon tlie world a new face. I
»;cs (litci mined, cimie wluit wnulil, tu live lumcstly, or die in ji
ditch fur it. Well ; the world wouldn't have it. The world
rtceniecl to sneer ami lau!,di at ine fur the conceit of the tlun<'.
I 've been dudj,'ed and dodged by the devil, that first sold me ;
I "ve trie<l to d<^y him ; but, as I say, fate 's against me, ami it '.s
no use. I look out U|jon the world, an<l I only see one place — one
little piece of ground — where there's rest for ."^uch ;l3 I am ; and
where mercy may l>e shown to them as truly repent. I trust to
get fri>m (jSoil what man denies me."

'* Nay, potir fillow — "

"Ik-g your jmrdon, my lord," said Whistle, putting his head in
at the door, " but the p«wt-chai8e is come, and — it 's only a fomi
— but we must drive to Kingston, to the m.-ijistnite's."

"1 am tjuite ready," s,iid St. James, taking his hat. "And
your other prisoner I "

" We 've gi»t a cart for him," answered Whistle.

" Not s»>,'' said St. .lames. " we "11 even lide t^igether."

" Why, your lord.ship wouhl never so condescend — never 80
demean yourself — "

"C!et in," .s.iid .St. James, oix'nintj tiie cliais^Mlo<ir. and ur^inf
St. Ciiles, who reluctantly entered the vehicle. "There is no
Condescension for such villany as mine."

"All right,'' siiid Wiiistle. mounting out-«ide ; "all light — to
Kingston." And St. James the homicide, and St. Giles the
horse-titealer, were, in close c«>miKUiionship of guilt, diiveu to the
magistrate's, ou their way to the county gaol.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

" WiLFUi. munler.*' Two ugly wonls to 1»€ flung in the teeth
of a young nobleman. Nevertheless, a Surrey jury, liaving sat
upon the boily of Ebenezer Sni{>etou, returned such verdict —
went through such matter of form, as Tangle benevolently ex-
plaineil it away, and young St. James, in Kingston gaol, awaited
the opening of the se.ssioiLs. Hapj>ily, however, for his eau.se,
Mr. Montecute Crawley was retaine*!, and from the interest he
expivssed for tlie young nobleman himself, and for the house of
St. J;une8 at hu-ge, there was no doubt that the learned counsel
would be more than ordiix;uiiy pathetic. Kingston gaol wa-s for
some weeks the resort of very fiishionable people, tender in
ijunuiried toucliiiig tlie health and spiritji of the noble oti'enderj

c c 2

388 ST. GILES AXD ST. JAMES.

Rni— woniLrli fnrlnim;iii tl.'pmvity lu we chronicle tlie wiokediK^sa
—more than one Kin^j^ton iiink»i'|K.'r wits known to express a lively
hn])e that " some fine yo>in<? lord would kill a money -leudor every
week, it did such a world of iimn] for husiiusn.

And the out cjust, v.tj^'ahond hoi-ae-ateaU-r and returned convict,
iv:is not left fi-iondh-ss to count the {Kissing hours between the
dun^jeon and the piKK-t. The MeinluT for Li(iuonsli, at le.ust
once a week, conde>ic<'ndtMl tii visit Kiutrston gaol, generally
accomjwiiied by Mr. Tangle, who, suddeidy expresaetl the ten-
tej-est sort of professional sympathy for thu otJender. Mr
f'apstirk. the lawyer, and Uright .Tnn, wt-re one day some fort-
ni;;ht before the S<'ssiong, at the priimn with St. (iiles in counsel
up<m his mode of defence, a subjeet which the nmtHn-maker
sefm<'<i to fondle with gniwing affection — when they were
summoned by the turnkey.

" If you plea.'**", gen'lemen, and you, St. Giles, you're wanted ii.
the intinnary," .said the man.

" With the greatest pleasure — oortaitdy," sai>l Mr. C'a|>«tiok
•' Wh:it 's the matter i"

"Why, the prisi^ner, Tom Bla.st " — he ha<l l>een committed to
safe custixly to insure his ovidenct* — '' wantji to die."

•' Well," cried L'apstick, " hiw anybody expressed any
object ion ? "

*' Not a bit," said the turnkey, " imly ho s/vys he can't die
comfortable, afore he .sceij you, sir, and the i>risoner, St. Giles,
ill ]>artic'Iar. He says he wants to make himself as clean as ha
can afore he gi>es out 'o the world, and tho governor h:u* sent fir
the magi.-itrate and clerk that all things may be done projxjr."

"Very right — most im|M.rtant," exclaimed Cajwtiok. "Come
along, St. Giles: well, death's a rai-o softener. The inoxpressible
ra.-H'al ! P<H>r mi.sei-able wretch ! " and Ca]>stick, duly followed,
proceeded to the intirmary.

Sni|^>eton'a bullet ha<l done Its work, although Mr. Crosslwne's
professional r«putation had been duly vindicated, and the lead
extracted from the rutHan It had, nevertheless, left it-s mortal
sting btihiiul ; Tjuj's intemperate habits had renderc«l him, aa tlie
ik>i-tor familiarly obserwd to the sufferer, a tickli:jh subjei* ;
inflammation ensued, and Thomas Bl.ist wa^ in a fair way, in his
l.ust hour, to defeat the prophecy of past envy, and to die in a l>«d
with naked feet. " If I hadn't a drunk so, doctor says I 'd ha'
got over it," observed th.it phiLsopluL scoundrel to the nut.se.
"It isn't the lead, but the gin. Weil, if gin isn't ihe devil hinjr
self — cheat him as you maj', he's sure in the eml to be down
upon U.S." These moral reflections were delivered by Blast with
the air of a man who, ueveithelcss, believes that he luu itit!)j,'th

ST. GILES AND ST, JAMEa 389

or ln?k enniijfli in liiin to liont the devil in the ionr; nm. thoui:h
ho does not care to withhold a compiiiuent to the snUflety of the
demon. But dajs \vore on, find Tom — in tiie agony of a hopeless
Boul — bejT.an to e.xeerate the past, and to howl at the future. A
day or two, a few hours, and all woidd be known ! The ehaplain
of the i)ri8on yreaehed rejK-ntance. ami the culprit writhed at tlie
adjuration as thoujrh beneath the la«h. It vrns imjtossible thru to
rejMiut ; it was only to add to crime a mockery of gocxhie.ss.
Nfvertheless. lie would confes.s. Yes; he would lift away some-
what of the load of lies tliat stifletl h\» heart ; thou(,di it was no
u.se — he knew that — still he would doit. No harm at le.ist could
come of it; ami it would Im? something, at le:ust for him, to do
any deed not hurtful to somelxHly. And so — he would confess.

Whereupon the turnkey, by direction of the governor, proceeded
to St. (Jiles's dungeon, and deliven*il the summons. Death wa.s
in Blast's face — death in his eye.s — and he munililiil with a dviiig
tongue. His awful l<K.k, his silent fight witli the nuiatering
power of nature, sulwlued in St. (Jil.-s all thought, all ])Mrpo.>ie of
revenge. He s.iw b.fore him the man who had .st.imped upon liis
yielding childhood tlie ineffaceable brand of infamy — he, the
felon reserved for the gibU't, lieheld the villain who h;ul in very
babyhood pre-tloomed him — and yet he viewed him with ctmt
piu«:iionate, with charitable l<H)k8, for he saw a human creature
fast subsiding into churchyard clay. St. (jile.s moved silently
to the dying man ; and, after a Ijrief ruental struggle, revealed
by an outward shiver, held forth his luoid to his old and early
enemy.

" I can't take it, St. Giles — I can't take it — 'twould scorch me
— burn me — like — like where I 'm going," muttered Blast ; and
still he fought for breath. " Don't speak — uolwdy — make no
noise. And you, sir, GimI ble.«s you — if I may say God — you,
sir, take down what I say ; " and Blast motioned to the magis-
trates' clerk, prepareil to take the deposition. " Now then," cried
IMast, and with an effort, the result of indomitable will asserting
its last, he sat up in the bed, and controlled the horrid working
of his face, the convulsive movement of his limbs. lie looked
terribly calm as he thus dvlivere<l himself — " St. Giles, poor boy !
never stole no horse — I did it — I trieke<l him into it — I had the
money for it — I made a thief of him — and I transixnled him. I
wish I could live to be hanged for it — don't laugh, I do — so that
they shouldn't hurt a hair of that i)oor cretur 's head. It's been
a 1>ad world to him all along, but I 've been the woi-st devil in it
t<^> him — ;uid I know it. I'm a-goin' where I must answer for it.
Ihere — that's ;dl I have to say. He wjis wrongfully transport e<l,
aii J had a right to come back agin. If any haam comes to him for

?.aO ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

it, it'sniurlor, that's nil. I'vepot notliin' — tiutliin' — more t/> nay,"
and tlu" |)o«»r wrt'tcli fi-ll hack in the l>o<l.

Su Gil'-8 Rpmn^' furwanl ami h:iiirnin<^ t-ycs, antl, for a
minute, paze»l intently at iiiH victim. Then lii.s cheat hcAvcd antl
ln)>t.viiT<|, .'ui'l with a loiiil sol), his heart l(>o.s»-«i it.sclf in trars, That
t^ckl«^l tiuWii the hamln <if Iniii, \vlii> h.i'l >M.'»'n liin Iwihy victim.
Not a sound, wive the Mohhing of i*emoi-se, was heanl. Ami tlim
<'ai>.sti>'k couv^htwl loudly, a.4 \v;w his wmit, uii -itront; occusiona.
l]ri),'ht .lom rthnink intu a corner, and jdicd luHarm acr«>!W hi.s eyes.

** G<kI 1>K>SH you, St (Jil««j* — yt-H, now I ran j«iy it, I didn't think
I coidd — tiixl Iilen-M you, Sf.CJilf.s. What«'Vfr fortin "h left for you
in tliii* worhl, you 're nli n;,dit, y»M xrv. in — in — "and I'l.-utt, aa
tht>u;;h rhokinj;. paum*)!.

At this iiioMH-nt, an nhl acr|naintAnc»; of the reo'ler's, Kinjjcup,
(icli<>olMi)Lst)'r, iiiten-d. M«' w.'i.s loljowcd hy a ••h-an. coniuly looking
child ; no other than that l>;dH* of the gulttT, little dinjjo. When
St. (files, wandering from the town uf I>ii|UoriHh into its jfreen
nei;,dd>i>nrho«M|, met r.ri".;hl .Icm, it m.ay l>e remendn-red that a
minute after young .Iin;,'o fell into the hands of hi.s hrother.
iJnght tieni wiwInmiimI on an ernind to the schooliua-ster; and St.
<tile«, revealing hini.self to his early friend, t<Mik with him the
vaualxjiul l»<>y, and hrielly telling the .story of hifl dcHiitutioii, of
lii.s oertain ilestnictioji in the hands of liLayt. :niidore«l and induced
the g"X)d t)ld man to receive the child, Bright .lem — C'a|»8tick waa
for a time to know Mothinijof the matter — aii ' fi>r necessary

charges. Kini,'cii|>, one of the iinrewarde<i 1 i the world —

a conscientioii.s vill.age school nia.ster — re'vived the child as he
Would have snati-hed him from fire or tl^xMl. .And the l)<>y, in a
hricf time, uneon.scioiisly vimiicaU-il the wisdom, the gfKxlne.ss of
Almighty Nature, that does n<»t — however c<*ntj-ary the ohl-
fa.shioned creeil — send into the world crowds of infant villains ;
suckling scuiniilrel.s who grow in wickedness a.s in >tnlure ; and
wi uld .scorn oidy sent upoue.irth the l»ctter hy sh;nlows, to hring
out the light.s of re.si>ect.al»le life, dingo l<N)ke4l clean .ami happy;
and had lost th.at sly, .sidelong, honnd-like glance which at the
hrcast he had been taught to copy even from the eyes that g.azcd
down ni>on him. Jlarly teaching this — but even .at this moment,
how many the pupils !

Bright Jem, siiymg no won! to St. Giles, had wnttcn to King-
cup to come to the pri.sou with his pu)>il.

"Why — who's th.it ? " crictl Bl.i-st, ri.xing his eys np>n the
child; " it can't W him — no. it can't W. That 'show he would
have K>oke<l. p>or cretur, if — if he 'd had a mother ; if — " Here
the boy held furlh bis hand. Bl.-ist seized it, and snatched him

ST. niLES AXD ST. JAMKS. 391

close to (lie botl. At the moment, it was plain death was in the
man's throat — was creeping into liis eyes ; fur he tirew tlie hoy '3
laoe cliise to hid <»wn. ami tried — and tried to read it — and
Beemt'd batlltd — and still tried. And then he passed his dying
hand over tltf little face, ancj a sniiK' — a smile of knowK'il-^e
and Jis-sunince — "Kanied in the features of the dvin'T man. It
was their laat liWng exi»rea«iou : the next instunt they were
blind clay.

There wa.s silence for a nuimt>» : an<l then Capstick, with a
loud jirefatory con^h. ol>sei-\-e<l to tlie niagisli-ate, "The deposition
is qnite in form, I hope ? "

"Perfectly ri^'ht, sir. With d.-|)onent'!< mark, and duly ^nt-
iiessed. All in form, sir," answeivd tin- cleik.

" I sln>uld like to have a copy," said Cajwtick, na he turned
away with the maj,'i.strate.

"Cirtaiidy ; I can't .see any objection. Nevertheless, my dear
sir. atid tho«j,'li I vi-ry niuch luimire your enerj^' in this atfair ;
neveilhelcAs, it would be very wixjngof you to hoj>e : don't hope,"
»:\\A h'\A worsldp.

" I can't help it," said Capstick ; " it 'a my infirmity : an ail-
lurnt 1 tnist I shall carry to the gmve." And the mufhii-
luakt-r, uvj^'iil by the inveteracy of the <iiae.u«?, walked fruin the
prison witii the maj^istrate, airirniiiig that it w:u* inijK>s.sible for
any ('liri:<tiau government to hang a nnui in the face of such a
d.-jMLsition.

'J"he magistrate jiaused, smileil, and, making a farewell lx)W,
blandly ol«erved — " Imix»8sible ! My dear sir, you '11 ]kiirdon my
fninkiii-.ss ; but — 1 mn.>-t say it — I wuiukr that you, as a member
of Parliament, don't know belter — very much belter — thiui to say
imiio!<sible. Ciootl moniing."

Time iKi.>*stHl, and the trumj>et« brayed in the streets of King-
ston the advent of justice. She had come with nicest Vi;dance,
t>) wcigli tiitf sins of nicu — with mercy let us hope somewhere in
her train to wait ui>on her.

The trial of young St. .Tame.s took precedence of the trial of
St. Giles. This wjis t>) be expected. " Betters tiret," a-s a simple
dweller in Kingston observed, in easy gossip, to a neighl>our.
Tlie trial of a nobleman, ami for murder, too, was a great event
for the towni ; and the small ti-aders and inhabitants, in their
aitle.ss way, hailed it with all due honour. Stalls — even as at
joyous fair time — were set up in the streets ; .and gingerbread,
and ginizfT-nuts, were offered to the faint and hungrj'. People
p\it on their l>est clothes, and at parl<»ur wimlows, in public houses,
and at street corners, Airily discu&se<l the questio-^ " whether his
lordshi]! would be hanged or nut ] ' The general opinion.

33-2 ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES.

however, ran in favour of his lunUhip's vitality : not from the
convii-tion nf his nierita in the cji.-**.' ; certainly not; but from
a stifTiu-cktil iK-li.f in a jinjudirt-.! |«'<>|»le that " tiny M nt-ver
hanp a lord. lliDUtjh heM killed lifly men." And yet, had the
S<hh1 iM.piiIaif |.aii.s«'d t4( think, tiny ntih'ht have acknowledged
tli.it Tyl'urn TriH- Imd Ujnie such fruitapc.

Tlie ilay of trial dawne<l. Never before h&t\ ostlers been no
buHV in the town of Kin^^ton. "Never such pmting in the
niemorj* of n»an,'' wa.^ an opinion pen* rally held in the stable-
yarda ; " never no much nubility aiid gentry in Kin^^ton afon*,*'
wan the aatiHtittl thou^'ht of innkifjien* at the Iwr. NoIkxIv couhl
have thought that the munh-r of a money lender — who, it had
l»een profjuiely uttere<l in the street. w.i.s l>etter out of the world
than in it — would have done no much pHxl for the trade of
KiiiLTston.

The town waa all life — three yvirts fxthionablc life. iWaux and
beauties hail flockeil from London, «ijfnificantly to t«i»tify, by their
prt-jH-nce, to the high rhanicter of the inten-sting nobh-iuan al»oiit
to apiKtar in the <K»ok. The c<»»irt was ojh^'IuiI, an<l in a few
miuutea — there waa a munnur — a buzz — a profound hush — and
young St. James stood a prisoner at the Iwr, the jurj* — twelve
worthy hou.Hekee|>era of Surrey — looking at him as they would
have looked at otie of the royal lions in the Tower ; a diuigerous,
but withal a ver}' niaji>8tic and inter»'*ting creature.

In the first "juarter of an hotir, even.l»«>«ly showe<l signs oi
great<-st inten-^t in the rase ; then, by degree*, an.xiety 8\ii>»id<--l,
and ere half an hour tuul ii«ss«'<l, a sudden stranger, uninformed
of the awful businei's of the time, n>ight have thought the couit
aasembleil, merely met for casual talk. However, in due seas^'n
Mr. Montecute Crawley toucheil the heart of thf assembly. Greaf.
was the rustling of silk, when he rose for the ilefence. He rose,
he said, with great tlilVwidty. It was jilain that he was inwanlly
wn.'sthng with great emotion. Already, the t*ars seeme<l very
clo6e to his eyes, and, at even.- instant, might l»c expected to nm
over. Tlie Ifanie<l an<l lachrjniowe counsil, in his defence, (o<ik
a very ct>mi»rehcn.sive view of the case. If ever he had felt the
•cutenesa of )>ain — the intensity of sufTcring from the conNnction
of his great inability to grapple with a ditliculty, it wa.s at t/i<ft
moment. However, he mu;it not shrink, and would therefore
throw hims^'lf upon the best feelings of the jury. The leame<l
counsel said it was im]x>ssible that the distinguished nobleman at
the Iku" could have any malice against the decease<l, who had
brought a violent death ujon him.self — and he, the counsel, could
only fervently hope that the wretched man was well prepare*! to
meet the auddeu summons — by the vehemence of his passion. It

ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMKS. 0^3

had bicn proved in evi<liiice, tliut tlio deoejusod had, from hU
hidiii;.'-pLico, hpruii),' U|i<.n tlio prisoner ; wlio, with a imman
instinct, (|uickcned by nubility of blood, dnw liis wi'ajxMi, and
dtath eusue.1. Noboily cuuld rejiret the issue more than himself;
but the jury must biar this in mind. A man — a unbh-man —
bclifved hiuis<?lf ajvs;iullo<l by a suddi-n t.'ntMuy ; and the law of
Bolt-prei»ei-vation — who oould deny it f — v,ns paramount to any law,
with all huntility it niiphl Ik- wiid. made by kin;:, l^nls, or com-
mons. The prisoner wjis of nol>le bloixl. More than a thousand
years ago, tlie bloo<l that beat at the prisoners heart was
ennobled, and — even an a river (he wouhl iciy, the Nile), flooding
from an undi.scovered 8«>uiX'e,'Nviilenin;;, dtvpenin;; on, bearing new
glories as it runs, and with increasing and feitilising magniticence
eiii-iching the family of man — eo might it be said of >he blood in
the Veins of the nobleman at the Imr, that from the tiuje whereto
the memory of man nin not to the (.-ontniry, it h.ul de-seemled from
RJre to sire, blessing and benefiting generation after generation.
He, the counsel, would beg the jury U> consider the effect of even
an imjiginary blow u|K>n such a man — ujr.iu one, whose Norman
ancestors had leapt on this soil of merry England, nj.'iking if their
own — on one whose pri-genitoi-s liad bled at roictiera, and Cressy,
and M.'irston-Moor, and — but lie would not weary tl»e attention of
jui eidij^htened jury by too minute an enumeration of the ilebts
owed by England to the family of the dihtinguislKfl individujil
who. at that moment unfortunately — he ci uld not but iviy, unfor-
t\iiiately, .stoiKl at the bar. No: he would leave the numUr t<j be
tille<l up by the intelligence ainl imagination, and gmtituile — yes,
gratit\ide as Englifihnien — of the jury. He wouM oidy again K-g
* them to consider the etfect of an imaginary i)low upon a man who.-^e
family hatl given generals to the held, dignitaries to the court,
chancelloi*s t*» the

Here the lejinieti counsel — whose eye-lids hiu\ for s«ime time red-
deneii and trem'>le»l — btirst inl') a flood of tears, sjuik down ujK^m
his seat, luul sobbed in his luuidkerchief. Tlie eflfect was very tine
upon all in court. I^ulies j»lie<l their sc-ent-Uittles, :uid one or two,
less guardeil than the rest, violently blew their uo>es. After a
decent time allowed to grief, Mr. Moutecute Crawley, putting
down emotion with gi.^nt will, was again upon his legs.

He had nothin^z more to sav. With everv- contiilence he left
the case of the nobleman at the bar in the hands of the jury ; con-
vinced that they would arrive at such a verdict .is would to the
hist dav of their leuL'theued lives contribute to the sweetness and
soundness of their nightly sleep, and the prosj»crity and happiness
of their w;iking houre.

The judge summed up the case with unusual bre^^ty; and ere

394 ST. GILFS AND ST. JAMES.

Mr. Moiitecut^ Cniwloy \iiul well dried hi.seyes, the jury returned
a v.-nlict — " Not <';iiliv."

I>et ua pjiKS the luii-st (»f applause that shook the r<X)f ; the
crowdiug of fnt-ndM alnnit the iniioi«piit iiohlftnan, no longer «
jiriHojuT ; with IiIm almost iiiNtantaiieoiiH d»'parttin> for T/indon in
the cirriajre-aiKl-four, confidently jirepan'd and waitinjj for him
at the pri.Hon'wiillM. St Juniefl is a t'rw man. Hut our story h.ia
yet a }>nsoner— St. (jiU»«.

'J'he next d;iy wa.t appointed for th'- trial ot' the retumf^d eonvirt.
T\\'' r.iui-t w.AH a(t«-n<l.il by a f>\v iiijern. Cai«stiek, Hrii^'ht Jcin.and
iJ^'cky — herfaoe Hoatd»M| with lean* — weiv present ; and Mr. Tangle,
n-* siilieitor for the pns<iner, wu.m vrrv huMV, and »|>oke in terms of
c<^!widerahle teiidenieM-s t«> the MeniinT for LiipJori«h, aa.sunng liiiu
that At lea.st heaven and earth nhould lie moved to iwvc St. (iile*.
* I tell you, sir," iv|K'ate«l the attorney — "I tell you, I'll move both
heaven and e.irlh. My interejtt can ijo no further."

" Not yet," Haid ('a|»stick, and his eye twinkled.

"Silence in the ctmrti" exehiime*! the officer, and the trial was
eontinue<l.

It waj« a very niatter-of-f;ii"t ca.se. Tlie pn<»oner at the >»arliad
l»t-en convicte«l. when quite a l»ov, of honte-ntealing; evidence waa
jjixenof' ' identity wa.* pr""- I, aj..! then* eoidd n-main

lio duuh: . ;fjw, if the jury ha', a neniple tin- prisoner

ought to Itenetit by it — no doubt of the erimc of the ridprit in the
diH'k. lila.-tt'H dying det-laration of the innocence i>f St. (Jilen waa
put in ; but the judu'e, I>iting theeml of his cpiill. shcM)k his liend.

Ml'. Montvcute C'mwley, not U-ing very well fpun the wear-
and-lear of his emotionM on the previous moi-ning, allteit retaintnl
by onler of St. .I.aines to ih-ffud St. (JilfS. w.u* comj<«ll''d to
n>5«ign his brief to his junior, who woidd Ix*, Mr. Crawley
onil'ortingly oI»ser^•cd, a veiy pn>nii8tag young man some «biy.
Tlieyouii,' gi-ntletnan, evidently sati.-*fi.'<l him.self with his defence
of the pri.soner, an<l, indee<l, hail h.ardly ce;i.seil to acknowlolge
the enct)nraging nod of the leader, when the jtidge, having
tdiortly Hummed up, the jury, not stirring from the \k>x, retununi
tli.-ir venliel— "(Juilty."

Thejv wa.s a heavy fall ujwn the floor, and poor Becky, pale
.<ia n corpse, wajs «airrii?«l out.

The judge placetl the V>lack cap »jpon his head. " Pri.-^onfr at the
bar,". said the judge, " you have been tried by a jury of your fellow-
countrjTuen, and have been found guilty of a nK>st heinou.s crime
a^nin.st the peace of our soven-ign loni tlie kitig. and the laws ot
this nalm. I am sorry that there is nothing in yonr case that
pleads for the lea-st chance of mercy. Far be it from me to add
to your suffering at this moment l>y any harsh worH of mine.

ST. CII.KS AXn ST. .T.\MES. 395

Nevertlu'leMS. \t is only due to iinciety that T .'(luiiilil hrit^fly dwi-ll
upiiii the career tliJit lian hroii^ht you to this nioKt <ire}MU'ul eou-
diiii>n. It apjMai's tliat, altoj^ether lieedless of the l>k\ssiiiri;8 of a
Christian society and Cliristian inlluences, you, at a very early
ape. in fuct, a.s a mere child, Iti-oke the coniniandnifnt that says,
*Tliou shidt nol steal.' Your theft.s, I ;:raiit, wi-re jtetty oiie.s ;
l>ut rohhery grows with prowtli. You proceeded in your reckless
conduct, and were at length — I havt- the conviction before nie —
Condenine«l to ihath ft)r hoj-se-stealin;,'."

*' My loril. the de)M>sition !" cned Capstick.

"Take that nuui into custtnly, if he sjK-aks another wonl," thun-
dered the jud;,'e to tlie otlicer. Tlnn, .ifter a pau.sc, he continued.

" The deixi.sitioii shall l»e forwarile<l to the i>roi«.'r qn.oi-ter, hut I
woidil solemnly advise you, prisoner at the l>ar, to indulge in no
vain hojK? ujMm that head. As 1 have alieady sjiiil, you were
condemned lo death fir horse-stealing, \\ lull llie i-oyal clemency
interveue«l, and your sentence was counnute«l to lrans|H>i1ation.
You were sent to a country, l»lef<t with a s;(luhrious climate and a
most fertile .soil. And you oui^ht to have hhown your gratitude
fi>r your tleliverance from a .Hhanicfid death by reununing in your
ailopted land. However, your natural hardne.-ts of heart prom]>ted'
y\>i\ to fly in the face of the kim^'s mercy, and to return to this
kingdom. The puni.shment for this crime is wistly ordered by our
law to be death. This puni.<ihnient you will sulfer. In the time,
liowevi-r. that will elapse ere you are callcil from this world, you
will be attended by a Christian minister, who will in.struct your
darkened miml with the glorious truths of Christianity ; will
teach you their gootlne.ss, their aKiunding mercy, ami, alxive all,
their charity for ad men. You wdl have the means of this con-
solation ; I implore you. make «se of them. Anil now, the
sentence of this eo«irt i.s, that you l/C taken to whence you came,
j'-iid be hanged by the neck until you are dead."

But, St. Giles w.is not haiige<l. No. St. James repeated the
good work of Ins I^ovIuxmI, and — aided by Ca])siick, who made
liis maiden speech in Parliament on the qn«-stion, calling the
attention of the ndnister tf> the confession of Blast — St. (jiles waa
jMrdontil. lie married Becky, and lived and died a decent .-^hop-
k.ci>er. Indeed, he h:id so far l>eaten the preiinlicis; of the world,
that long ere he took his mortal de]«irture from his ijarish, he
had been intrusted with the duties of churchwarden.

St. Jame.'^, a few weeks after the trial went abroad, made the
grand tour, returned, m.arricd a duke's daughter, and sujipiji-ted
to the utmost the tnn* dignity of his or<!er. St. James had beeu
sohooled even by St. Giles : taught the best and highest lesson oi

39« RT. OII.KS AND ??T. JAMES.

life from liis a.ssociation witli the Uirn outcast and baby fflon.
Tlie man i>f coiiveiitiuiial nubility h.ul loarneil to sec thntugh
want, ami niisory, ami crime, the natunil man : still the horn
ariHt<x;mt of all create«l thiIlg^^, however (legra<le<l from the
hour of hiH hirth by the ignorance an<l the injustice of our
Social conilitions. Ami St. James ma>le noble amends in his
inaturer years for the harmful vanitiej* of his earlier life. Many
and many a pilgrimage did he make to the Hog-L.anes, tliat,
like hid.l.-n ulcers, rot the social Ixnly ; still tainting outward
l>eauty with concealeil loathsomeness. If St. James learned the
Bolemn truth that to m.ike man respect hi.i fellow, he must
be bred in .•H'lf-re.")|»ect — and that self-respect is not a j)lant oi
darkness, gi-owing and blos-soming ile«i»ite of gloom an<l fdth — (as
Well liK)k for water-lilies in conuuon .s«'wers,) — if St. Jante.s learmd
this, and learning, lalHjured to slu-*! abroad the humanising truth,
he owe»l its tii-st knowUnlge t4> his fitful companionship with
St. Giles ; to his strange association with a wretcheil being who,
first sinn«^l against by .st»ciety, Umviuic the avenging sinner. How
much of what our legal and moral cxles alike denounce as guilt
— how much of this sinfulness, has the same inevitable Ciiuse 7
Hence, our nobleman provetl it by all his after life, how much
St. James in his brocade, may protitably learn of St. CJiles in hia
tatters.

^^r. Cro«.sl>one, liaulki^l in his hoj^-a of court preferment, retired
to the country, we fear — against his conscience, but in deference
to his |M»cket — to cultivate the weeils of life. He, however,
hu<l the suksequont satisfjiction of transporting Mr. IJolxTt Willis
fir highway robl>ery ; an ojx*ration p« iformed at the chea|>est
Cost tv Mr. Cro.«wb«jne, as the robl»cr pilhiged him of only four and
two-jience Jind a tobacco-stopix-r.

A metmjiolitan tomlwtone still attests the pleasing fict, that
Mr. Tangle dietl at the age of eighty-two, " a faithful liu.-;l)and, ;ui
atfectiouate father, and an unswerving friend. His charity was
as boundle'a as it was unostentatious and unknown." Thus
speaks T.uigle's tomlstone ; and who — save it may be the
recoi-ding angel — shall conti-adict a tombstone ?

And Olari.Hsa ? She shrink from the world ; and lived and
•lied the daily lite and death of an outraged, wasting heart. In
her h.ippy, hopeful youth, she had been sold to bondage ; a slave
eondeiuned to the most loathsome servitude. Her fetter was oi
goKl — how light, how small a link ! yet such gold is to<jthed with
canker, and eats into the very core of the heait. And so Clarissa
dieil ; another victim uumbei-ed with the thousands gone and — to
come.

Capstick — the man with gall in his words and balm in his

ST. GILKS AND ST. JAMES. 897

deetls — Capstick at tlie eiul of tlic fii-st session, confeswod to Bright
Jem, the proved vanity of Parliament. He would =!ometimes sit
— an lie declared — late on a summer's night, and — despite of tliB
real atmospliire about him — eouKl scent the beau-blo.s.st)m wafted
from his j^ardeii. He would di>ze in his seat, ;ui«l — when an hou.
member wjw making his twentieth re[»etition of a sounding
eommon-pl.ici' — wouM tlream of the cueUoo ealliiig him home.
And so at the end of the hrst ses.sioii, t.'apstick, the late mulhu-
luaker and plidanthrojiic misanthropist, to give due warranty to
the seanilal and malice of a few of his neighbours, wlm decljired
he only sought parliament that once there, he might well butter
his dry bre;ui ; so Capstick took otlice. Jie Wcame for a time
stew:ird of the C'hillern JIundreds, luid few men couM give better
account of their steward.ship ; tor, retired to the 'J'ub, he cidti-
vated his giudeu — whistle<l to his birds — Udked to his l>ees — and,
if mingling amongst luen, he had at times a playlui t^utiiess ia
his Words, — his daily act-s were full as honeycomb with abounding
sweetness.

Bright Jem sliook otT ten years as he crossed the threshold of
the Tul>. And there he livetl in simple ;uid aifectionate com-
panion.'ship with hiu old master. And there St. Uiles, and
•St. Giles's wife, and St. Giles's little ones, would make their
yi'arly visit: a visit that caused to Bright Jem ids only two
anxieties; namely, that the pexs might in the opinion of Mrs. St.
Giles beat any pe;is in C > vent-garden ; and the strawberries migiit
grow bigger and bigge every twelvemonth ia the eyes auJ
mouths of tlie children.

PUNCH'S LETTERS TO HIS SOX.

ru.Ncirs i.i-TTF.ns to his son.

■Nation.

THE IIIGIIT HON. THK LORD CHAMllKULAIH,

(WBuETvm ■■ *XT M.)

^f T Ixjr.o. — Take my wonl fur it, jtju haw prrater reaaoo to
\mj )itt)uJ of ihU IkHlicatiiin tlinii of your wniitl ' Having

T- ' ■ fi«rUi. - - 'Mcr of ■ — 'h ;;i. ..I.', w.'ilk in

li ...en, nt i if nn iii • r. As, huwever,

|ienunj iu your eXAlt4*d nuik are not aiwa>-s inevitably proutot«d
to til' 'le invincibility * " reaaou'' i-a, <»r

thop...... .. .. .; wit, it utay i«ti ...., c necesK... . . . lue to

%xpl.iin U> you why, fhim thin day forward, you should i-iijuy aA
incrt'as*; .! altitude. Few thin-^'n irk a man more, than to

know he ...u> ...ilictt-d the h •■'■ -' ■ ' •■•■•»■'•'■■-••• -r.obli-
gativ>n on anotluT, who ne . .u the

moat Stygian ipn<'nuice of the fact. Fancy, my lord, a jHurl-
divor — y>ur 1. nUlii)! may jM'v-^iJ'ly rr\u>s!» the jMrilu <.f the
trade— havin;; jiluii;^ed to the lx.ittom of the Oozy deep ; btrun^'C,
horrid monsters about him ; tlie ocean booming and rolling over
him ; fearful thoughts of his wife and little onen stirring' in his
brt»ast ; ima^^iiie him pTt>p;ug fur the trv.-cure which, it may be,
is destined to re}x«c u^wu the palpi taiin;; bosom of an KjL»tem
quet>n. He ris«*9 to the surface of th.* deep — he is on drj- land.
Happy diver ! he hatli fished up a uuiuu —

" Rirh»T th«n th«t which four »'.i<-ro*«iTe king*
111 I)rnmir«'» crown hmxf worn '

ITc b*>liev«»9 bis fortune made ; the pn^ious i>rarl hns er^riclu'i
kii». hid wife, and little onea for life. AlBB,n'i . tlie wu^ wardi. 4H

VOL L i* "

402 PUNCH'S LKTTKRS TO HIS SOK.

of fate df n'io« t« hi« p«'arl tin* anyhini of a crown — rt'fu«M to it
tfi<' o.-ir of n ipiet-n. N<> : tliat jK-arl. liv tlie very v " '" ' i of
d<-stiii_v, in llmij; niiioii<; tlif wa.>*li of \n'^, ami is h\v;i with

a jjnjiit by tliat l>ar<>n \u^g, alt*>fjothcr unooiuiriouHof the treasure
to l)<' <rnxoIve«l into iiothiti;; I'V hU |v>rciiie cliylo. Now \if nni^t
Ik- a hanUa'artttl man — a lout, a churl — who wouM deny to the
poor j)oarI-<liv«T the l>arren aatisfa'-tion of pinching' the pij^ «
tiiil, to a.«wuri' tlic In a.'^t. a« well aixl a.s rem* iiinMy a.s a Ix-n^l eiiu
\tv nmurtnl of anything;, that he ha* swallowed tho jewil — that he
lio-H tlio worth of I know not how many l>nr« of gohl in hiM ij^o-
rant liowelH. No : juatire — who thon^'h xhe may not choose to utte

th.-. ■■ '■ ' ■: ' ' ■''■■■-■ :■,.>■ •• Sv V.I —

ju- • „ 1 /■•<■

pinching; the pi^'o tail ; or. in f:iniiliar phraao, that he aliall not hnte
htM pearl wiiliout — a-nthv \nil{ptr hath it — having a squeak fur it !

Now, my loni, hoM me not ci'i'ty. "f ft"y nn*e«-mly |»arall«-lH.
It IB true, in the following I>-tt<-ni you will, I know, meet with
a» many jvarU an you onlinarily w*«' at a r><yiil ili-awing-room :
nevcrlh«l<.H.t <lo r.ot for an iuntanl Ulirve that I IIIk-I you a.H a
hog. No, my lord, repretn, annihilate the nascent thought. Yet,
cofisidiT. t' .'],". ' • , • ' '•■.fRn, '\»

expn-sHly li : . irr, my

lord, how ninny rhnml>erlAinH, and how rarious Uieir capiicitieii,
may exi^l U-tw.'.-n llii'* tiuif and the world'* enil I It U to n:f . ♦
all jv>Rnil.|o a'videntH tliat may «>cour t* all future I^ ils
ChamtxThiin, that I here iniiii«t on dwelling U|kiu the olili;.'atioD
I have laid them under, by dedicating to them these ndamaiilint-
I*i-tlep«,

Ilavinir resolTe<l to puldiiil), I l<x>ke<l wrenely round the world
for a nominal |Kttron. At firnt I tlioUf;ht tho Ix)p1 ('hani't'll<»r,
.•vs lei,';d guaidiaii of the def'niX'k-M rich — for there is not one of
these Ix'tters that may not b>* coiuiidered as the orphan inheritor
of inv.iluahle weal'h. that is, if wisdom always went as at the
trunkmakvr'.s, by avoirdu|K>is weight, — yes, I thou^'ht the genius
of the woolsack might fitly prote^.-t these costly epistles ; but
r.'flecting Hj><)n the many orphatis, the many lunatics, too, still
upon his lonlship's hand.<<, I instantly '- ' d not to sw.ll the
Dumlicr of his responsibilities, pnd, t. , thought a^j'.iin.

Ni-xt, the rattle of the Prince of Wales fell up«jn my ear.
"Thcj<e Letters," said I, ''shall U- dedicated to the Prince-, tliey
•will esjwci.dly serve to commemorate theiiay on which his R<*yal
Highness was taken out of long frocks — the bn-vity of evciy
epistle will touchingiy illustrate the shortness of his Cuats.' Mj

DEDICATION.

403

wife oxulted at tlie itlea. "The very tliin?." wiiti she; "for,
iiiHii't tliore onr Ixst Imiv, U;.'t)lino ? lie'il want somt-tiiiiijj ju« lie
pruwH up ; and the I'riiicc can't <lo K-sb tlian make liiiu a tide-
waiter." Tlie merceiiarr siK-cul.ntion — for all women arc not
ni"tlK'r» of (Jnu'chi— <lc't«'miined me to pre up the Prince of
AV'.ilfH. "No," said I, "the dirtj motive-makers of the world
will be sure to mis<^*44iMtruu the act ; thev will swear that PfScn
was only loval that he mijrtit U* i»r«wi>erou9 ; tl»er will nay that
he only woi-shijUK'd the risin;; pa)>-H|H)(in that hi.s own hrat nii;;ht
catch the fra;,'inentj» that fell fn-ni it." .My heart swelled at the
hUH)Mci<>ii, like a new-bluwu blaildcr, aiid I hlruck off from luy
lisl the Prince of Walcji.

I next l(x>kee confi"«j*ed, that U>th in the
l'|>|»'r ami l^.wer Senate wonU are f»j><>kfn and cajwrs cut, that
— were I to U? im|>e;ichetl tir either — il wo«il<l, 1 fear, Ik* Tery
dlllifult for me to prove an (Uil>i. "Why, therv'h lifiy of 'ern, at
Ka>t," said my vkifr, "thai you can't i>«.i>u.ule the world ar'n't
yo<»r own kith ainl kin." "And for tliat reoHoii, wife," I replied,
" I M ill have notie of 'em. No ; I aij fully awai-e of the 7\.*Litioi>-
fchip luystlf; hut it's their dirty pride that cluikes me — their
«rr<'j;ance th'at nuike.s them sojuetiiues jutss me, even in P.irlia-
ment-tttreet, as if I \\x\» to them an alien in bloo<l, in matuterx, and
n li'.:i.iii. And why? 1 f».-t my living in tlie open air. Well;
didn't dnliu-s Cn.'sar, the iMike of M:irlt>ori»ugh, do the same \
And when Wellin<rtoii and Wa^'statf were on service, didn't
*they Lhour, too, suf> ilio f C;ui yt»u feather Inurelti in a back
parlour — jjiu you gnnv Uiys upi.>n a he-.nlh-mg /"

It w.-M» then, my lonl, I resolved to dedicate these Letters to
you. Tiie reason is obvio\is : —

TUE U>IID CU.\SIU£KX.MN :«EVE» DID AXTTUI.VO fOB

FLNCU 1

You have grarioush* \ei me alone ; an<l 1 liaTe flwirisheil
under the In-niiniity of your r.e^l-'ct, I pitcli n>y st^ge where-
soever I will, in Westminster or not, without yoor warrant : I
act my pbys without your )icen.se. I iliscourse ui)on the world
as it is, on tlie life that is moving; al>out us, and on the invisible
emotions of the heart of )iian. and pay n<> penny to vour deputy,
I increase iu sociid imi>ortaJice ; tor 1 am not wii hered by youj
pjitroua^c.

r B 2

401 rUKCH'rf LKTTKRS TO HI3 SON.

H.i'l fntc nuide me, for these bust two liuiKirefl yetvn, the
must-T of a plav-hoisne, how diffiivnt iniyht have been axj
coivlition I Hail I, since the Ai-t whit-h inaile yo» |.rot4vtor nmi
cciisor of the ilramatic sisters, Mfl|Miim-ne and Thalia — po<ir
girls I there are i»eoplf who swear you have treated Vin wors*
th:»n Ml-''. Hrownri::;; used her a[)|Hjnntife8 — had I f«lt ynir
j«!itn>ii.'«;;«', how ofttn had I been (xiiuo rotto ; how ofl«n had I
played — understaud me, not paid — a "doleful dump" in Portm^al-
•treet !

Wl;f>refor«, then, do I de«Ucaie to you tliese I/ctterst — From
an exalted npirit "f iudepciideiice. I owe you nothing, my lord,
arJ havM 0t>uri«Ucd ujiou the obligation.

IXTKODrCTION;

Ts Immane comjiliance with the incwwaiit nn>l ;ifroctin{; suppli-
cation of many humlnni Ixtsniu frii-iulrt, thiHt- epiiillL-a ai^e f«r the
firxt nine 8ulmiitt«il ti> piiiit. Yen, I swear it: ami to Holeiimisu
llio uatli, 1 am naiiy to ki>s a baiik-uoto of any anjouiil above
(ifly |K>uutlH, — I am wliolly w.>n to type by the cntivatii-s of
buikIi'v fatli<'i-s, for wh">He chilihvn I havo — as, indeed, I fuel I
ou};ht to have— yearninpj of pi-culi.ir a!rection.

Theae letters were originally addrt-ased to, I verily believe, my
own son. In them, 1 have eM«leavoure«l to ensluine the wisdom
of i:;y life. In them, 1 liave HoU;;ht to jiaint men an tliey are — to
|ikeU:h the scenes of tlie world jus they have presented tiiemselves
to n:y ol»iervation — to show the spring of human niotivea — to
exhibit to the oiK-ning mind of youtii the viiLiir wires that,
b'.'eause unseen, make a mystery of common-pli'-i-.

I am pix'pared to be much abused for these ei)istle8. They
are written in lemou-juiee. Nay, llie little Bac« in lliejawsof
tlie nittle-snake, wherein the reptile elabonites its j)oisou to strike
with sudden death the l>e.'iutirul and harmlet>s guinea-pigs and
coneys of the earth, — these venomous bags have supplietl the quill
tliat tniced the mortal sentences. Or if it Ix- not really so, it is no
matter ; the \\ orthy, amiable souL*, who would have evi-n a S.'iwney
lie:ai (xiinted upon a rase-leaf. will say as much ; so let me for
once Im beforehand, and s;iy it for them.

Tiie child for wiiose instruction and j;uidauce through life the.se
lettei-3 were esj)ecially composed, h;is pa-ssed from this valley of
sliaiiows — he is dead. Death, in its Various modes of approach, is
an accordant mystery with the mystery of life. To one man it
Conu-s in the gui.sc of a grape-stone — to another in the aspect of
a jackass eating figs. To my dear son death apjieared in the
tempting shape of a fine South-down wether. Yes, mutton waa
his late.

Had it j>lej»sed fortune to make me a man of bank-paper, tlie
life of my dai-ling child might have been spai'ed. Tlieu Iwd T

400 PL'N'CUS LKTTEUS TO HIS SON'.

shown that the dear boy ftct»*d only in oljodirnoe to nn irresistible
iuijnil.o*' boni with liiin — 8tren;,'tli»-n»*y oft iii.lul;,'»'nce. Th<'n lia'i I j)n>Vfd tiiat the I'liild
in wiiat hu ilid wan but the iuuoceiit ncci-tuiiry of iiis uucoUHcioiu
iU'-tli<r.

I iiave drie<l my eyes and will cndcavmir to explain myself.

Thn-e months, to a day, iH-'fnre the birth of my child, we had
not for the previous ei>,'ht-anil-forty hours rejoiced our loyalty
with the si;,'ht of his iniijesty's lie.nd even U|x>n copper ; and yet —
b.' Mirvury myjudj^e! — we worked mo!4t j^illanlly — handed round
tlie hnt most i»er»everingly — laughed most jocosely, — and all
with b!fe<!i its and a slow fire burning in our IxjwcU.

Nathless, li..., .. • camo not. At that time, I remember, we
were terribly run uptm by Parliament. 'Flic madness of politics
took away the |H-ople's brains ; and literature, and art, and
Punch, while the mania I.tsted, were — strange infatuation ot
tucn I — nepleot««l for llie House of Commons.

Four-and-lwenty times in four-and-twruty street* had w<
arted ;' ' , .ind yet no Coin fell in the of\-pre,'<entcd hat.
Witli ti; _ "fan empty g:iri"et, a supjK>rless lie^tiny if money
came not— of ray unrepining, much-enduring wife — of all her
wints in that her time of weaknens, — with all these horrid
m.njoriea blazing in my brain I »-attIed awav, an<l laughe<l, and
cried and crowc<l roo-fooit-roo-(ooit in every Key and cailence, and
heard myself bruiteil by the mob as a nnifileas, unfeeling rasail,
without one touch of K ■• for au;,'ht that brcathe<l. Alas L

at that moment I h.vl :i in my heai-t big .is a rat-hole.

Kvening came on, and with it cold and dnzzling rain. We
w.re preparing r)r our twenty fifth repr>-»ent.ition, whrn a
delicious odour suddvnlv steanuil thiTMiirh the canvas, and on
the instant, a voice — to my foolish ear sweet as the mulutuilinoui
voicw of cherubim— cried —

" I/ot, hot — all hot — r.iutfon pie* all hot ! "

Jfy dear wife placc<l h<r hand u|xjn her heart— she knew I
nnd not a jxuny — softly sighed, then fell in a dejul swoon into
my arms. Tiiere she lay, and still the retreating voice rang
tlirouv'h the night —

" J/ot, hot — all hot — mutton pie*, all hot ! "

At length my s|>ouse returned to life. With the fine delicacy,
the mighty self denial of her sex, slie bivathe^l not her wish.
But I looked in her eyes, and re;id — Mutton jtie* — all hot — hot, hot !

And who, after tliis, cjui wonder at — much more bl.ime — my
darling, blighted son for his uncontrollable afl'ection for South-
down, or in fact any other, wethei> ?

Oh, ye thou:>aiids of philosoj)hei-s, dozing, dreaming, yuwuiog

IXTUODL'CTIO:^. m

in c.MiTftR — oh, ye l>ro:nl-briiiiiiR«l, Imii^'-skirteil, niikli'-i.u'keJ
KU'^es, wliii look into men's skulls :is int'ii look into ^la.ss hives—
will" untwist the conls of the human heart c.irerully yet surely
:us the huswife uutoii-^les .1 8k«?in of silk — could not twelve of
ye he f»iun<l t<» j^'o into a Imix to flist-uss. ami by your venlict
ili^'nify, a.s pretty a ease of monils an«l nKtapliy»ics as ever came
from the Pix'ss-yanl I liut no ; dry.sulters, hanlwaremeu, ye;i,
ropemakei-H (fur my iniK>cent Imiv ncv.r thou^'ht to ehallen^je the
I;Lst juryman as peculiarly init r. .•,t< il in tlie vir«li<t), judged hi:n,
A-nd of course he wa* lost.

As a luitlier illustration of the lH-nii;ht«'d intelKit of the jury,
it was ai^'it'd against my boy — my tK>ome<l one fmm the wtimb !
— that he had on a previous oce.ision sliown a violent love for a
bale of Welsh H:uiuel, the property of a hosier ou Ludgate-hill.
or e»>urse, lu- had. It w.is the inrvitalde result of his eonstitti-
tiuu. The tlannel wai-s jwirt of tlu- slufp. What lu* diti, he did
fri'iu necessity. He was organised for tlio aet. The jury —
a».s«'s I — called it a seconii off»noe. Why, it w.ts one and iho
h.ime thing. Nay, had my cliild made olf with a grt»hs or two
of lamb's-wo<d stM'ks, and half-a-<l<'Z<n Witney blankets, a
]>liilosnpliic jury 'aoiU<1 have considered the collective acts as but
an individual emanation of pre-organised temjtenimmt ; and,
pityii'g the mother in the son, have returned a, triumphant
uctpiitUil. But what knew the jury of affinitie.s /

Had I been rich I could have jmived all this, and my b<>y hatl
bit-n sjived UjMai a constitutional eccentricity. As it wai* — but I
will no longer dwell u|K>n the theme. Enough for the curiousi.
Mv Uiy's fate may l>e found in the archives of Seven Dials.

These letti'i-s will, I trust, tt-slify my patvrnid solicitude. It
is my i>ridc. that they were treasured by my son, and were
bequeathed by him, with other effects, to tlie imlividual whose
a«b>'it attention to my boy m his l.nst moments w.is witnessi-d
bv hundrt'ds, and commented uikui in the haudsome^st way by
various distinguished writers of the English jiresa. It is to tiie
lilvi-ality of this individual I am indebted for the original
documents ; for, elevated far above the {)etty spirit of huckstering,
he at a word took a pot of jK)rter for the treasure, and with a
sii.^niticunt wink and a light-heailed laugh, wished me joy of my
b;irj;ain.

4M PUNCH'S LLTTEll-S TO U\^ SOK.

LETTER I.

Tlir. URtOIIT ruKRR.

Mt prar LrrTiJt IV»t, — &> early as cock-crew tliia momini;,
your dtnr iimUi« r i " " •' • v„ti %» y uine

Tr.inj oM. Tlic iu"-!....^ .- 'l, yvtt, ;k ... ;. li m<'.

My awcet little p«L, yuu will tliiuk thi« iitningv : I will explain
tiiynelf. WIkii I rviiieutWrvtl tliul I wim tli«- author of a rnttmial
l)cinp, of a crratuio deutiiifil, it luijjlil U-, to have a j;nal »ttake
in tiiis Wuil.l. aj.«l a itliil }(n-iitcr in lh« no.xl, my heait ro»e
within me, anil I waa in a tniUM|M>rt of happinvM. When, •K'^nt

r ron.ftta that i i.u.i i ■• '■ • •

duoiiu-il, |H;rlia}>!S to <;■ .

brandeti with |iovetty ; •eut<-nf?«<l to all the varieties of the

'<; a cold, hungry, h- of

i ., .,....! offal ; a thin^ vrilh ti.. ... , ... ..... .^,..... :.t.in,

now hnhlfUcd )>y the injustice of tho world to calloU», calcul;itiug
iiiscD-iibtlity, now stung into the activity of craft ; — wlu-n I saw
you ra;. ' ' • ? in thin liff, aud lu • ' -i

for I'roiu my hratn. " 'I

I thus couiiuuned with myself, " niu.'«t not be thought of alt«r
this melancholy fashion ; otherwise little boys will become
e-xtincl."

You are now, however, cailcd upon to remember — for you are
sutbcicntly old to undcn«tand the • n, and 1 »hall tlicn-fore

no luniK'er adilrvsw you a.>i a nn-rc rh.r. — i.ial to me you owe your
life. It I* uuw nine years (mclaphynicians would say Homething
ntoce,) since you ojH.-ned a debtor acci^uut with me : an .ico'unt
never to 1 ! off by Liyii)j» down the princi]«l, but to l>e

»luly ackn>' ^ . by the punctual jwivmenl of interest in the

shape of love, duty, and oLeilience. Understand, you owe me
your life : whether yo\i were, or were not. a party t<» the debt at
the time it was coutracteil — whether at my own whim and
ca|)rioe I fixeil upon you an obligation, jiever in reality thinking
of you at all, matterH not: you are my debt«.r, up to the pn-sent
perio<l, fur nine springs, as many summer**, the like nunil>er of
autunin», and not one less winter. Consider the hold I have
upon you — remember the tiebt that will be even* year incre:isin(|^
and b« docile, be obedient.

THE BRIGHT TOKER. 409

It is ri-late»l of St. Fmiicia tliat, bcinij destitute of chiMrcn, he
made U-i hintaelf a faiuily of Biiuw-hall.s ; aud, that, when iikhIc,
hi- jjavo to tliciii pntty and end<'anii<j iiaiuf.H, and tonk them in
hiM aniiH, luiil iiti;;L.-<'>i thoni to lii.i Im>-v<iiii, and duuhtlesx thdiiglit
him.Hcdf quiteti fuitdly m:ui. N»w, mv dear child, I am not n
St, Fraiuirt — (lh>'iiuh I tiiiiik I hav.- at 1 - und»T oIImt

Dames in tlie Calendar,) — au>l am tin n-l . ^ of U-jjcttiiij^

a 8now-ball fur my heir ; but shall I feel le«s fur my own thtili
and hlood tlian the tiiTJt of the grey coat« cnreti for cougeiiled
■wator f

My alTection, then, speaks for you in this, and nhall bt? nudiMe
in nnuiy, Ictten*. The world is u|»enin|:; ujn.n you. In a few

yean* ytxi will enter ujKtu tliat fi-arlul Ht '" - the d.iily

Nluiulder of mutton — thai tt^'rrilile h;.'hl uli, .y shak<-«

tiie earth to its founiLitiuns — tliat Uuver-ceaninj; iM{ual>ble which,
when Jiive is mel;ai<'lioly — for v^ ' '1 say that .K>ve hiniHidf

httii not his nK-;;riuii4 f — makes la-.^ : l'<>r h;s niajcHty aud his
court assembled. How, '.l»eu, to get the liest of the frny — how
t>> secure tho beat cut -jf the shoulder { My »uu, give heed to a
s»hort stury.

The widnw >fuL'^ridjje was the cleAidiest of huswives. You
niijiit, in ' ' ' ' . e •at^^'n y<>nr dinner off her flour ;

till- niiiiv ■ _ .1 for two were nev^r known uiM>n

iter table. Her household goted, as she wurde*! it, U|><in his
* being nice and comfortable ; and therefore plentifully sluicing
the sick m.on's chamber, .is he lay, knocked down by a fevi-r,
Mti'^'i^eritljje died of cold water and a cle.in helpmate. When
a5siire«l of her husbanil's death, it was the touching r»*gret of the
new-m.-tde widow tliat he hoil not staid to change his shirt, if
any ni:u» ever took pleasure in his j.'rnv.', it must have Wen
Muggcridije ; for never since his marriage had he known what it
w:is to enjoy a piece of wholesome dirt.

And here, my de.-xr child, let me advise Vou, if it slioidd be
your d---«*'ny to wed, and live in humble state, to avoid by all
means wnat is called a cle^in wife. You will he m.ade to endure
the extreme of misery, umler the base, the invidious pretext of
being riMidered comfort;il>Ie. Your house will be an ark tossed
by continual tloods. You will never know what it is to properly
accommodate your shoulders to a shirt, so brief will be its visit
to your l>ack ere it a'_'ain go to the wash-tub. And then for
spiders, flea.-!, and other household insects, sent especially into
oiu' homesteads to awakeu the inquiring s]iia-it of iluui, to at

410 PUNCirS L^TTKUS TO HIS SON.

oncv hiiiiihli- hilt iii<liv(ilii.-vl |iri<lc oy the ciniK'niplation of their
^.. • . an.l to .1 .' V i *- •' • i: • 'net! i.f tlte

). . ^ufniiiiiiail . r foctilliea

will he wanting; niiJ, hickin;; thcra, yoiir iiuiitortal part will !>«
'' ' i. hy tin* III V of thtf «rruhhiiig-biunh, ami

1 , -^ : u»« n-nitdy u; , uir, i>y y<-lli>\v i».>.»p. Ymirwife

f iui«l chiMrvii, t4x>, will tuivt* their faces ctiutiiiii.iUy nhinin!; like
tht< holiiUy Miucvni uu the iiiJU)t<.-l-pitH*e. Now, ounMiiier the

r ■ • •! •■ ■ •> ■ , : thi< : the ntudircl cnllotis

l)i>l he Dot Hpiiii^' from
tlic earth f — fruiii clay — lUrt — mouhl — mud — (fitnlen •••il, or
' ' ■ ; r>r ti ' ■ ■ ' ■ -

■-' _ . f theiH! . ; ; i

wiukt; and ia it not. h« lNuu-«t iiu|tii<lcnc« of pri>le to •*'<>k to
wiuih nitil scrub ami ruh aw.tv * t f In he not tho

ntiMl hntiiial iiiAii wito, ill '. ...,>4 ... 4, ifl the ilirtinit t

I)f|M-iul u|>i»ii it, thrrv in a tiue itatural reti;iuii in liirt : aiiil yet
we ace iii<*u aini wutiicii iiirive to ap|)car aa if they were
' •■ •• : lilie* of Para.!

r<M«tA. IW- (uiK . -I

givAt piety ill wliat the itriiorant foolinhly call tiUb. Take Aonie
of '■ •■!.•. Off with llieir c>

>.*■■ 1. j....i • v..ti I'.tx my »uo, au jj

..uitil Im'tii y the lowly ori^nn uf luan,

tliat With tho iu«Mt cuninu ryo, aini loiwt <ii>licatc hiiffor, you
ah:.'! ■ •»->"■ • •' -> - ' .> _ :. . _ i._. ^ .. .. ..reodn.

The whIow Mil. , in her best room, hail two pokers.

•• wai» bhi'* a;. . . • , <],oiie like A

1 . ^umiticr li;;lil — .: - ..... ... ,

Jtotli |M>keni Mt.-^l at the aaiiio tirv place. " What I " you aak,
" nnil iliil tJie ui.h.w Mu ■« stir hrr fire nith Uithf*

Or'ainly not. Wa* a - . ., im; rr-. - ' - thf blnck {►•ker
crni'kctl it; woa the |i>.. : . .r to be .—the black |)oker

chnred it ; did she want a musiag Hn — the black puker wh«

coftla — the black poker aupportetl it. ** And what," uiethinka
y«in «Ak, •* did the bri.'hl jK.ker ?" I aiwwer uoihiii-^ — i

aave !•> stand and gliHtcn at the (ire-side; ita bLuk. U _ ^.i

r<>in|>Aiuun, stoking, roking, burning, banging, tloing all the
As for the bright jKjker, that was .i coiisecrnted
I: li ^. N. %• I -TTd Mrs. Mu^'-ridge go to H.-ickiifV for .i Wf«*k
to vi..<it her n-lnti-um. that the bri'_'ht j>oker wra not removal
(r\>iu the gr.it** ; and, cnrvfuliy avra'iicd in uiled flauii«l, awaited

WORDS AND TIIKIK COUVTKRKKITS, KTC. 411

in ;rrcn«y rfp<k>e the retnni of im iuistre«*. Tlu-n, once more in
^'li»t. - " 1,1 \i |(i(in</<- .'ininii.,' sliovcl )tii*l toDv'^ ; the

ji-tt . k<'r, wi.rkiiij,' iinitl it w.-m workf<l t4> tha

flttimp, At l.xKt to Ik? flnii;; n»'u\r for %'ik' old iron ! One <lo2ea
hi irk |M>ki-n« i!i(I the br-^'lil jM>kfr !*»•«• niu ; nnil to tiiis iliiy^
.1' ill,' riothiii;^— il Ht.-ajil«« l«i*troiiM nml iiin<'tiv«' !

My son. such in life. When yon enter tlie woiM, make up ail
your cij< • • bectinte — A Briyht i'ukcr.

LhXrKK II.

wonns AXD tiikir ooi'XTKurEiTS — now ro rbcicivk and p.vm
urr TUK ^.vM^; w.tii trritcR isktcl oounskl.

Mr UKAR iJor — I am u»uoh pha^Ml witJi your l;i*t letter.
Your rviuArka uu the ,-■'■'■■ ^ - - • ; i- -. our exot-lleiit nwiitter,
l>r. Btn'hhuil, oonviucv* . ..«* not been lost u|>on

_\"u. However, beware teal yuu took U>o clotfeiy into the Higni*
Ii .tii.<' .i(i<l ii *■ A ,|«. Tlti!» i» an uujirol':t.i)>h' custom,

uikI 111", -j. , . H of nmiiy a man. Yoii may h.-ive

olMerve<l a lenni of horKi« yoktxl to a heavy wagj^ou ; may hnv©
li. iii ill.- U lU hun^in;; aU>ut their heailjjear tinkle, tinkle,
tiiikii. liu- l>cll» are i»f no U!«e — nt>ne, Hiive to ke«p up a niono-
tonuun jin;;le ; ulthou^'h, doul*llu^ Ciilea the waj:;^"ni-r will
a^aurv you that tlie music cliecm Uie horeex on the ilu»ty road,
* ;uiil. uuiler the bununj; .sui ! ' " ' 1 tliely and ail

to^clhcr. Now. tiiere in a in use nni'>njj

men, pix*ciaely like these bcIU. They ui Mny— are not

iiitcn.ieti to nie«n anyfhin«; — but custom inju.rvs the jin<:le.
Thus, when you meet a niau whom you have .seen, jterhajLH,
thrice Itefon" — and he declares that ** he ia delijjhtvd to see you,"
all'.'tt it Would trive him no com^ern whatever if you were deco-
i-itin^ the next jjibU-t — you niu.>t not, for a moment, look a
doulil of hi-s joy, but take hi.4 niptuii' as a thiujy of Ci)ur»e. If he
npieeze your hand until your knucklt-ti crack — t^queeze again. If
he dodnre that '^ you're hKikiiij llie pi<-tur'- of liciltii," a.sseVtrrit«
U|H>n your liouoiir that ' he iian the a ivantii^'e of you, for you
never aaw him look better." lie may nt the time be in the last
St !_•.• of a Consumption — you m.nv have a hectic fever in your
clietk ; no matter for that ; you h.tve liolh jingled your belU, and
with l'ght'.'ne«l «i>nsciences ma% tiike your 8e|»arate way.

J Could, my dear child, enlarge upon this subject. It is enough

412 riNcH'S LETTKRS TO HIS SOU.

til. it I <\^utuia vuu lu '■ Willi Ui« wuil-i. not to

lak)* Wi.rU n» mt iioi' .;. o( hI.ik >>>-l A, liut

n»vr«ly a., .-ouutt-n • wiUi. IT tliaiu

at ti ' >uu will be ill lit' of

t' -....■.. I . . I 1. H •llllt

> •"• Tlnlikiii'^

tnuntcif ricU bvyuii«i Uie wealth of Abniuuii NewUutd id tJicg»Ulvii

I" r > '• ■ ' ' '^rukltulU iti

lliC Urjt - . ... _ -

Your Lut coit}', you UiU luc, wtut

" Com»*ad yom m%j jour miaJ frnm pUv."

You oSj«v-« to thi« a* an uhrt-a-wttaMc «i You aar, too

c.titi 1 from play ; au^l ;iuiiiuat« it to be an

1 .'<auin«

\ . !':!:>. :

of the t«il witJi jTout
\ I to your

I cannot, uy (l«ar i rvl thu Lact iocitletiL It will, I

\ "' <j licccaaity i-f ? '

»• jirw»«ly wi»«t t

vitliuiit liailooinft an>l calliUK a crowr. liiTcbbuil, wUen a boy,
I. . . - . . . —

'• P >mm«n ! T ou fnat vouf mia<t ffwm n**t.'*

Tou to I :i it f "Then. whcrrforB" — rou mar ajik iu voiir

t you :. if, with

vit, you attfni|il to U»t the ailoj in so mach of ita verbal

which only (*mt\» (an<1 the wont of fooU lliey call ni&rtyra) ring,
'. nib, and look at, aud having done ao, acrvech out, — " IWi

ucy: '*

J^'ow. my de.^r boy, the next time the worthy Doctor Hirchbud

givr* ynU the ^"Vl^J —

•' Coniinanct 50U mar your mJnM from pUy,
look at it with sudden reverence, square your vlbow » ill deter-

WORDS AND THEIR COU.NTKRFKITS. KT( 413

iiiiiK'.l i\„\ry, take up ronr pen itn tlmu^'li yen ^^^•r•.• .liiout lo
\njfK llu- t.xi •' ill the rv«l-l<-!iVf.l tnUIrt of ymir lieart," — an<l
h.iviii};, iu milrmn Hileiice, tuntli* the rpqtiirtvi number of copiurt,
I " k up t«» your ni.u<t«T, — :»iiil, nj* you ;,'ivi» it in,l-.-t vour

t. --- t^ftj.|K*ar ftl oiuf itif<>rtur«i aikI <iijjni!;ftl with llm

Itvautifiil truth \mu linvc c<>M«iLiu'<i to pa|H'r. — iiar h-t your whole
nun;. •my ^• < m at that : the (^minl lfH<»tiu vou

huvt? iijrti-nije*! in the c.j. .- r. i ,i - i n.', yuu may rotuni to
your iK-iit, an^
yuU mar yo on with your game of "t«ld or even " under tho deiik

I I thiit Vi.ii h:iVO

gTBVcljr rrgiJitcreU your belief^ tliat —

" Cotaniknd jroa may yo«r min'l fr^m r'«T."
T' ■ • •■ 'sjh ; wlirthcr _\..i, ..ui, .1 will, in alto*

Thi« nuhjcct mutuda m« of an inquiry you onr« made, at a
f ' ' '. the m.-»tt<T. <>u

, \ ,..,.: ; were printed llie

\. i\ Aruuk I rKoilect Toor chanuiuf^ itmile at the lion and
rn ; and the ty whidi prompted yuu to

..1 ^'liv the meaning ■. wi. i.-^. ... i- ^jend —

•• Dieu tt mun droit."

lliat, mr child, it is now pr»>p<»r for tou to learn, means, " Gr>A

.•» • • ■• t." W .' ■■ ■ '• ■ ' - • .re

.: : ry of K :. . -. ; • : . :•!'•

k;::/4 have done under that motto, jou will then more fully
' • nd what I have written to you upon t.-. aa

c. .,i.. i -, not .iM r»al thin^pi ; of the neoi-asity of ul ....... .>^ ng

I.. Ulu'\e ihein the tme coin, and the dan;;er of cryin({
couuterteit. "<: i and my right!" lla, my dear boy, there
1, .. • • . ' •• . • ' ■ ' ;• ' m the rest

11 of these

•ylLihlea, h.ive hat! their head^ alicc<l like turnips from iheir

"s, and their quarters hung up lik ' " a over

. . . ...n ; whil.'it other men, not one jo*. ;.. . ... ^, have,

with .1 knowinj; wink at their fillowa, .inw wrui Is to the words, and
f . ' - rewaj-d in beef, ale, and, in lulneas of yearu, death in

You »ay you employe*! the la--<t h.ilf-holiday in birds'-nestinjj.
riiis was very rigliL I wouiU have you tniiu your mind to

414 PUNCirs LETTKllS TO llIS So.V.

iii:iiily njKirts In «lue iir>«.soii, witlj the prace ftf fortuin-, Tf>ii wHl
W iil>lv to liunt h.irPH, tlione |»CHtileikt .iiul ilanjieroim rr«>:i(iii-««
hn\ int; U-eii i'ii|Kx'i<illy (M-uvide
iiitclU-i'ttt of man. SliouM you ohtnin t)t:it {xmitioii in tho worl
uliicli it iM my fcneul pmycr you will arrive at, you may nl*> be
jK-iTuitleil to joiit in n rayal hunt, a ptuttimo uf the hight«t
(li^'uity, utility, anti liumanity. For inxtAitce, you will choice a
itt.H^j, for th« i-X|>rvti4 ami only pur|><w«j oi lenHfyinp it ; and
having; put it to oti hoar or two of Acrvie<'ul>lo at^ony, yuu will
have it cau;;ht and con<hiot«Hl l>ack ti> the ]iAHture, to be left for
future enioymt-nt. A*, however, tluso m-isi 1k« th' •; of

^our m.iuli"o<l. yi»u are quite ri>;lit now to Ivu'i" with 1 lud

»I»arrow!i. You, my dear aoii, will one ilat have to quit th*
' • , - - ^ ■ ! • -on what the

1 ... •-..,;• \ -ir yuun^, you

will htvw some wholesome idea of the anxiety uf your loviug
Iwin-ntH nn'icr n like aHJii'tion.

You a-«k iu«* to mMjil you some ci>rking-pin» that you may »\>'\t%
r<N<k<-hafem ujxui tlicia. Y<><ir m^iiher iteixU them, with her
bii'<win{» and her l>ciit love. I triMt, however, you will turn tlii«
nmuM«kin<*ut to your j>r«>f»t. Ah. under thu blcHMin^ of heaven, I
niiv lUoLtMy artiolv y.^u to Mr. AU-dnrgo, the attorni-y uad
luonej-leuder of Jewinii [irvjndicv, I would counsel you to t^kt
) ' ' • • - when buzzinj;

, - ... , .. ,.. what you luay

know exiicity how long it will live, and how much pin it will
W.^r. This kni>wlcilfc, for wiiKiom coutec to uh from ho many
ch iimel.x, will lie of jjreat use to you aa a disciple of Al<««hiego^
whcu uuikin^ out your cuBiU.

Lirm:ri in

OIUDCrs WORTUT OF DISCO rKRT — sr»iRT ^T'JRT Of M.t.'C >XD

HIS DUCK.

^fr DEAR BoT, — You tell me you have he«p reading Cnpiain
C(>rd-'.f Voi/'t;f*, atvl are so nm<"h plea.sed with them, that you
WouM «t.an muml the world on a vovajje of discovery lo-morrow
morning. Yoir will .^enou.■^ly offend me by .mit repetition of this
folly. I>eave .such mad adventui^es to AkjU and zeuldts. Stay
ymi. and make greater di-'Woveri'-s, at home.

Do you kuuw the i-eward of the :>intpU.-toas who peril Life, and

OBJECTS WUUTIIV OF DISCOVKKY. 415

fo.-p^o all till- eoiururt-H <>f ihr lUxiily man —for wliat I To f»iv«,
it may be. their name to nil loelierg, and tlieir carcases to the
oharks. <'t)luiiibu« tlinrovere*! America, and \v;m at last r»'wnrd«'fi
Willi Ifttt'i-H for his pains. W ho can point out tlio two vi»rd« of
dust that cover Calnit the manner, wiio found a home hixI a
retreat for t^ns of thousjuids / Ask of tlie m-a, in whi«rh of it^a
Ujullitiidilioiis caves |i-jx»He tJie Inines of Hudson /

Tlie kiH>\vn worhl is tjuiie hir^e en<iu<,di for you ; lei fiwls, if
they will, leave their miutj nmi-chairs, nml soa-coal lires, to
extend its houndaries. What matters it to you where the Ni«,'er
Itej^iiiH or ends < JIave you not the iileasjiiil hanks of Thames,
tlie tens <»f thousands of unsoiihistienttHl natives throu<^ing ita
■hon>a ; all of them ivmly to exehniifre their gold-«l»iU. for any
;.' ' ids you may hriiii; for Iwirter, if, hy your Oiiiifulvnoe and
.- > i. yoii ran p.iss otf the ;:laxs for veritjihlc «liaiiiontU ? If
you enn, j;reat and suHifient will be your rewanl. If you cannot,
y'-u will undergo tlie ri.dilful jM-nalty of ynur i'^niorance. iiut
the tliiiiji is done every day. J>o not imagine they a»v the oiilv
8iiva<;e8 whose skins art) iioot-colour, who wenr riiijpt throucctl
their iKKus, Ktii-k |»nrr*'Ls* feathers in their wisilly hair, and bow
to Mumlxi Juiubo as their only deity. My dear l«>y, you will
find amoti^'st the whitest, the most earefully-<lresHcd, and mo«t
pltiuR of I^ondon, nbtMilute children of nature ; men, aa it would
seem, expressly m.nde for the MipiKirt «if their fillow-<'reatures. ns
hlio;iIs of heiTiiij,'s are every .-easi'ii spawned expressly for the
i.utriiuent t>f whales. Therefore, trust younjclf to no canoe on
tlie Sene;.'ai. but proAiHfr on the baIlk^4 of your paternal river.

You would like to be a diseoven-r f Very well. Ixiiidon is n
l>ouiulless n';,'ion for the exercise of the jrreatest sagacity. litave
to drciiuers the solution of the shortest cut to ln<iia — lind you
t!ie north-west |ui.'«:ige to the jtockets I'f your fellow-ci*eature8.
U'.scover the weakiiejises of men ; they will be to you more than
the mines of Potuso. bring you richer merchandise than cargoes
of i^old -dust and ivory.

If, however, forgetful of my paternal lessons and unworthy of
your pixigsuitor, you address yourself solely to what is jlbsurdly
termetl the dignity of human nature and the amelioi-ation of the
condition of mankind. — if you clioose to make one of the fools
who have lost their lalsjiir and their soap in the vain attempt t«»
wash the negi-o white, — why, starvation, oblocjuy, and wretciied-
ness in every shape attend you ! Your heart's blood may dry
ujt in a garret, and — if your carcass be not arie.ste<l by the bailili"
— yau may rot in the pjiu|>er'8 corner ©f the parish church-yard.
To be sure, after some liundreJ ye.ni-s or so, it may he some
Comfort for your ghost to slip liom your forgotten grave, and

41« PUNCH'S I.KITKRS TO HIS SON.

rn.iko mi'liii^'ht visits to tlic stntiie that inny \te nt lonptl> erected
i» the ueiiiuH that filed, the dct.tur of a tw.ipcuny loaf to a Im.mi»»-
voUriit haker. If yon will be conlentt-il with «tich rewaril, try
of coui-Ho to olevaTe y<>iir »|MM-ieii. If, howevi-r, you would rather
enjov prt^fiit 8ix|>eu<'rs, wliy thon s|>:ii jMiwlcr plat** on a
bnlanccd nwortl, or poise a ilonkey. My dear Iniy, work for
n-.i'iy money. T.ikf no hill n|xi!i pxt.Tity : in the flr<t place,
there are many ehani-ca n^^in.nt iu Ik.'!:ii; |iaiil ; and in the next,
if It In; duly honoured, the eatth may In< laid out on xome piece of
iinmze or niJirhle of nt>t the nli^chteHt value to tht' oriffinal. Sure
1 am, that no Htiitnc or monument \^ creeled to the memory of
one wiio ia at len^^'th called the lH'n<>factor of hi.t raee, that the
ceremony in not a holiday for famine and all the hounehold furii»j».
Thev Udiold in the thin'.; an irr«!«iflf ihle temptation to other ♦'ooIh.
One late-n-wanled martyr inevitaMy raisen a new n-i^iment to
ble^tl and Huffer.

It in njxiu thi.H tnith — for truth in not alwayn to lie <li«ref,'anled
— that I woultl have you eland : it in u|>on this principle I would
have you ea-hew all rom.mtic notioiu of travels to Ahywiinia,
and voya;re« to the Pole, for the more profiU-ihle distcovery of the
weakne-iitca of your fellow-m-atures. Are ymi fond of wild
Countrieii, curiouB |ilantfl, rare animala, Htmnf^e adventures }
i'lunjje into the heart of man. There yon will fiml <lesert«,
p<ii!M>iiouii weeds, iinak)-^, ami a host of iniquities aixnved a.;jiinst
» host. Vou will also tin<l stn-anis ^^ushin^' with he.-dtli, nmaran-
tnine flowers, cooing dovcA, niid thin^fs of divine afl|M-ct and
ne.-ivenly utt-rance: with the^c, however, meddle not No;
turn from them, and. spite of yournclf, convince youn«.lf that
they exust not, that they are the mere phanlaflina of the hrain—
tne mere otfHprin.; of the imagination, that, hickened with arid,
nurniit;,' tni ' ■ ' * ' ■ ji.ilm« and silv > z*,

and in the t in-an* the heart- ng

nightingale. Not so with the dreary places ai-.d the venomous
liiin;,'s. I/cani even" iiook of tin ii'>>fue every ohject. Itiain

such spots you are to drive a pr , .i tra<lc ; it in .such articles
you are to use in Itarter. Does not the wi.se tnideaman put on
his comeliej<t li:)ok.'<, an«l l>ow lowe:^t to his lieat cu.slomer ? Virtue
IK a poor, paltry creatun*, buying her ml.serable jKfnn'orths at
uiisonible chandhrs'. Now Vice, Weakness, and Co., are large,
burly traders, and " come smug upon the mart." Therefore,
make yourself m.-ustcr of their tenip«'rs — find your way to their
hearL>' ; r<r they ii.ive heart?, even as blocks of marble sometimes
cont.iin within thcui the torjiid, sweating toad, "ugly and
▼eiioiuou.^"

Uottever. in opening .'o- .i. . .imt with (hi- firm, be sure yoa

OWKCTS WOKTHY OF DISCOVERY. 417

never a]>ply to tliciu tliou;iine.ssi»:it upon tlifin l>y clean-moulliLil
Viitue. Oil, uu ! ultlmii^'li you know tlu-iii to be lei)rou.s to tlio
Imju^s, you must treat tlieui, must speak of them, as though tlioy
were the very incarnation of health. Though their contii>t
practices are to the nostril like the foulness of a new battlo-fieKl,
Hniitl" thein .'(S though you inhalctl the oiiuura of myrrh rniii
iVankintx-nse hurnin'^ in the temjile.

NN'hen you have become a scholar in the weakuesscs of the
human heart, vnu may tlieu lay them under what impost you
will. You may — but I will tell you a little story iu illustratiuu
of the tnnh of this.

You njuit know th.at the greater numK'r <jf the inhabitant's of
C'eylon Lave it, iw their firm iR-lief, tliat, when ilea<l, their suuls
\\ ill Uike up their habitation in the Ixxliea of various animals.
A wise fill.iw — too wise tt» Work, an<l 8.ai;e enough to be ileter-
inineil to enjoy himst-if without lal»oiir — tunieil the su|M'rstition
of his ueighlKiuintoconstaiit |»r»jr»t. Whenever bis |(Ocket8 wer«
empty he wouM rusJi into the stii-ets, !Ui<l carrying a live duck
in one iuuul, and bnuidishing a knife wilit the oliier, he would
exclaim to the terrilie<l |»euple —

" Wretched, this duck may l>e your g^Tindfather — your
prantimolher — your father — your mother — your brother — your
sister — vour *on — vour daughl^jr ! Wrelchea ! Ill kill the
iliick ! '•

Whereupon, men, women, and children would throw them-
selvea upon their knees, ninl olferiug what money they had, l»eg
of the imiu not to kill their gnindfather, their grandmother,
their son, their daughter, but iu the depths of liis mercy, and
* for the sake of ready money, to touch not a feather of liie
duck !

And the man, pocketing the cash, would walk away, for that
time ^piiring the duck.

My son, you .are not an inhabiUvnt of Ceylon, but a denizen ot
enligliteued London ; nevertheless, in every city every man haa
some sort of a grandmother in some sort of a duck.

VOL. L E s

il8 PUNCH'S LETTERS TO HIS SON.

LETTER TV.

OM THE cnoiCB or A PROFESSIOW.

Mt dkar Cnit.D, — Yon gay yon arc anxiouii to wlnH for
y<«ni-si|f nn n .Tefal )lc and pn>fitnl>l(? pn)foH-««ii>n, nm] Kolirit my
I»atoni.il ciinnsel to ajnint ymi in ymir olioioe. This lirinys to my
recollection, that year tlarling niotlier once b«'gg<M| that I wonhl
aroDnipanv her to a nien-or's, to cho«me a pown. We entereil the
■hop, an<l il»iiire<l an in-'iH'ftinn of the warehou.tf^Mian'ti coinrao-
«litie«. Velvcta — cut, fluwtn-.l, nn<l plain ; aatin« of all colours;
Harsneta ; silka, shot with thnmler anil li;^htnin(r ; niu.slinx,
jK'j'linn, Iximh'ir • - ' ■ • ' urn ; all tlie honntifnl prixlnotH of
the io*)in wer.- . ii fr<>n» the sIuIvch. anil iliipl.ivc*!

n|>on the counter h-foro us. Some two to throe liourw were
a;jreo:iMy pawteil in thii wikV ; when ymir il<ar mother, with <«ne
of her B\veet<-«t Hniiles, thanketl th-' >ihoptnen for their truti1>I<-,
then Miid, "she thought she could only afford a t«;niK<nny
gin:,'ham."

Mv dear h<>r, — 1 fear it will W thus with vou in vour choice
of a profession. I may, it is tnie, unn>ll an arehhi.shop'a l.'iwn
before you — may call your eamc«t attention to a IajiiI C'h.in-
cellor'ti eri: * yon to feel the wei;;!ity hullion of a

comm.indi ; , > — to weigh in y.inr hand the jjoM-

headt^l cane of a court physician, — and when all this is done, you
ni:iy l>e com|>ell««d to call for the leather apron of a cohbler, or
the gixme and needle of a trtilor.

I wish — and Heaven witnens the aspiration — that at your
V>irth the law of priniojjenitnre had Iwnind you apprentice to
l.*i,0<W. per annum, Wsiiles my gix>d-will, when I slept l»eneath
a slab of m.irlile. Such a calling mnnt W a very pretty bu.^i-
ne<w, and, believe me, I should have mightily liked to l>e your
master. As fortune has orden-d it otherwi.>*e, let us look at the
profo.ssions.

Will you enter the church ? Alas I what a prospect li«>8 before
yon. Can you diseij>line your mind and bixly to fulfil th«
functions of your office ? I will at once snpiKise you a bishop.
Can you, I ask it, satisfy your appetite with merely locusts and
wild honey ? Will you be content with raiment of sack-cloth,
or at the best, liusey-wooLiey ; and can you an.swer for your
conscience that you will, at all times and in all weathers, l^e
ready to make a pilgrimage to the hov-ls of the poor: to give

ON THE CHOICE OF A I'ROFPrSSlOX <!!>

comfort to tlio wrptrli<»(T • to prar lifsidt- the ntrnw of tho
npiiitant jjuilty ; to aliuw. by your own condinpt of the orentura
bl«"<.siujj.H of this W(irhi. that yuu look npon ili*? mrth rw^rnnTe
temjxiniry t4iiTyii>!j-pla.ce. — a wira van serai, where yon are
nwaltiiii; until calleil W-yond t!ie cI.hicIh ? Cunsi'ier it; as a
l>i«li.ip, you will he ex[)eote<l t-> t«ke your seat ill tlie TTouse of
I>>nlH. Wheti there, shaH vuu \>c ]>repare<l, witli the rest of your
}>retlneu, to s«.t a C'liitiiiual pattern of piety an<! self-iU-nial to
tlie lay-nohleH ? Will y.io 1..- .\.r prouipt — jw hi--'" "«» 'Iwava
lire — to plead the cause - In"-! ; to stjuiil 'i the

Biiikiui; |HMir .'in*} the arro^^rmt rieii ; ami with a voice of" almost
tliNTiie Tliuiuler. w;ike iu th«* c:»lh>u>< hcarU* of worl>llii)'„'s a
»lumli'riu;; oonsc-ieiiee for their fellow-inen ? Will you he in tho
Jfouse of T»r<l», a lump o€ epi8i*o|>i*l cam|ihor — » bumllu of
Bpikeiianl — a pot of hoiiev ? C;«u you — an all hishops always do
— jil'.staiii fr"in tlw iuslH of Nfaiiuuoii, autl ke<'j> Vour luwii, wlnM
aJid candid :m lUo wiugs of an^el>t, front th« yellow Hoil of tilthy
Ilutus ? Vhiuki*^ oidy of the hmidfut, the Hhort<-!»t, ni\d tie
li«rsl way to heaven, — will you U'kc all biiUiopif) uerer me Idle
with turnpike ftcti»y or joh wiih wixxlen pnveiuents ? Ksehewin^j
th* vanity of eoHcli and f H.tnMin (ju» John the Baptitit di<l, and
all bisho]»s do.) will you think oidy of th«r cnrria^je of El'sHha ; and
tnniinj,' tVonv the poinjts Hi:d Taniti"-** <»f an episcopal j)ahu-e,
can you (as all bishops do) feed hunildy, lo<lge lowly, — hun-
^'eriu!^ only fl»r immortjtl uiaiion, — waiving ouJy to btr ealled to
tluit hoine —

'• \Vho«e (fl"ry i* the ligJit of Mttin^ »»m«.''

My dear boy, examine yourself, and Hay, are you equal to all
t}ii>< ? I think you are my own flesh ami bloo<l, and tliiuking so,
d'-ubt y.iur ooii^taney ia this mattt-r. Hen <•, I would a<lvise you
to esihew tlx* church ; lor uides-* you could live a life apostolical,
as ail bishops jdways d<», what disgrace would jiAX bring upon the
bench — what !»l:Luder aud a by-word would your be iji th« uioutlis
of tint heathen I

Ivt-t us now consider the Law, and 8Uf»j>o»e yo» called to the
bar. Have your the fortune to suppoi-t your dignity ? — Have
vuu, for this is mor«-. that gentleness of spirit, th.it j)hiIantliropy
of soul, which Would make all luea bi^uthers, whj.;h would j;luck
from the hearts of your fellow-cpeatures, nialicft au/l dissent, the-
fcjil hemlo<"k and nightshoAle that poison the sweet sources of
human love ? Consider the change that has come upon the la\»
anii its guileless professors. There wa^, indeed, a gohleu time,
when you might have ara;issed a fortune by playing bo-peep with
Tmth ; by abusing, reviling her ; by sliowiug her virgin innooeuc*

4S0 ruNCHS i.ETTrRS TO ins soy

t<J bo «tnim)>et infniny ; W pluckinjj every pinion fW>in her
sky-oleaviijif winp, an>l iimkint; Ikt a wretoh «>f tionliil eartli : hy
cauniiifj 'I'ruth hi'i-s«if to Idiish fur lu-r nakciliieiw. — More, you
might have aucct-SHfully "moved tlie court " to punish her fi>r the
i ' ' \ > ire ; mu\ thii.s Truth, l>y the ptilency of your

I , ^ I have bi-fU haiiik'<l over to the «courj;inp artu of

the itenJic, whiUt Falsehood, your Bucceswful client, flhouUl hr.ve
gone triumphant home, in a oarria;,'«^anil-four, with white
fav.furs. Those poKlnj times are j«.st. Tlu-n, you nii^'ht have
walked the Hall, irowned and wii.'^'vd. with a harlot tuntpie to
let for hin-, carrying any Huit into court, as a porter carries any
load ; th«-n at the Old liailey yi>u niiijht even have nhaken hamla
V iih avowtnl munler in his cell, and tVfsh from the bli_>fMl-.shot
eye, and chaniel hn-ath of homii-idr, have called Heaven, and its
BiitJ'd'*, to iK'ar witn«'itH to tin- puiity of the cut-thmai who had
paiii ytiu so nj.iny gohii-n pioi-cn fwr your i-xordium, your nifta-
phoni, your jwroration ; your Hpattertng of witnei«ei«, your fierce
kno.-kin4 at the .start h-d ln-.irts of half l-'wildentd jurynjcn ;
thnatenini; tlw tremhliii^ twelve with niidni.,'ht visits from the
gho»t of the innocent m-ature in the dock, if the verdict went
for hemp. This you iniijht have done, hut this is j>ast. Now,
Co?i . • '• ■ ) -i with ojH-n diK>r, g'tving advice

gnii ] nl i» in punte 7 And nn'ie ; have

you the neccMsary niilkiness of humanity — for such is the terra
nimplet- it— to play th- ' V'-r lietwe.-n man and

mail, ^'. . ., i Ivice, aliayinjj : . , ; nciling ueigldMMir to
n<-i^hliour, weighing; out justice iu her golden 8<'aleA, and
charijing not one n»M-ave<li for the trouble \ Caa you, as
l>arnstcr, »Tlte over your door — ns may now be seen ia
thoti.Hantis «f places, — " AJcii-i giitn iifjainst goittg to law,

In the oUK-n time, I »li<>uid hav<' aivi-<«ii yon to make an
effort for the bar ; but with the preii«-nt romantic notions — for I
can give them no worthier name— ojierating on the profession,
you can afford it neither in |>x>ket nor in Rpirit, To such an
extent have barristers carried their peace-making quixotisms ^jf
c«»ur»e, considerably ajt<!isted by their worthier brethrt-R, the
atU-meys), that' the judges have nothing to do, AJready the
moth i^ eating up the official ermine !

Will you be a soldier ? Wel^, I will pre.<«nroe you arc a Fieldr
Marshal. A war breaks out : a wicked, unjust war. It may f»e
tliought neoo»s,-iry (gurh a case occurred al>t)ut a centun.' ago,
and may occur ag;iiii,) to out the throats of a few thous.\nds of
Chiixoser A* no other reasou than that thfe Celestial Emperor
bath; with his '° vermilion peuoil," written ac edict agaiu3t thf

THK ADVA>TAGES OF BIDING •' XOTIIING." 421

ew.illowiU'.' uf liritish ojiiuiu. You sire unliTe<l I'm- ll»e Cliiuese
w:iici-8. t«> Mow up, li\inj. hI.iv, sink — in a won!, to ooiniiiit all
tlif be:iuiilul vurii-tii-s of luis.tiief inv^jite.l l.y the (levils U.y-
woinali, M.ulanie JielloiwL Well, witli the Bpiiit tluit iu now
giowiii;; in tlic army — ii !*|iirit that li.is lately ilevelo|>etl itself ;n
bu many liri^lit e.xauipKs— y»'U are i-(..nii»ell«Ml to throw u|) la
" Rublinie (li8<;ust," your Mm-Hhal'ij baton, and, like CiucinnutuH,
retire to li;ittei-»ea to ciiltivate crejw and niustaul ; jilillosu-
jthically inercrring tliose ]iun;,'ent vej,'etable.s t.» laurels stiiined
with the blood of the innocent, defiled with the tears of the
or|>han. Vou may then send your epauhttea to Holy\vell-»treet,
t«» l>e burnt for. tlie gohl — or «'ell your uniform U> be used, on
ni:o*<|Ueiade ni<j;hu, at the Ixwther Arca«le. My dear boy,
militiiry >,dory in not what it ui*ed to be. Once iHjojjle thou;,'ht
it a jewel — a solid ruby. But |ihilo.>iophy has to\iched what
Seemed a gem. and htw proved it to bo oidy congealed blood.

Xo, you bIi.mII be neither liinhop, Chancellor, uor Ucuendibhimo ;
but, luy boy, you i»hall be —

liul that I'll tell \ou in niv nexU

LETTER V.

THE AnVAVTAtJES OF BEING " XOTniXG."

Ts mv last, niv tlear Iwy, I i)romised to advise you on the
choice of a profession. I luisten to redeem that |>romise. Then
I a;»y to Vou,' strive to be neither bishop, chancellor, penendi*»
simo, I'or Court physician ; but, my beloved child, — be Nothing.

Bv not trammelling your mind with the subtleties of divinity
or law — by maintaining a perfect freedom froui the [irejudici-ii of
a military or medical life. — you will be able to take a more
dispassionate view of the worM about you ; will be the more
readv to accommodate yourself to any jirofitable circuuist;ince
that may present itself. Consider how many cuniies who d«ivote
tlieir lives to divinity shiver in a brown-black cwit ; fight a daily
tight with the meanest necessities ; and with wife, and it may l>e
lialf-anlozen children ill-clothed and ilWed at home, are paid
forty iKJUuds a-year to be pattern pieces of holiness and benevo-
lence to all the country round. The clerk, who to his Sundav
duties, unites the profitable tnide of soleing and heeling dila]ii-
dated shoes, is a nabob ; tlie clerk is not curse<l with the brand
i>{ a gentleman ; Le may ply witE wa-x-euJ and awl — may vend

<2« rrNfU'S I.FnTERS TO HIS SOX.

•<«a|j, brN^i-"!!!-!. .Mi'l cnu'lli-s* — run uf oinvii'l:*, IkhI cnqK»U,^-do
any tc-rvtlt: wurk to mnkc ti|i hi* inoniiv : his Scibljath "niiun "
Iwui;,' iu no w»y VMlj,'nri«t-«J l»y tl»« InljoitT <»f the wwk. Hut the
cumto— «lai», iKw*" nuui I — he hn.** U-en t«» collo;,'», luni ia a ;;cntle-
lu:\ii. ThuH, J>y viit«ie uf hi* j?rirtUity, he nuMt I* ooiitcnt with
'"•■-'K-'ry, iK»r noil hin <>rlhiMii*x hui'li* with viiljrir tosk-wuik.
He iiiunt \ms natiiilied wiik cinily bi«Ail in its very litenln«*sa, nor
»! . ' ' ' '♦••r. You are not my own deah

ai iH.

Next for the Uw. I ahotihl hare no ohjection to yoar bein);
call*> to the bar, a^* a h- 'A wit; nn'l jjown

m.iy often pH've a t4»l«'nv. . . ..> . ; ■.. v nuli-wt-tl hfin*Kji>ii.

llii-y ^\v yo«i the nuuiinAl fitAii<liii^ <>f » L't'iuK'niaii, uuiUt whicli
ch.'kractcr you ni.iy niaki* variouit prai-lical aiaxntlationa oo Ute
ii " • •' • ' T. ':'•*■ r ! -. M your huaineHi, y«>u

I.. , . . ; . on the da^-atone« of

l*uni|>-court. CoD^*i(ier, my auu, what a thing is « hricfleiM
l>Arri«t<T ! A rm'kAtrice, tiiat i.aiiuul lay eggs — a *{ti<ler, with-
out au inch of woM

I hare no vote for any horouch or rtMinty ; ami thoti^^h in nir
tiuie I have ^c-i-^wl i - with v-.t.-M whrn in

aiul <>«t of c^' •' ' .-. t...i,i whrthajt" '^ "itiHle

to own the oi ' ^. what will \te yiiur ! -ti gij

into the anny t 1 mi^-ht — with aMu«t«nr«» fmni a few loan

»M ■•■to I"..- :. • ltd

ti- '>r VfUr ,i -v _. -iy

at the HoTM* itnartU, what «onl<l Ih> rour (nte, if unhappily alivf,
at i««vrnty \ Why, utill the i»»ir 'rf '^•I'liim ; anil, if you bavo
mrv*-! '■ • •• in In<li» •> ''•> — of oran - •- ', aixl a pie«'e of liver
no li. ii your (;|i>ry. , in a Um:tiful thin;;

in the l«tti<' of \Vat«Ti*M> at Antley a ; aij<l there, if you Itave
military \ - : - ■ v ■ - ' " ^ -' «■ it.

A« t<>i 1 ■! an honoumhie

manner, to kill l»y aiiploma, — yoo will find the game ao l>eaten
ah'l that 'ti< t«*n * yo»i l*j a jint'vnl once a

twi'h' If, in-iee^i. f : . hy your own >innithori.Hf<l

oputiou, — you can |ii-rHua<ie p«o(>le into fnlent reniclii"* a^^tiuit
di-*';u*«* auil <ic.ith. lii.sAriiui',' tin- •• ;■ hv a l''ame«l name

atLuhoJ to hria«i-|Hil.H or coiourr.i in ■» water, — take vnj

l>i>«sing, anil »tnii^hlw.Hy — havin;: entei-e«l into a ulecping
p.irta«-rnliip with a cunfi<U-nti:il ninUTtnker — found a Collfge of
Health. There is no auch golden w:ilk Ut fortune as through
the bowels oJ tlic cnfduloiw ; and when stick, all ni«u ;irc cre<ia-
lous. Pain is a gn-at le%*eller, alike hurling down scepticiam,
pbiluttophy, an 1 mere pruvaic commuu-setiae. The mau, who

THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING "NOTHING" 423

WftiFP hi* fneinlH will Biieernt a vauiite<l specific, will sueak out
l>v ltiiijH«'lf Ui Hfi-k till- tjuack vt'inlnr of tlie tlcspistd anotlyue :
ill (lie Minif way, that tine ladicH who pn)fe88 to laii<;h at nstio-
1 \. will <liHt/niH«< theiiiHelvrN iu ohl Hhnwis aixi bonnet.^ an<l
\''iure u|» <lirty lains aixi into f<nil j;arri'tM, to consult W-d-
ri<)(len f.irtufle-telleni on th«' whfivabout and when-cominp of
till ir futurv liUHltaniln. If vuu have any feelinj; for molioiiie,
aiiil have face &ji<l nerve U> cry '* (jua<'k " lustily — away with
you into the niarket-|ilace, anlist«T
I.:, the Btreuk'th of a diploma, the Uiy who carriesi out your nie«li-
• .1 • hhall Ih) happier than hut niaater, and — wIkt. he g«*tM hiii
w.i„'i"8 — bctU-r jjajil

A;:rr'ii, tlieii. I ii.\y it, I: ' Nothiui; ! I>Kjk at tlie

flourishiuf; cxaiii|'le« <>f N _ i you I Ouwider the nn-u

in thin vast luetroixtlia whotie faces ahiue >»ith the very niarrow
of tlie land, ami all for doinj; aiid l»ei; inu' I Then, what

eam — what unconix«rn — what |>erf<x't ....... . in the jiroff>*«ion I

NN hy, dull-liraiuwl, horu-handi-d labour, swi-atu and gn>wi» thin,
and dies worn out, whiUt Nitiiiu); gft» a redder tin^^e u)Min
' k, a thicker vkatlle to itj* chin, nn<l a lar^i-r r ^ .if

II. There arc huiidn-^l« of the ^'oo<lly pi of

Nothing who have walke<l u|»on Uiree-|iiUnl velvet from their
liurai-a" anus Ui the j;r..vc : men who in the ni<«f«t triumphant
manner vindicate liie ingenuity of the human mind ; for enjoy-
ing and ifc>j«»j«ing every creature couifort of exittence, not even
a c>iiiiur<>r, nay, sometime* uot even a police magistrate, cau
viisi-<>\cr how they get it,

C'wiisidi r man .-ls Nothing, and what a glorious spectacle ! A
man following an allowetl, a kn<iwu profeautiou, is a vulgar object,
let his iii-c.>min<js l>e ever n" great : we know liin whole myrttery
— \\c cAU tell wluncc flows his tide of wt-allh. 'J'he ThanieM i» a
gorgeous river, but knowing its imme, we talk little of its mag-
nifi •••nee. Tis otherwiae with the Niger. The man who with
n< •tiling, ha-s all thing.s, i;i to u» a sort of Friar liacon. We
approach him with a feeling deeper than re8i)ect. He is the
Cornelius Agrijij»» of our times. We know not tliat some
familiar spirit ditcs not act his bidding. He may. on the con-
trary, l>e a king's son by a left-handtii niarriap;. He moves in
a cloud of mystery — he is away, ajKirt from the common. We
kn.'W that if uth.r men were to cease from their ordinary
ocv.Mipaiioiis, tlie whole train of human wants woulii immediately
8et in up«.n them ; whilst the m.-ui professing Nothing lives,
mdejien-ient, UilooeJ, fmrn all the aiin<iy:inces of life. Oh, my
•on ! I ymnt the secret mav be difficult to conijiass ; but st'jdy

424 PUNCH'S LETTEIW TO UIS SON.

for It — search it out, thoti^'h your bmin 1 " . ' r ifln

in your »kull like a with«n«l liAXt-l-uut— ■■ . . w

to live with Nothing;, aiul you tuAjr «nap yuur fingvm at all
tiiort.-vl ':t. NiXhiiig, when a kuccmaful Nulluug, ijt the

nahob i„; ■-.. .vurlii !

Vou will, in Tour progrew thn>uKh life, b« odletl u{Mjn to
womler at the di«c«»Teric« of (falile<>, who •wore that the World
lnoYe<l rouixl the lun — aiivl thfii. or I • ^' al the >u:i

hiovihI roun<l the worhl ; you will ht-ar .. of Il> ' ■

•nil Shakji|)vrt*, who »ha|iv<l out worhia ufion |i>iif>cr, »di1 I
men aii<l w..iii<j> ^» ' f ink: f • . >■ ,

the duioovirry v\ ti n of th-

the like sort, tleniaii(liit{( your admiration, rour !
what they will rati the triuntph of !

lire! What nhouKl you t-arv how th. ^ ... .., ..„, t ^.. r
it moTe at all, ao yuu move wril in it 1 A« for llouicr :... 1
Shaka)>rrv, the first was a Itrf^j^r, and fur the »co«>n<l — f»r the
:aa^l(-iaI^ who . !e will cant t<. ' 1 ■■ -

o>ni|ianr for i it of nuin in .

throu(;h thin briar)' world — luui ItcriueathctI acvnea of immortal
hivelineju* for the '

truth for the ltj> .: ^. . c

n-noratwl with every • . -he. tl factor to the worl>l,

ciHild not atviire a comtortahle n>o( frxiro tin* afTrcttooa ntid
. ■ ■ ' ■' Turn, for tlie female drsci-ndant of hin i«-*h. *1 >
: .1 the World, almi«t an out<-aiit ami a |Mii|» r .'
Haw, the man who can live a k>n^ aitd jovial life apun Notiiin;^,
] ■ .-n O'V ruiujo Mtraji " > the wh« • ' ." • .

I ,. ah U,> hij» heim. A : and acieii -.. i jf

fairy-land, and the cin.*ulation of thv bhxMl, — be it yoor caro to
make nothin>; your Ariel ; and for your bloaxl, he^-d not how it
pa.<w«v throu;^'h your heart, ao that an it tlow, it Ijc enriched with
the bh^'hto^t and ntn-nt^thene*! with the iieitt.

He a auccewU'ul Notliuig, my too, and b« blcaaed I

INTRODUCTION TO " HKRMETK'AL" PHILOSOPHY. 4J»

LETTER VT.

ITMCII ISTROniCBB IIIH «k>N TO " HKkllETlCAL " rniLOSoniT.

What I my <Jenr J»oy, my l.v*t loiter lins thrxtwii y<Mi iiilo a fit
of iiifbiii.'lioly ? You liM.k li on tlie proHpfctd

of liuinaii ViU; aii<l%»oulil : . .. iiiiitij,'c. tht-rc to

iKtiulcr un the luvMterieM of iiocuil huiul>iig^-i>f life luid death ;
tK«» t<>il»( ami th«' tritlt-n of maiik.ii<l ? ThU n'«<>luti«>n on your
juirt rt'fiiiit.itMl im* tliat I wjlh ihr *' ;^ ■ t«- ini^M-ssor of u fcw
fia>;uirntar>- th>>ii(;|iU on tho vnnl y..ii wimM contoni-

j'lale — of thouelitjt U.m in Bolitu<l« »»f a nittKiw bi-ain that h.ui
loMs; iiiiuf miii-.'li'd willi tin- »arlh T.ik.- t' • lulcr on thitn

— jiml fwr iho )iix>iM,*iit l>c cv>utcul to ku'-w I:. ., . -

** KKAtiMKNTH 0!« Ill'MHCU, StUJTCDK. LiFK, I)KATU. AND

Srxr- K.NowLKiKjK, Br tiik liKiiuir or Lonev-hatcu."

1 liavt* thoii<;ht it wiHt> and |ilen«nnt in my miHtudc, having no
rt-ady-monoy market for my tinip, to i)«>vut« my hourn on l.unil
to tlio intflliotual %^ '" mi\ ftlli.w-iii.<n. T! ' '^ '••<1

I'V the l>eatitv uf nn , may haplv f.i-l a „ i ;v,

may veam to know the condition of the aa-'e who tM.fkit to
l!i^.•..un^o u|x>n the m<wt \MtaI, th* most j>r«'fonn<l, the most
uiy.-,t«rioiin ]irinci|ile of human »«>ciity, — for such '\» huml)U<^.
It in the cement of the Hocial fa)>ri<*. It iit the <'olden cord tvin;'
to^'etlier, and making atrong, the sticks and twi^it of the worM.
It is the dulcet Ik'II.wIiosc ntvishin^' aoinid calls the givat faiuily
C'f man to eat, drink, and Ik? imrry I Haj'I'-ss an- tlu-y, wIkwu
leathern ears list not the nuwic ; for if they feed at all, at U-st ihev
feeil on <lmtr, and are to the n-vellei-s even as swine are to bi|K'.Is.
I/et not the reader seek to know more of me than, with a iiio»t
white ct^uscieiice, I am i>ermitted to t«dl him. The great ev.-nta

. of my life are not my own. I 8j>eak without any oi-acular
quihMe ; I me:ui thus ami no other. The great accidents of my

' mortal travail have l^»en sohl ; yea, bartcretl by me for bo n»any
Mint mt-«lals, and a stamp receipt given for the jxiyment. Thus
it was. In a inoment of pecuni.iry imjiatieuce. I olFcred a choice
of tlie events of my life to a i^entleman in want of materials for
a jMjpular novel AViih a frankness that has been of singidar
loss to me throULjliout my existence, I ojK-ned the goods unre-
servedly before hiin. As market-wives s.iy, I let him have the
pick and choose of the lot ; kept nothing buck for a secoud

4i6 TLNiHS I.KTTKIl-S TO HIS SoK.

I' • 2- ^V"*!!, the buyer kft mc » .llioiii » lit nt in

ti u Kv -• - ■ - _. ; .. fp.ni • l

h ti» the f t ■■f vii. k-

tion, vail lw>ii{;>it, ni<t I cnDfrM M much, hi<or«itlr |«id f»r by Ui«
It ' •;'••• ti in huhi»n

I'l . . I'V « iitaiit|>,

fur »tn*rw\mf^ ntimiaU hiw** their • 'pinions, — th« iiK-i'lrntAl pn>-
l-rty of my I • fo thr ] r. 1 l«iTr •

»»••«: my u. ^•,.,..\... -r. ...i .t i

ii<*tnirtr«i the warM. th r.

'n«<i«i;:h I hikvp retiiRiiietl, ami niuot n*mtuii nnknown, mj •)■

tl •■ ' . ' ' ' ' •' nmtHU l.ik«

ll I w of lovely

(■■••ntM, mx III* ruM foumi it* way amnm; the riehe«i, ami by
c- ■ I, ihe livrr. lh«

be ^ : . . y. . . ',. -"- ».iiiil Mi.l f<-<l i.r>

iTBti Btit ihia !• • •'

I tJkvn thru, t»f my I •■ of tin- rr.>.i. r,

rot IhJil t-.i .« it, the j>i«ir i.i ■■ • •'••• '--.r • II

LAjmtnl »>■•««. TVi^ '■••1^' my »m I ,'.

]!• the |m-«<iit \' My birth an<l |«trrttlii(^ I hare anhl,

"'■■''' , ^ , '•■'■'■y,

It.'Mich Dot a«oU eifMi^'h t<> —tutrtn m hulnUy diah. oiar ffxrt an
«n ••» a r.-i " "f " ^ ■-»

ft: . a .- !i tke . . .., . .. A .. . i

fiT her |Mi<l<litig «* rii«i«r»l, mav arrrs fur the •Irtwl lielly of ar
«uibdntr<l Plato. In I'hy iiarif munt t>r iipiced

ai ' •• ' ' - -n out. U'*' ■ ' «•

ll ^ Uxt nhall •

tlw iixwt arref>(aN« bnly uf |>hih«i>phy, which reUiiia the lr«Mt
bint • • " ■«.

I i... A .. i wV«f VoaineM women hare with gnoa»-quiIU,
U-voDil that of I them fr»in the bird of m arhirf that

tlir aiiiin.tl may l-N'.-me th*- Iwtter o>i f"r aj;

•p. t ., _ ,^, ... jj,^., ^f (j,^ W'lH'i hit'-, II- ■»«'%«'r, • i

<.t . , my nuti<i<ii aunt, Abfhai; .I<»«itr«i, ex .11

never ao happy an wln-n he _ ^ |ien U : , la

of Aunt Abi>>lia^. We trrvw up, it may be Hud. with an io-
■t'uictive iTviTcno", an ii - a«lmir:ili«»n, of ■ jj

of Aunt Ji>nf*. N<>w, I ;. it U an acknow.. .^ . j ,..e

cf hiiiiian arti.iii, th.it mh.it we ^n^-'^tly admir*', we <.ft«n •'•'•k to
iuiitatv. At all crvuta, it hai>|«ucd au to lue. With uottnDK

INTROMLllUN TO ' IIERMKTICAL" rHir^550PnY. 427

I UU.ur»d to eniiihtttf tin' (1<>wii>g livlicary of Aunt
It |>c'ii : ainl at leu|;Ui AurweUoJ ut iturh « iiicfty, tliiil •
An, ft {MTfavl •(^iD^'l•r, liiiii>lcd uvci lu lua nfty imxiihIh a«
a rrwanl fur luy x«*Aluiui iii|;viiiiity.

' urtio Biiiiiinlii. I biaUc no fl<>iiri4i of this
.1 aliutMit foAr tli&t otlivru, it iiiny hv in the
dark, hnre •lunililrd on tbr hidtien truth. My Aunt A)>iH)tHg
>v ^ h"Wi-%'er, a liviu^ Ui<i nn-wt iin-i ^-iiir illu»tr.ition of the
f.i r ; f.-r U wju to be n-anuaal'^ -• ■ ■ - i tli.it she wouKl h;»v©
f< ir :i riutti-r of |M-i«le at thr »;. iiiuii of litr n»i»hvvv ;

tlint she wcMid have roiwiderMl hui tl<*lical« imitation of her
r-xli/mphie pi.'' * ' .niA;;^ to h- ; ' ' w-

iif lit. It i» >» . ^. iJi<. prei ^ i.ef

•«•«, »\\r lipmni«< aa capriciouirfr olwtivjwniiui, that, rvit|ifctji);{

•-I the w.irlil and uli

I'.

• %v aiii.

h the ■mall-tAlk of

rv.

of the whor**-

' VVliat m that F " axkii the rea.irr
With a l»r>\ity, «!jii-h I h«>|« «ri
my f«tur»- l:l<-. I w.ll end* .-• - ■

-My Aoiit Abinha^ puni.

n'- 'Ml of her iti^enioua ucphev to her p»-ri«»ual exertionn. Hence,

■ •»f tin- ' ' ■ ■■ priwt, iUi«* caiu».-«i

, I* t>| .. ., I, and ;iJt a luo^t

I I liin^ |4^Mjf i>f Iter n p^nl for uie. olTvn**! tlie |irincvly muiu of
t \ : |- ii.d* to vblnwn vrr »hi>uld »uat<-Ii nie from the wily
t. !..) ;.i ..iuk "f lil'< rt>, and '■ ' ■ : <• in «afe kev|king.

I •k.ll u<^>t .-»(;« ni(>t to till- ruiotionn whi<-h stirre<i

t within niy trra»t, and roM u» my thr«at, an I |M-ru»e«l thiM In^t

**" ' ' -cofntN inl. IIn|ijiil», I w : t«'d

» ■ uoe o , :; of uoMirtn's toii^ \>y

a notice, titat, in the aauie gazette, aoniewhat iiT«TertfUtly

ifrttoof Aunt Abisliag. Fi"on» that notict; I

x..^ ,..-. .- „.,.,. -

"A Ilennit uantctl. — To phihiibiphfrH. nii«a«throi»e*, or ger»-
t' iip-u in din'iculiiea, a (tint;uLirly eli^iMe o|>i<nrtunity |>re»cnt8
i'-'lf A : '' i in of • ' ' ' ' viewM is dcnirous of

t e;:V'*''"K' •■' ^'•»' f'"" ' <• yf«rs ui th'- cap.ioiiy

ot honuiL The party eujn^ug ""i" b® re«piir»-<l to conform to
ti •• most ri:;i'l di- lit** lilc. No IriMinian n«*<'d

aji'ly ; and mt tite i. ..-siroun of a-wuring to liimself

evt-ry pn>bal>le guarantee for the due jiei f >ruiance of the contract,
Diarru'^l m«'n ••idy will l« tre:\ted with."

I Uxikt^i frrMii my Aunt AMsliai; to the noMenian of enlarged
MK'ial vifws — i waverv.1 l>ut for n moment lietween my alTectiou,
my duty to uiy aunt, and a new-born, romiuitic dtrsire to let my

428 rO'CH'S LETTKIIS T<J HIS SON'.

I't-nnl ninl n.iiU prow. In hrief, for it is iu the result only that
the reader ia interested, here I niu, Kt this monuMit, in my
hfniiita;;e — a snu'.,', Mrcnther]>ro«'f Ik>x, oi^'litcfn feet l>y ton — with
nn rt.ik t.il>Ie, <>u>' stool, one jil.ittor, om- maple oup, a Ik.'<1 of dried
niRhcii, one blanket, one gown, one hat, une atad Here I am,

on the nipht of this day of , in tlio year of Christiau

hopoK , witli the IkjII of t'oney-liatoh Cltureli jerkin-; tw. Ire.

Here have 1 lu'en thoae twelre niontha ; and if a nciKhlNniring
fountain reflect tndy, then am I nn reveiTud an to »i]H-nd hid caali uj)on. 1 have more than once thotiplit
— an<l atnvnpe t«i aay, there liaa lHH?n a fearful plea«ure in the
«rrant notion — that if in ihiji drear H'.litude I nliould Ik- niado
tlie Kiihject of a |»optd.ir murder, my loekn aiul l>eani workeil iit
bnnx'hea, e&rrinpn, and bracelets, wouM rcaliae aufficient from
tlie romantic and the curioua to endow sundry anxioua {►••i-^omh
with iM-cominp fortitmio for my untimely losis. I hare, however,
as s|iee4iily lianiithed this vanity as unworthy of my new self—
as unworthy of a cell, that, acoonlinp to a very strini;ent a;free-
nient drawn uj» by the attorney of Coney-hatch, is to l»e a shrine
for unseltiith conteujplation ; a retreat, when-in the hij,'he«t
fmwera of intellectual man ar«, by daily exercise, by nijjhtly
i' lie, to clintb the poldtMi cluuo of Deceasitj, and strike

.4 muiiic from every link.

LKTTKi: vir.
THE nERMiTs " pniLosoniT " — coxnsrKD.

IIow pure this atmosphere I IIow sweet, with openinjf lungs
and in-drawn chest, t) take a lonp, deep, bacchanal di-a«i;^'lit of
midnight air, cool from the stars and o<lorous with May ! With
Hot a taint of urKan smoke — with not the fever-heat of corroiing
moi-t.ll life — to infect the soul with maladies of which men daily
die, albeit doctors dream not of the true disea.<»e ! How grand at
this moment to hear, in the ]trofound of nijxht, the heart of the
earth Iteat — beat tow.ardg eternity I To feel a new atTection, .-ls
vre recognise a new life— closer syTnpathies with all that |)re88es
ujxin us I To lose our old habitual eyes, that blink di-eaniily at
common-place ; with true vision to see spirits ascending and
d'^'cending from every blade an<l leaf; and with ears tune»l to
the most secret melody of nature — that like a happy huswife,

THE HEItMirS THILOSOl'HY" CONTINUED. 4:»

lin^n* im «lie toils — list the wurking of that vtitt lubumtuiy com-
(ja^-ti-il in yon ^'iuut uak !

We can <lo more. Drop tlirouj^h tlie earth, ftn<i, with Btrength-
eniiij,' hrartainl hualth-«»l)taiuiui,' l«niiii, look fare to face nt tii-ath,
unit aw a ut'W-1'..miil b«Hiity in his barren lK>nfS. We can soau
liini, talk to him, and see a thousand ourious beauties — odd,
;,'rave blandiMlmu-nts, in tiie abused wi'^dit ; the worthy creature,
wron^'ed in our hall-knowledge, slandered in the malice of our
ij,'noranoe. What fdthy names — when tiie broad siui w:ls shining
u|K.n us, and we were lau<{hin^ in the jjhiryof a new lioubletand
jerkin — liavo we sjcit ujx.n him ! Ifow have wo mauled him,
when we have thou;^ht of his wieki-<l will with cousin lirid„'et — •
a reddij>|K-<l creature with the breath of a heifer ! How did we
rate him for a wi-ntch, a b<ast, a nionnter diuin*j u|>on heart-
strinjrs — an ojjre tlial bloit<-d out tliu U-auty of thcsini — that
put a poison iuto the violet's leaf — that turned all jjracious and
all lovely t)iinp< to hideous, ;;ha.-*tly nuis<|uerade ! — How di<l we
clench our tist, anil stump at Idm, jts, with reeling bniin and
bui-sting heart, we stooii at thy gniVM, O Admeins ! and wished
oursclvea a clo<l of the valley, to mingle with thy iMinea!

Fortune i< called harlot every hour of the day, anil that, too,
by grave gentleim n who only al>uso the wench U-fore conip;uiy
because they have never known her private favours, liad
,'L-i she is, however, let sour-fuoed Seneca and all the other
pliilosophel"s of th« vinegar-cruet ntJilk with pajter lantt-rns
betore her door, they will never bring the romping hoyden into
ill rejiute. No; she will still b«' visited, pnivid to, cajoled,
Mattered ; and when she plays a jilt's trick, will be abu.ied aa
lustilv as ever. Yet, what is this univei-s^il abuse — this polyglot
reviling — for fortuno is damned V)y all colours and in all tongues,
— to the foul, ungrateful, scamlalous, mean-spirited, shabby — aye,
aiitl hy|xn.Titiail, abuse of death !

Oh, no ! do not believe what ia said of death. All folk8
abuse him, and therefuiv, if fur nothing else, out of the very
cliivalry of your nature — shake hands with him. No — not hands ;
tl.at, for a few years at least, is a little too near. But there —
give him the end of your waiking-stick, and let liim shake tliat.
Well done ! Now, look at him. Hath he not been scurvily
limned i The dirty portraitrpaintai-s of the wurld, learning that
tie good fellow had so many enemies, have villanously libelled
Mm, Should you reeogni-^e, in the tine Wnevolence now smiling
upon you — and surely no chamberlain, witli finger on his golden
key, ever looked a visitor a sweeter welcome — should you see, in
:he frank hospitality before you, the sneaking, haggard, noiseless
Ftabber, painted by rv million brushes ? Js Ue ftot all over—

430 IMMHS LKTTKItS Td HIS SOV.

gt^Btlfiiiau : iVlu.I.I liis t:\<^ — hi.H frariu- ! Hath li«> not the
coijiittiiaift' ij( Adonis, with pi-rliaps a Ht>«ucwhnl (iavvnw.-irj
look ? The ouAliiie of aji Apollii t He c.irrie« u tlart. It is na
vuli^ar tin|)U-iii«>ul — no piive of tortwrinj; coM in»n, to pienv and
grope ill human Ix.wtU, but an arrow fr<>iu tlie quiver of Elt-rnal
Day. It has ln-tn uwd m> niiich iu this thiok.-«lew worl«l,that, to
thi- fil«iy eye* of ujfn, it ham kmt its liri;;hlne»« ; but it in not go:
the immortal ray in iin<icr tiie riwt. The nieanetit, the »rui-%'if«t
nbiiHc hiLs U-vn c.'kitt u|><>n ali-HUir«rin;{ tieatli. Not one fair i^ifl
liiui be«n left hiiu. Kveu the Hweetni-Ktt uf kit brt'Uth luu* beea
ttailii<e<l. Now. miolani — nay. p«t n-side your ^ ' ^-Ixitlle,
and f«arlfs^ly ap|'r«>a<li. 'nun-.' I>i-.(th brealli* - i ; U'>t an
»ir fVoiu Klyitiuni i Amarantli, lundatn — antnwuilli !

Wu r^rv content tu tak<- up th* abuHo of the worM tut trathfui
censure — to iM-dicvn in the luird wiyin;,'.-* tlung iu the twlli of
death a« wrll-earD«U reproach. We comhinn liiiu by hean»ay ;
and jotii in the lialloo of an unthiukinj^', i;niorant mob. But invite
<h-ath to a • ' ' "tc : dive.stinjj your.it-lf of vul^^ar prejudtoe, nit
down ia a i « this — for vou are in my hitrniiiage, rimler,

and catiuly and diApaMniunately chat with him, a<id yuu will tind
t' '1 ftllow to liiiTe l>een viihuiously m.ilij.'Ued — Hhani) fuily

.. Yoti wdl, to your own surpriM.-, an<l Bu leats c«jmiit>rt,
dirtcuv«r in death the noblest beuefiK'tur — the staunchest, truest
friend. All tiic n;kU;^hty i! u kave heard of him will awnx

to you as the gojinip of i — tlic malice i>f fouls. Ail

the foul ]>.'\rapli«rii.'Uia — the shroud, Uie win<liu^'-i>lveet — the Vet
))6nv7 clay, the worm njid ajrniptiou at which sirious gentUemea
shake their heads, and t.nlk f -r aa Lour upon, have uo more tu
do with jou than with the hare tliat ui.iv niblile the grass al>ove-
what once was yours : no more t'lUc-k you tlian they t'lach the
n-'l-face*! urchins mnkin<; chains of butt- ' ' •♦« on a

fal.sifying tombstone. Whi-n moraliHin',' \v : _ : ize you

bj the buttoB, and holding up a skull mr old earth-smelling tibia,
to vonr eye, look simight down tlu-ir nos«>H, and l«ll yon that iu
a short time you wili Im; no more than (that tit*-y ihru.41 in your
face, — tell th«nj, with all |-everence, thry lie. What will your
skull, your bonesi, l>e to you, more than your coru tiiat was cut
out ou Thu»s<lay — more than tliat vile double-t»K)th which,
having t»)rtured you (or a fortnight, was, a week .since, luj.'ged
out of your jaw, and U.>fl at the dentist's ? It is the vile litenduesa
of jH'oj.k-'s bi-ains that gives an ujJianilsomeness to tlie dead.
ixiiKS I'f men ; that makes tlieni in the grave .1 p.irt ami [)arcel o£
the sentient thing ; that would make their foulness and dii^grace a
humiliation to the soaring man. You .show me his lurd.sliip's
cast-off court-suit of tiirnished silver ; that it Ls cast ofl^ proves to

THE HEUMirs "PHILOSOPHY" CONTINUED. 431

mo tlint lie lins pnssegst^l liihisrlf r»f a Wtter. Show me the skull
<if adifiil jiliiliiKi'filier — iiay.of ji <lffiin('t pii-kp n-ket ; ooiiiiiHMice a
duiDpish morality on the ternhle change of head nndeiyone by
6niit^ or thief, aivl I shall rejJy to yu — It in excellent that it is
so; ft>r, depeuil upon it, the change is for the better; he has
obtnimHl a much handsomer article.

We lilx'l the s.nDctity of ileath, when we drew? it in artificial
terrors. We prv)fane it, when, a|>|)l\ in»j a nionil ^'alvatiisni to
its lineaments, we make it mope ami mow at the weak and
CP'duhnm.

Tlie trnth is, we have made too much a mystery of the comnion-
pl.it-^'rt of ileath : wv have made si':ireon>ws of skeletons, instead
of looking u|x>n them with a sort of resix^ct — tis w« look upon
the hut, coat, and bretM-ln-s of one we once loVed, — of one who
oncx' wore tlie arlieh-s that w<r»' a neci*R>«iry part of his dress for
this worhl.biit that in fact never made .any portion of that tiling,
th:it esa«n«^*, which we knew as he. You g;iy, that was Lis thi),di-
U.nc : Very well — this was his w:dkin;i(-.stick. lione or cane,
o»H> w.isas unich of him .as the other : he- is alike indeprndent of
lioth. I <leny that he is changed — that his diijnity is in the
remotest deiireo compromised, hecaus.- his human furniture is
n;iiled in a Ixix. ami cnimined in a hole. You might a-s well
j>r.ach up>n the disgnvce of w?ilking-.sticks, because our friend's
bit of «li-!ig>>n's-bl<K>d, after sundry doiDfj-lic revolutions, ha.s bien
cut into a »libl>er. To make a death".— Ke.nl horrible — to j>na< h
from itii pretended loathsomeness a h-sson to the pride of
hr.uKUiity — tt> extract from it terrors to the .spirit of luau, wliibt
yet consorted with flesh and bhtoil, — the churchyard moralist
phouhl jirtive that the skull remains the ghaatly, comfortless
pri.^on of the soul, — th.at, for a certain time, it is ordained its
blank and hiileous dunireon. Then, indeed, would a death's-
head be horrible ; then would it a]>pal a heart of stone ami ribs
of steel. But, g(X><l sexton- preacher, when now you show uje a
skidl, what do I look uj>on ? The empty shell, through which
the bird has risen to the day.

I have learne*! this in my hermitage — learned it, sitting cheek
by itiwl with death, talking over his doings, and deeply contem-
platiuj; the loveliness of his attributes.

4tS rUNCirS LETTKRS TO HIS SON.

T-FTTKrv VIIT.
ooscLvaios or the *• iiKUMKncAL" rniLosornr.

I ii.WK Uarncd aiiothor trick in tliis itolitiiilc. I liav.» learned
to •■• the twin natiiri's with whifli, it in my iH'liif, ever)*

luai . :., an>i to sit in ju<l;;iiient uix^n the viovx, the fillies, the

liigli fi>«rmi;;«, nn<l ^n^vt-lling a|i]>etitcii, that make up the double
tHf. Make a trial of the |>i«)c«*hs, nvuKr. Quit the world lor a
Kviuiuu. Ix)«'k boUlly into youn«elf ; and however high may have
bi-on your notion of the eleaiilinesa of your moral temple, you
will, if you !o«*k with Blea«ly, coura;,'eoua eyes, blnnh and marvel

ot it ! * < •' iioica ni. ' nt. the vile, uimwept nooks

— ti 1 tluir 1 w«l»t. And in thi.t t4'nipie,

to your Kuq)risc. you will bchoM two iNilpitji for two pn*acher8.
Iji the i ■ ■ ' ' ' tli.-n- w.m Imt

one div:.. , , v. ]>hilanthropic

erwiture ; punctual in Ida disoounk'*, exem]>lary in hin diitcipline
—indeed, the Very juitLeni of a ilevout and cheerful man. You
lo<»k, lUid behold, therv i» another preacher, a fellow with no
nK>re reverence in him than in a Malay amuck ; a |K-ttifogging,
nt«an-spirite4l, allieit quiek-uitte<l, ithuffling scuundrel, whoite
Toicv, tcM>, in the th • v<>\ prf^jt of the world hxs ap|)eared to
you no like the v- i Uie go«Ml, grave gentleman whom you

deome«l alone in hia vocation, that you have a thoiuand times,
witli-ut Ptle.tiou, fullowe<l his !■ • . • • ,^

liu« Ln hestt.H, .'uid only now, when _• . . , . lor

oouiiideratii>Q, only now perceive the impostun. — recognise the
oountei r« it.

" Wluit : " you exclaim, " and waa it he who prompted me
with that bitter answer to poor inoffeiusive Palemon ?" *' Waii
it he who hade me button up my jxicket and growl — ' No,' to
such a jMititioner on auoh a day ?" " Was it he who whispered
me to crinffl the nad, and cut to the heart the ruine<l. nhaliby-
coikted l>ankon t " An«l stilt further considering the matter, you
remember that the interiojK.'r monitor, the fellow whot^e very
existence you never susj^-cted, lias had nearly all the talk to
bimst.lf; the grave gentleman, whose voice has been so well
iniit-iled, and whom you thought your pastor and your mast»'r,
having l>een silenced, out-talkeil, by the chattering of an uusus-
jM-etetl opjx)nent. I say it, you are twiu-84tuled. Step into my
hermitage. Submit to wholesome dijscipliue of thought, and, be

CONCLUFilOX OF " nr.nMF.TKWir rHILOSOPHT. 43»

assured of it, vou will, in d«e Feason, be ali'o to divorce self fix)ra
Helf ; to arraipii your ftilK-n moiety at the bar of conscieiuv ;
t<( brii)<4 a<:;ain!<t it a tlnmsaud score of crimes, a thousand
peccadillot'H, all ti>e doing* of the Bcurvy rascal you bear
within you, and whose tuisdeeiis are for the first time made
known to ymi.

Well, the Court is op«n.

Who, — you cry, — is that lHM?tle-lirowed, shufllinp, cock-eved
knave at the bar ? Is he a ]K)acii«-r, a snintri^Ier, a sulxmier of
false testimoiiy, a 8win«Her, a thief?

G*ntly, peutly, sir : that unfortunati- i-n-.-itup- is vour twin-
soul. It waj* lie who in the ras<- <.f Mr. .Suchathin'' advised
you t/i —

Ciod bless me I I ronieml>er — don t 8|)oak of it — shocking !
— I'm vi-ry mMty.

And it wa.s he who, when p<xtr widow S<iandso—

There, hoM your tonpue ! I rei-olkn-t all about it. How have
I been deci'iv«-d by that Hcoundnd ! Hut thi*n, how could I ever
liuve Ix'lieved that I carried such a rascal alx^ut me ?

For ray own ]>ait. 1 am firm in tl»e faitli that I should never
have disoovcnd my own twin varht had I not shut the door
upon the world aiid taken a pood inside stare at myself. No ;
my hair would have prown irrey and my nose wine-coloured — for
it hath a jturpureal weakness, — .and as a distinguishe«l statesman,
whose name I forget, once paid, I might have j)atted the back of
my naui,'hty twin soul, deeming him a remarkably fine sampie of
the article ; and so gone on, working for a li.andsome epitaph,
and dying with a Christian-like assurance that I had earned the
same. I might have liveil and died thus self-deluded, but for
this retreat so happily oj>ened to me by the illustrious nobleman
aforesaid.

" A irort of th is nature is not to be performed upon one leg ; and
should smell of oil, if ditltf and deserredhf handled^

Such is the solemn avowal of a fantastically grave philosopher,
on the completion of his opus marfnum ; but surely that vaunt
hath a more fitting abiding-place in the present page. My
subject, too, like that of my brother philosopher, from its innate
dignity, its comprehensive usefulness, might employ the goose-
quills of a whole college. It were easy to tell otf at least five
hundred men — many of them having the ears of kings, and what
is more, the purse-strings of nations at their command — all ot
them, by nature and practice, ailmirably fitted for the work.
From th»ir verv succcRses, the world has a claim upon them for

VOL. L F P

434 ri-NlKS LKTTF.US TO HIS SOX.

the encyclopipilic lalvur. However, nnttl the time arrire
when the«e men, tourhtnl by a iwniw of their inpratituile, shall
1- '..'lir the \v ' t iho pn-fwnt little lH)ok rrc»'ive the welrtinie

.i'l" to ^'rw>l iiH, I am coiu«'nt, inllie whirl an"l muLittion

of all mumlane thinpt, to l>e tnini|te<l )>y a niiniiiter, a o:iniinal,
up'' r, a C' -"t, l>y any < 'Me

huu:; . : i\\v»f. '> .. -. - . .ive grown - Uy

in(,'cnuou« to reiqviud to the crying waota of tli«ir fellow-
cn-aturen, ami shall pnMifh Hnnil'U^ i';» ertejim), I nludl sleep
(]iii<-tly hcnenth the marble monunu-nt which the i;i-ntituilu of my
<• iiiitry will erect to my memory, nlthou^'h thii« little volume,
8U|ienio«ie<i by the larger work, ahall be called in like an o!<i
coin ' '-':!.• the claa.H-bo4ik of the yount», the

utatl I the solacing chroniolo uf the

old.

li' ' work may lx\ it wonM. 1 foci, have l»oen

it'll . .;.:• at all upon Humbui; umul the ilelicious

>na of a city. Is it ajtked. — wherefon- ? .Alas! the

wntor would h.ive Iwen ' by the quantity of hia

T- ■ ' ' < 1... I. ...... J. ,..i..., lid solitude — waaneceiwary

t <ry of this lKX)k. I ha%'e eu'lea-

vuureil to aliow that the true aolemnitic*, tlic real swoi-tneaBee of
death— •• ' .' ' -we

^»nlk ai J _ v.iy

than the fimt mouso-trnp, — are only to Im> approached and
t r utt>*r nakc<lne«M when snfe from tlte elbows

ii..., ; the worlil. Now, if life be a m_v»t«rY,

If iiiubiii.' ''•* -tt once t(ifl art and heart of life. A man may, indeed,
get a Hii ■ of moral ; hy in a garret within ear-shot

of the i. IIH i>iurt4'Hic« <<l ii.i' Miey -coach men ; but liumbug,
tiiou^h .xlit' often ride in a c<>a(-h of her own through tii«
highways of Uie city, like a tine lady, sutfem her pulae to be felt
o: !y ill '* -i the philosopher's Egeria, and to be

\v..o..i i: ■<ecr»'t.

Think you, reader, there is no other reason for the sundry
pn>r - of Parliament, than that the exwUent men («electe<l

only . . i... .r wi-ndoni and their virtue from their lees wiae and
U'a* virtuous fellows.) having generously presented so many
p<^unds to the state^ their 8er\'ice8 are for a time no longer
requinnl ? Such is not the profound intent of prorogation. Ita
iH'iievolent pur]X)ee ia to send every senator into healthful
solitude, that he may fortify himself with a frequent contem-
plation of his pa.><t votes ; that he may call up and question his
twin Soul, and rejoice hiaiself to know that the Dromioe within
hiui have given their voices in accordance — that one of the

THE UNALLOYED GUINEAS. 435

■neakiiig geinini, out of the liaxt-ncss of expected gnius, haa
not cried " Ay," wheu ita uubler fellow stoutly intended
" No ! "

OOKCLCblOX OF TUK " UEaMIx's" FRAliMKhTS.

LETTER IX.

ON TIIK "BRACTT" IAD "LlXt'RT" OF TRCTU. — THE DXAUX>TF.D

OllSKAa

S< I, mv dew chilli, you lifive had i-uoujjh of phil.'Sujihy — havo
rend enough of the HjMH.uIrttJoij8 of the Hi-nnit of C'ouey-hatoh,
to feel that your yearnings for Holitary conteniiilation were but a
pnAsing weiikne88 ; to know, that it is in the huHtling world
alKjut you, true wimlom findu it."* U-st, ita nuwt enduring rt;ward ?
Parchment, my dear child, thouj^h writ and illuminat<-<l with all
the glorieu of tlie hum.'U) brain, '\» a perishable commotlity : now^
gold in li.'irs will hist till the w..rld crack.

I now cyinie to the principal subject of your last letter, — " the
beauty of Truth."

My dear l>oy, truth is, no doubt, a very beautiful object ; so
are di!unond«, jH«arls, rubies, ememlds ; but, like those sjiarklin;^', '
precious thinj^'s, it is by no means necessary to your condition of
life ; — an<l if sported at all, is oiUy to be enjoyed by way of
luxury. Beware, lest a vain conceit should ruin you. Tin*
uobleman, the m;ai of independence, may sj)eak truth, as be may
wear a brilliant in his breast, worth a hundred guineas. Now,
as you must be content with at best a bit of Bristol-stone, with
a small imitation of the lustrous reality, so, in like way, can you
not afford to utter the true sparkling commodity at all times.
Do not supjxiee, however, that I would have you never speak the
truth. Pray, do not mistuiderstand me. You may, as a man of
the world, and a trader who would ttim the prudent penny, —
you may alwa}-8 speak the truth when it can be in no way to
your advantage not to utt«r it.

At the same time, my beloved boy, take heed that you obtain
not the evil reputation of a liar. " What ! " — I think I hear you
exclaim, — "your ad^^ce. papa, involves a contradiction." By no
means. What I v^ish to impress ujwn you, is the necessity of so
uttering your verbal coinage, that to the superficial eye and

F F 2

484 PUNCH'S LETTEHS To HIS SON.

careless car, it mux liave all the appearance, all the ring of th«
tnic article. Herein coufliMtii the great wiatlora of life. The
thoiLHiimlfl who hnvf grown rich hy it.s application to all their
worldly concerns are incalonlable. 'ITie world, as at preMrUt
const ittite<l, could not go on without lying. And, I am convincctL
it is ordy the full conviction of this fact that enables so niuny
y ...i... ,.v-.ii,.[,t jR'oplo to club their little nioilicum of daily
:ier, for the benevolent pur|>oHu of keej/mg the
worlci u]>on it<t axis.

F<>r a moment, considi-r the effect produced in I/'mlon ajnne,
if fp»m t<>-ni'>rrt»w morning, for <<ne month only, every man,
woman, and child were to sjieak the troth, the whole truth, and
I ;; btit the truth. You have read of t " d, of cities

.V. .. .. ■>{ th« unbridled fur>' of a sanguii... ry ; but all

this would be as s|)ort to the horrors of this our most civiliseil
iiietro)>oli». Ciracious Plutu^ I 'lliink of the Iwiiikruptcics !
luia;;ine the c> ■ •" iis of htate«u»en ! Consider the internal
rt-vel:itloU.s of ( . u ! Oidy reflect u{>on the thuusauils and

thousands of — at pre»ient — mu«t res|>ectable, exemplary people,
< . I .1 ! 'iw.'iysai. ' ! ' * :lace«,nKi' i "clean

I , — each I ..lights II ^ ir with

the confession of hia Bociskl iniquity, of his daily hy]>ocnsy, of bis
ra-Hcnl vice that he now feeds and cockers like a pet snake in
private ! If all men were thus to turn themselves inside out,
the majority of blacks would, I fear, be most alarming. We
might have Hottentot ch&ncell^ra, and even Ethiopian biidiope !

A wise German, named Goethe, has olwerved — "There is
Something in every man, which, if known to his fellow, would
make him hate him." How, then, could the world go on with
this recipnH\il jvt.«v>*ion of hatred IP'" ' n, con-

scious of this fact, have therefore leavt: ilutiun

with a necessary* and must wholesome amount of falsehood.
Hence, too, wo have what are caileil legal tictiona. HencC;
Ju.sticc, the daughter of Truth, deKiuched by I-'iw, gives, with a
8<.'lemu smirk, short weight to the jK*or, and a lumping {>eu'orth
to the rich.

What are the fees paid to hungry, hundred-handed office, but
offerings exacted by falsehood ? What is tlie costlintjjs of Justice,
but the wilful extravjigance of lying — the practical mendacity ol
life ? Truth, by a jMinidoxical tiction, i.s painted naked ; and
Justice is robed in plain, unspotted white. Why, the old
harridan must have as many gew-gaws — a.s many big-beaded
necklaces — brooches — pins — chains, and armlets, as the wife of a
Jew bailiff. These things she must have, or what does she with
the presents made to ]u:r — the fees exacted ?

THE UN ALLOY KD GUINEAS. 4S<

I tell yoti again and again, ail truth will not do in this
world. I will give you a short story, in illustration of th»
reality of this.

How, or by what accident, thoy escajK'd from the Mint, was
never known, l.ut certain it is, that one hundred j^'uineaa of pure
gold, without the leai«t alloy, were once u|)on a time issued to th<»
M'orld. Old < Irerrory Muckly, hy cIluicc, ohtained half-a-dozen
pieces of this coin, which, together witli a few otlier jiieces, were
caivfully hoardetl in a worsted stocking : and when Gregory was
•uifcly dcjK.sito<l in chnri-hyanl clay, they became the rightful
prfjiei-ty of his sou H«»vige.

Hodge was a simple, honest creature ; caring nothing for the
p<jnips of the world ;

" Tin- nuni of mil hid ranitv, to drcW

Willi wiif liri^iii IkU »<>n»e fiiv'riic hfifi-r'* nerk."

Business, however, br^u-jht him to I»iidon. W«ll, before he
rclnruttl to tJaninion K;inn, he wouM jtuichjise a I^ndon pr>--seiit
— a bran new scarlet shawl for 8i8t4.T Suke. 'IVo guineas did
Hodj^e, with fmUTiial Relf-comi>!acency, set apart for this gift.
Caught by tlie ti-uthful assunaicc exhibiteiltu a niercer'.s window
tliat the stock was "selling otf under prime cost," Hodge thought
he w:is sure of at least a three-guinea shawl for two. Hereupon,
lie enten^l the shop ; rolled his eyes from side to side, seeking
the radi;uit present fur sister Suke.

" Have you a nice, bran new scarlet shawl for two guineas 1 "
askt-'l Hodge.

"Sir," replied the shopkeeper, "you come at a lucky mo-
ment : we liave the mo.>;t ilelicious article — the most wonderful
scarlet. To anylxKly else, sir, it would l>e three guineas auJ
a h:df ; but as you have freijuently been a customer to
us "

" Nav, nay," cried Hotlge, " I was never here before."

" I beg your pjirdon, sir ; humbly l>eg your pardon — another
gentleman like you," said the tradesman.

" I'm no gentleman, neither," said Hodge ; "and all I want is,
you to show me tlie shawl."

"There, sir," said the mercer, throwing the shawl upon the
counter ; " there's a scarlet."

•' Ha ! ha ! so it be — like a poppy," chuckled Hodge.

" A poppy, sir, — a poppy's brickuust to it," said tlie
tradesman.

" Xay, nay, not so," cried Hodge j "and I think I've seen more
poppies than thee."

4yi Pl'NCHS I.F.TTKKS TO HIS SON.

" Ha ! ha ! no doubt, sir — very true. Weil, I assure yea, to
«nyV>c«ly else tlua article would b« tlirce guiut-aa ami a half ; but
to you, we'll say two,"

"lIuTo they bo," Miit) IToilpe ; ami he kid donTi the two
uufiUi'Vcd puin-nn on the counUr.

Aa th(* tntilfsni.iii took up the oin, a shadow fell u]v>n hia
face ; and turning to hiit shopiuan, he whirt|MTLMl, " Run for a
conHtnblo." Thfii a<idteiMiiiig hiniH<.lf to Htnige, he said — " Walk
UiiM wny, if you |>1<-.i.H4v"

In two nitnutfi* Ilixigo \va-* in the nierrer's l)ark parlour ; in
five, in the custody of a constable ; ami in ten more, amiijfned
Iwfori- a m.ijjiHtratf, Ix-ing charged with an att«>nipt to juum olT
Iwid niou'-v.

•' I,<H>k at the thinp^ your worship ; look at their colour — fevl
Vn« — they'll U'ud like jn-wter ; and to att<-nipt to paH» »uih
|»<x'ket-pitOf« u|M>n an honott trndcMman, — really!" nni the
inen*er waa buntling with indign.-ition.

H.xijjr'M defence wa/f not liiitrnefi to, and he wji« Rent to gaol
for two days, until a pro|>or othoer from the Mint coiild be in
atteiidanev to pronounce jud^nu-nt i>n the Huiiy>e<*ted guineas.

** Iwieed, thia is curious," said Mr. Ttwtem, the Mint func-
tionikry ; "but I dou't wonder at your suHpicimis ; the fact
JH, these guiii<'%.<< are too good'' Mr. TeHt«m theu narrated
that a hundre«l pieces of coin, of pure, uiuilU>yed gold, had
lH*en accidentally issued, and that Ilulge's two guineas were
of tlieiu.

My sou — be who in this world n-solves to speak only the
truth, will s|)e:ik only what is toe gooti for the nuias of mankind
to undentAUil, and, like Hodge, will be perKcuted accordingly.

LETTER X.

EVKRT M.VX ms OWN APPRAISER, — LEfiEXD OF THE RtGRT LEO.

Your last letter, my dear sod, annoye<I, oppressed me. What !
>ou w i.sh you had Wen lK)rn an Es'{uini.'iux, a C'hip|>ewaw, a
Hottentot, nuher ih.iu a member of the nio.st civili.s^d, most
generous nation (as every people modestly say of tbemselvesi on
the face of the eailh. Uujn^teful b<ty I is this the return you
make me for the verj' bnuiLsome present of your existence, — is
this your gratitude fur being cidled out of uotLLug to become aa
fcutiiig, drinkiug, tax-{>aviug aulmal ?

LKtJEXD OF THE RIGHT LEG. 439

I t.-^jv-ndeiioy, my cliild, is the slow suieido of llie luitxl.
lii-aven knows what I have «ulVered at the liamis of the worM !
— how, witli my heart liK'cding into my very slioes, I have still
ciiii|»'il aii'I rrowfil ro'- n't, dcnpisinp while I lauphed with

uixl challfrtd to the i :.. _' nujcals, niggard of their penct,-,
wlio still thronged and gajn-d about me.

" Alai! 'tii true. I hare jronc here and there,
And made my!«elf a m<>Tl<)' to the view,
Goritl tiiiiir own thoufflitii, »<>ld cheap what U moat de&r,
Made uld oironce* of alVvctiona new."

Neverthele«.«, if now and then niy lieart has l»ecn a little slack,
I have hriciMl it up ag.iiii with my dnun. and looking xipon life
at the ho«t as conipoSf«l of just «o many pKasunihle seiu<ation.s, I
have enjoyed myself aa often as I could, which I have thought
the \-«>ry wisiMjt way <>f nhowing my gratitude for my existence.
When I coidd not ol>tain large )>1<'- ■ -. 1 put to^'ctherafl many
nuiall one« as ]>ohkiIiK-. Small j -, do|H.'ud U|>ou it, lie

JilMiut as thick aa daisies ; and for that very reaaon are neglected,
tnt.Idt'U uii'lcr font, jnstoad of InMng worn in our button-holes.
\Vi» cannot afford to buy moss-roses at (.'hristmas, or camellias at
/ any time : and «o, all the year round we couple buttercups with
vulgarity ; and the lovely, odorous things that grow in the hedge-
t.i<le, we let wither where they grow, fur no other reason than
that the king's highway is not a royal ganlen.

At the same time, my ilear boy, I would not have you copy the
oontiutmcnt of your father. Contentment is very well in a
pistoral ; and 1 have seen something which called itself Content-
ment, sitting smugly at a small-coal fire, enjoying its crust and
b.ilt"-a-pint of be.-r in a tin mug on the hob,— only bec;uise it
w.iuM not stir itself to get the jRirt and olives, that with very
little exertion were within its reach. Though I know this to be
ji.isill.inimity, and not contentment, nevertheless, my dear chikl,
1 i-.mnot altogether acquit myself of it. Be wameil by y<>ur sire.
I n»i'4ht, with my genius, have trxKl the boards of a ]ilay-house, —
liave had my name upon the walls, in type that blacking-makers
>i»<mM liaveenvie"! ; I might have danoed quadrilles in Cavendish-
squi'.re on my otf-nights, and been trundled altout the town in
my own air-cushioned carriage ; fur I have all the qualifications
iii the highest degree which lead to such a golden result. — Of
this I am assureil by their success as poorly ami extravagantly
copied by another : but no. I was doomed to be a street vagabond,
and came into the world with a base taste for mud in my infant
ni..uth, and an ear throbbing for drum and pandeans. Hence, I
have — when doing my best — been scoffed at, and abused by

UO PCN'CH'.S MnTP:R^ TO HIS SOY.

fisli-wivosi, whon, with the sagacioua application of thp snnra
powers, I n)ij,'ht have been pelted by hcim-ases with nosegajB
from the Ixixes !

My chil<!, know not diffidence : it is an acquaintance that
hourly picks yonr pocket — that mokes yon h">b-and-tiob with
' wlit-n otliiTwise, yon n ' -itle it with con rt raffle-'.

J. this for an axiom: li i times out of twenty the

world takes a man at his own valuation. A philosopher — I
forgot his nnriio — hn.s calh-d the human sonJ, r.n its first manife»-
tatio'i in this world, thiokly vt-iled as it is in baby-fl«L->h — a blank
sheet of paper. Now I, my 8*)n, call every full-grown man at h:.-*
outset in life, a piece, not of blauk, but of AunX--;v7^xr; in fact, »
note, in all t' ' • *' ' ive that thv amuuut ;■< not writtcu in.

It is for th' ■ put tlown how many pmuids it shall

pAss fur ; to snatch an eagle-quill, and, witlt a brow uf Uix>az«
and eye of bnuw, to write tlowu

£€nt vThousnuti

or else, with shakini; hand and lips of indigo> to scratch a tniMi^
able, jviujier-stricken, squalid —

£Ont

It Ls, I pay, f,>r tlic mai. ' tr> g^ire ralne to hi« own moral

pa]>».>r : and th>.Ui.'h, 1 > w and then the prying- and ill-

natured may hold up the article to the light to search for the
tn>e water-nmrk, tho owner of the not«^ lia» only to swapf^r and
put the face of a Cosiar on the transaction, to »il<nce tvery
scruple.

As an instance, my clear boy, of what persevorance will do-^
of what an inexorable advocacy of merit (or fanoied merit, for
that is the thing) will do for the professor, — I will give y jn a
short story, drawn from a Dutch annalist of the sixteenth
eeutury.

Serene and balmy was the 9th of June mominjj, 154f>, when
♦hree men dressed as heralds, and superbly mounte<l on piebaH
horses, appeared in the streets of Utref-ht. Iinme<liately Ix^hind
them, mounted on a mule richly caparlsnneil, rode a m;in, '^»r
rather a human bundle — a huBoldiack, with his right leg less
than a g<"">,-ie's over-roa.sted drumstick ; tl^e leg was, mon-over,
bijwed like a pot-hook ; and, as at fii->t wa» thought, that it«
deformity might be fully seen, w.-is without Ltkse or shoe; in

LKGEXD OF THE RIGHT LEO. HI

plain words — it was a naked leg. The dwarf was followed by
Bix horsfiuen, liHiidsoniely arrayed, and strongly mounted.

The i^.rooessiuu halted Ix-fore the burgomaster's door, when
the hemldd, putting their trumjXJta to their lips, blew so loud a
blast that erery man's money danced in his pocket. The crowd
with gaping mouths luid ears awaite<l the proclamation of the
herald, who tliua unburlhened hinitsclf :

" I./et it be known to all corners of the creation, that our most
noble, ni<i.st puissjuit master, now jiresent, tlie rij^ht valorous and
worthy V'undenlioj>i»enlimi»i'n, has the most perteot right leg of
all the sons of earth ! In token whereof, he now exhibiteth the
limb ; whereat, let all men shout nii'l admire I"

On the instant, tlie dwarf cenrked up his withered stump, self.
complacently laying liis hand ujMin his heart; ami at the same
moment the crowd screanjed and roaretl, and abused and reviled
the dwarf, whilst some market-women discharged ancient
e.utrs Hud withered apples at him, — until the jirocession, fol-
lowed by the roaring |K)j»ulace, ma<le their way back to their
liostelry.

The next morning, at the s.-inie place and like hour, the sarae
]iroclamation was nuule. Again the umlaunted dwarf showed
his limb, and again he was chased and pelted.

And every d.iy for six months, the unwearied heralds pro-
claimed the surpassing beauty of Vandenhopi)enlinipen*s right
h'_', and eveiy day the leg was exhibited. And after a time,
every day the upro.ir of the mob decreased ; and the leg was
consiilered with new and irrowiu'' deference.

'' After all, we must have been mistaken — there surely is
something in the leg," sjiid one contemplative burgher.

*' I h.ive some time thought so," answered another.

" 'Tisn't likely," sai»l a thinl, " that the man would stand .so to
the excellence of his leg, unless there were something in it, not
to he seen at once."

" It is my faith," said the bui-goma.ster"s gnindmoiher — " a faitli
I'll die in, for I have heard the sweet man himself say as much
a hundred-and-liity times, that all other right legs are clumsy
anil ill-shaped, and tliat Vandeidioi>iK.'nlimjx;u's leg is the only
leg on the earth, made as a leg should be."

In a short season, this faith became the creed of the mol) ;
and, oh, how the neighbouring cities, towns, .and villages emptied
themselves into Utrecht, to gaze and marvel at Vandenhoppeu-
limpen's leg I "When he died, a nfodel of the limb was taken, and
ca^t in virgin gold, is now used aa a tobacco-stopper on state
occasions at the Stadt-house of Utrecht.

My child, there are at this muiiieut many Vandenhoppen

412 rUXCH'S LETTERS TO HIS SOX.

limj>ens eating bread very thickly buttered, from haviiii; stoutiy
championed the surpassing merits of their bowed and bucked
riglit leg.

LETTER XI.

OV THE NECESSITT OF HTPOCRIST — BTORT OF THE LmOX

MERCHANT.

No, I have no Bj-mp-ithy, my B<>n — none what^'ver, for yon.
What I to have Bcrajted a vt>ry promising acrjuaintanco with a
man of Alderman BillxTrv's we.-dlh — to have had him more
than once no«l to you ; and then, when fortuiii> — a happy fortune !
M it might have tunie«l out — thr. i Ixrth t4>!;fth«'r jn the

same C»rt'«-nwifh U^aL, to Iu.hc tht^ .1 m fur ever I You will

say, the alderman acted meanly, «lirtily, .shabbily ; will tell me,
that you Raw him only five miniil«'»* In-fore t.ik»« twiijK-nce in
change for a gUiJW of ginger-Wer, when, at the same tiuif, he
regn-ttod to the tnimi>«t<r, who came mund the deck to gather
for himHilf and mti.sical companion^ that "he had not a c<>|ii>er
alxtut him, or would give it with the gre.itost pl»-a.>»ure." What
devil, m.iy I a.sk you, t<.-nipte<l you to jog the ald<*rmrin*«i memory
on the ginger-lx-er and i»enny-piece«i ? You will «iy to me, the
alderman inU\ a lie, the iiMennan ,irt»Ml HhaMiily; and, then-fore,
you reprovi-d him ; and, what you doul>il»-HM think a 8pl)-ndid
peacock's feather in your cap, you reproved him with a joke ! I
shall certainly write no more to you, if I fuul my leltt-ra do you
8<> little service.

My son, never see the raeanneas of mankind. liet mon hedge,
and shirk, and shift, and lie, and with faces of unwrinkled

ad.ir • • !1 you tht- most monstrou.-^ falsehotnls, either in their

Belt' ition, or to disguise some habitual jwltriiiess, still,

never detect the untruth ; never lay your finger on the patch
they have so Ir: ' ' -.-wed ujKdj their moral coat, but let
thom di'parl w. . t religious |ieniuasioii that they have

triumphantly bamboozled you. By these means, although you
are most efficiently assisting in the hy|Kxrrisy of life, you will be
dot-au'd a .sociable, a most good-natured fellow. Be stone-blin<l,
and you will be benevolent ; be deaf, and you will Ih; all he.art. To
have an insi^rht— or at least to show you have it — into the dirty
••vasions of life, is to have a moral squint. To lay your finger
upon a plague-.opot, is to be infected with malice. No : though
you mett with meu scurfed witii moral lej»rosy, see not the scales.

TUt: LEMuN-ilKUCHAXT. 413

Mit ciyout lustily, " AVluit pi-rffi-t pcutloiiuii I " To discover
nicaniu'ss in meu, is, in mcu'a ojnuiou, to be strongly tinctuBed
with the ini(juity.

Mr. Chaucer, in allusion to the de^'il, says of him,

•* He hath in Jewi'» heart hU wanpe's neat." '

Now, what we call tlie devil, has built — by the agency of his
demon wr^sps, Pride, Avarice, Scorn, Oppression, Seltishness, and
otliei-s — th«)UiMind« of neatw in the hejirt.s botli of Jews ami C'hris-
tiiiiis. Well, suppose you have the power of looking into their
hearts lis tliouijh they were so many crystiU hives, — sujiposo you
behold in them the rapJicious inivcts — hear tlieir buzziii;,' —
almost see their stings ; if you cry '* Wasjis ! wasps !" meu will
shake their heads at you for a malicious, evil-minded fellow ;
but, my dear IkiV, clap your hands, and cry, " What a honey-
comb! " and you i«hall jmuhs from mouth to mouth as the "best
of creatures." When you have seen something more of the
world, you will knuw that men rarely attribute an ex|)08ure of a
social evil to an inherent indignation of the evil itself, but to an
unhealtliy appetitt- \'<<r moral foulneaa Then, my boy, will they
most virtuously defame ynu — then will they, in the name of out-
raged virtue, call you hard, high-sounding names. The wrestlers
of old, says Plutarch, threw dirt on one another that they might
get a better grasp, and more successfully trip up each other's
heels. In the like way, d<H's ignorance or hypocrisy, in the
name of virtue, cast dirt u|>on him who would trip up a giant
wrong. There were, doubtless, those among the Philistines —
I'articular and most virtuous friends of Goliath — who called
I'.ivid a very sour-natured little tVllow.

It is e.\traonlinary, too, how this scandal will stick upon you ;
how it will be used to misinterpret all your motives — to give ;i.
twist to your most heroic, most benevolent actions. I will suj*-
jMise that you are crossing a bridge, or walking Viy a river's siile.
Well, a nursery-maid — thinking, it may l>e, of Jack Robinsi n,
wlioni she is to meet wlun the child is put to bed — is ."o far
buried in her thoughts that she lets the baby tumble souse into
tl»e stream. You may not swim like a dolj>hin, yet without
waiting to take off your coat, or lay your goUl repeater on tlie
grass, yuu leap into the water, and with no small personal risk
manage to bring the baby safe to the bank. Well, you think
yourself entitled to at le;ist the good opinion of the world f t
your heroism. Alas! you have been such a bitter person all
yctur life, you liave toM .such disagreeable verities, you have so
constantly refused to club in with that conventional h^'pocrisy
t.hat has- neithc eves nor nose for social blotch or social taint,

4U PL'NCHS LETTERS TO HIS SOJf.

that Dotraction dcnifn t« you one wonl of pmuse for your <lurk-
iiig ; but j^Tavt'ly iii8ist!« that your stAe rex-^on for jutupiug into
tlie river waa this, — yuu thoujht you saw a ailver spoou nhiuing
at the Ifottom.

Haviiij; tihtained a name for ill-nature, or in reality having
acquired a fatal reputation for u«iii^ your oyca, it will l>e in vain
for you tj> "leal in prai.^e of anythiiijj. No: the iK'ojile who
profe«« to know you will, like witchea, read even your prayers
Itfirk wards ; will insist that there is R»»nie luikinij niiaohief, ^'<«Iue
subtle abuse, in what ainx-ara to Ik? unmixed and heartfelt
eulogy. Offer what you will to the world, the world will dtvlaro
you only deal in one coninuxiity. You will be in the condition

of the man who flo! ! ' ris. His l.i.st«iry boin? very short, and

at the same time t. ,y illusti-ative of the evil I would warn

vou agaitist, shall bo set down in this letter.

There wa-s, in a certain city, a man who gold lemons. From
boyhood until f-rty, he had dealt in no other fruit ; and with
those who ne«'deil lemons, his st<>ck wa.H in goo<l request. And
so years |iaKsed away, and the man made a tolerable living of his
merchandise, though a certain bluntness of manner, a resolution
never to take one farthing less of a customer than he first asked,
•lid somewhat keep down the prt>fits of his callini;. TliruTi^'hout
the city the maji was known by no other title than the Ia-uioo
Mt-rchant. At length, but how it came to piiss I know not,
I'lii -ed to l»e in deman<l : no man, woman, or child, pur-

olui • . luou — leni'ius seemed, henceforth, to Iw the forbidden
fruit : crowds of ]Mu«seugerM (Mbssed th.e man's basket, but no one
«|>ent a single oU>lus. Want, starvation, threatened our lemon-
nierchart. What wbs he U> do ? It was plain the fa.shion had
fumed from lemons, and had set in for nothing but onuiges.
Well, my son, you would thiiik it was some good genius that
whisjvred to the man, ** Give up thy lemon bask<-t ; do not
Vainly strive to huckster with what is now the accursed fruit,
but sell A-hat little goods thou hast, and hieing to the market,
there buy thee omni^es ; sweet, delicious oranges ; or:in;,'es,
luscious ad the flesh of Venus." The lemon-merchant followed
the advice of his counsellor, and selling up all he had in the
world, invested the money ig a box of mar,aiifioent oranges; the}'
were the finest in the market ; the mouths of emperors might
have watered for them ; they were a gladtlening picture to the
eye — a restorative perfume to the nose. Since the oranges that
n-ooeil the lip of Eve iu Paradise, there never had been such
oranges.

It was a CTand holidav, when for the first time our henceforth

HOPKIX.S'S L'MnUELLA. 4i5

oraiii;<-introliaiit touk hia ciistc<iuriiy suiml at the stcjw of the
Chiin-h of St, Angelica. His eye twinkleti, ainl his heart
swelled with huneat piide as he looked at the passengers who
throii'_'c(l by liiin, and then a<jain looked at the golden fruit
piled in his Uusket at his foot. It w;ia very strange ; but though
all tlie orange-dealers about hiiu sold their stock in a trice,
althi)U;ih he wjuj left with the only oranges near the church, no
one, hHkmI seeking oranges, offerid to buy the fruit of hiui. At
List, the man took heart, ami cried to the people as they passed,
" Oranges ; sweet, sweet oranges ! Buy my oranges ! "

"On»ngi-s, fellow!" cried the p.issorigein, "what inipmlence
is thi.s / Isn't it clear that there isn't an orange in your b.i.sket
— isn't it certain that you deal in nothing but lemons ? "

It was in vain for the man to bawl " Oranges ! " for tliere was
uo one who heard him, who did not laugh and sneer, and
answer, " Pooh ! pooh ! Lemons I "

My dear son, once get a reputation (as you have done with
Alderman llilberry) for the acidity of truth, and though your
lips, like the lips of the infant I'lato, xhall distil honey, the world
will not believe in the 8weetnei*s. OtTer what oranges you will,
the World will rt'iMiy tlie olTerLng with the cry of — " Lemons."

LETTER XIL

ON THE rniLOSOPHT OF BORROWING. — HOPKINS's UMBRELLA.

You ask me to supply you with a list of books, that you may
purchase the same for your private delectation. My dear boy,
receive this, and treasure it for .a truth : iio wise man ever
purchases a book. FooLs buy books, and wise men — borrow
them. By respecting, and acting upon this axiom, you may
obtjiiu a very handsome library for nothing. ^

Do you not perceive, too, that by merely borrowing a volume
at every possible opportunity, you are obtaining for yourself the
reputation of a reading man ; you are interesting in your studies
dt^pzens of people who, otherwise, would care not whether you
knew A, B, C, or not ? With your shelves thronged with
borrowed volumes, you have an assurance that your hours of
literary meditation frequently engage the thoughts of, alike,
intimate and casual acquaintance. To be a good borrower of
'books is to get a sort of halo of learning about you, not to be
obtained by laying out money upon printed wisdom. For

4\r> I'LNCHS LETTERS TO HIS SOX.

iustaiK-e, yoa lufct IIug;;iii.H. He no soon»T »ec-a you than, po]^
you are a(wociut«d with .'Jl the ( 'a'.H;ii-s ; he liaving — simple
IIuj^'giiiBl — lent yuu hiu Itt^nmn IIi.><ti.rv Ix'Und in best hiHtoric
calf. He never lifhoUU yuu hut he thinks of RomuluH and
It'iiiuM, the Tnr]K-i.in Kik-W, the Il.-i|>v uf the Sabinea, aiul too
thou.H.iii.1 other interewlinj; ami pleiwunible event**. ThuM, you
are duin^; a potiitive gcxl to Hu}:L;iiut by continually rcfrei«hiug
his niiml with the studies of his tht'iiijhtful youth ; whilst, aa [
jMiy, your a|n>eanuioe, your nuMuory, is associated and embalmed
by him with thinj^ that '* will not die."

Consider the advantage of this. To one man you walk a«
Hanilet ; why ? you have up»in your shtdvet* that man's liest
edition of ShaksiK-rv. T" another, you come as the an-hangel
Michael. His illustrated I'.-tradise I/ost glitters amongst your
borrowing*. To thi'- ' y the like magic, you are Itobinsoa

Cnn»o«' ; to this, T< > ih. I wiil not multiply instancea ;

tliey must suggest themselves. lie sure, huwaver, on stumbling
u|>«>n what s«<-ms a rare and curioim vuhinie, to lay your borrow-
ing hands ujMiu it. n»e \kh>V. may l>e Sanscrit, (.'optic, Chinrne ;
you may not umlemtand a single lett*'r of it ; for which reason,
be more stendy re«olvee«ls a deep fellow — iiivt-jits you with a certain
literary iliguity in the eyes of the lending. lit-sides, if you know
not S.»n»crit at tlie time you borrow, you may Ixfore you «lie.
You cannot promise your>olf what you shall not learn ; or, onco
having borrowed the book, what you sliall not forget.

Tliere are Uirce til !i but a fool lends — or h.ivin;^

lent, \» not in th»- " •• of mental crassitude if he

ever hojHj to gel three tilings, my son, are —

QooKs, t'MURELi.A&, and MONET ! I believe, a certain tiction of
the 1.1- .11 s a remedy to the borrower ; but I know no case

in mI. y nuui, l>eing suthi-iently dastard to gibbet his

reputation as ]>laintiff in such a suit, ever fairly succeeded
against the whoKsnuie j>!

In the tirat place, bocx..: --.p, ■......-. s but a combination

of borrowed thing-s are not to be considered as vesting even their
authors with projHirty. Tlie best man who writes a book,
borrows his materials from the world about him, and therefore,
as the phrase goes, cannot come into court with clean hands.
Such is the opinion of some of our wisest law-makers ; who,
then-fore, give to the mechanist of a mouse-trap, a more lasting
projierty in his invention than if he had made an Ili.id. And why t
The mouse-trap is of wood and iron ; trees, though springing
from the earth, are property ; iron, dug from the bowels of th^

HOriCIN'S'S UMBRELLA. 417

earth, U projterty : you caii foci it, hammer it, weij^h it: but
uliat ia cjille«l literary geiiiuH \a a thing uot j)oiiilerable, an
cHseuce (if, iude««l, it be on e8s«»uce) you can make nothing of,
liioii;.'li put into an air-pump. Tlie mast, that falls from bt-ch,
tu l;itt<.n hogs, is pn>]H5rty ; as the f.in-st-Liws will siK-edily kt
you know, it^you send in an alien pig to feetl ujxin it : but it ha.-*
beeu held, by wi.se, grave men in Parliiuuent, that what falls
liom humiut bniinri t<i feed human souls, is no j»ri'perty whatever.
Hence, private advaiitagu counsels you to Wrruw all the books
you can ; whiUt public opiuiou abundantly juatities you iu never
reluming lliem.

I have now to speak of Umbrkllas. Would you, my son,
from wh;it you have read of Arab hospitality — would you think
ul counting out so many jKiiny-pl<<<s. an<l laying them in the
liaud of your Anib ho.st, in r<-tun. f^r the d:a«-s and caujel's milk
ihut, when fainting, dying, with ihirbt, hunger, anil fatigue, he
h.uslcued to Ijeatow up<in you ? Would you, I say, chink the
copper coin in the miui's ear, in return for this kindly othce,
wliich the son of the desert thinks an " instrumental part ot
his religion I" If, with an ignonuice of the proi>er us^iges ot
society, you would in.^ult that high-80uled Arab by any ten<ler
of money, then my son — but no ! I think you incapable of the
sordidnesa of such an act> — then would you return a Borrowed
Umbrella ?

Consider it. "Wliat is an umbrella but a tent that a man
carries about with him — in China, to guard him from the sun, —
iu England, to shelter him from the nun ? Well, to return such
a jKjrtable tent to the liospitable aoul who lent it, — what is it
but to offer the Arab jwiyment for shelter ? What ia it but to
chaffer with magnanimity, to reduce its greatness to a mercenary
lo'lu'ing-house-keeper ? Umbrellzis maybe " hedged about " by
Cobweb statutes ; I will not swear it is not so ; there may exist
laws that make such things property ; but sure I am that the
hisaing contempt, the loud-mouthed indignation of all civiliseil
society, would sibilate ami roar at the bhHxlless poltroon, who
should eng.ige law on his side to obtain for him the restitution
of a — lent umbrella I

We now come to — Monet. I have had, in my time, so little
of it, that I am not very well informed on monetary history. I
think, however, that the first Roman coin was impressed with a
sheep. A touching au<l significant s^■^ubol, crying aloud to all
men, — '' Children, ff<fcf one another." My son, it is true that
the sheep haa vanished from all coin : nevertheless, it is good to
resj>ect ancient s\-ml>ols : therefore, whatever the gold or silver
may bear — wh.itever the potentate, whatever the arms upon t^ie

449 PUN'CH'S LETTERS TO HIS SO!^.

obverse — bm? with your imaf^inative fvc nothinp but the sheep ;
listen with your fani y's ear to nought but — "fleece" — "fleece I"

I am aware, that a pn-juilice exists amongst the half-educated,
tliat \)<>rrowtil money is as money obtaine<l by nothing ; that, in
fui't, it is not your own ; but is only trusted in your liandn for
HU> li an<l such a time. My son beware of this prejuilice ; for it
is the fruit of the vilest ignorance. On the contntry, look upon
all b<)m>we*l money, as money dearly, richly eame<l by your
ingenuity in obtaining it. Put it to your account as tlie wages
of your intellect, your atldress, your reasoning or Be<luctive
ivmers. I^t this truth, my son, \*c eiit^Taven u|)on your very
brain-pan. To l>orniw money is the very highest employment
of the human int«"llect : to i»ay it l>ack airain, is t<^> show yourself
a traitor to the genius that has successfully worke«l within you.

You may. ' r, wi.nh !•> know how to put off your creditor

— how to <1 1 him, Khould the idiot l*e clamorous. One

answer will serve for Inxiks, umbrella.M, anil money. As for
b<H>ks, bv the wnv, vou mav alwavs h.-tve let't tlu-m in a liacknev-
coach. (This fr«'<juent accident of iMMik-lMUTowers, doubtlests,
accounts for the literary turn of mottt hackney -coachmen.) Still,
I will supply you with one catholic aiwwer.

IIo]ikins once lent Simp»««.n. his ne.xt-<loor neighlour, an
umbndla. You will judj,'e of he !nl<sll*ct of Hopkins, not so
much fn>m the act of lending an umbrella, but from hia inaane
endeavour to get it Kvk .igain.

It )M>ured in t4>rreut«. Hopkins had an urgent call. Hopkina
knocked at Simpson's door. ** I want ray umbrella." Now
S h.-\d a call in a ilin-ctly opj«j«ite way to Hopkins ;

u;. . ;..i borrowed umbrella in hi;* hand, was advancing to

the thresihold. "I tell you," roare<l Hopkins, "I want my
umbrella."—" Can't liave it." said - ** Why, I want to

go t«i the F ' - \. it rains in I'li-u •<; what" — screamed
Uopkiii."* — " . 1 I to «lo for an umbrcdla ? "

"Do!" answerei I Simpson, darting from the door — "do aa I
di<l ; BORROW ONB ! "

HOW LEARNING MAY BE OBTAINED. U9

LEITEU XIIT.
BOW lkxrninq mat dk obtainkd — BT shaving: and

UTIIKK MKANS.

Yoc ti'll lue, I liiive not aiiKWen'<l your request. You sav, you
ffel — ami I liu|>«' you do — iIr' full fureo of my Mj^unieiits on tlie
b<-iiuiy of l>on«iwiuj,': lu-vcitlR-lesH, I have not fuiw;ir(le<l to
you the list of liouk^ tliat, of ;iil others, are the fii*st to be
borrow c.l. Vou Kay yuu wish to bcooiuo a rvadcr. It ia a hiud-
Hblu ju-piiatiou.

li«-aders, uiy dvar ncm, are of two Borta. There is a reader who
raiefuUy jjoeu thixMi^ii a U>ok ; and tiiere la a rea<ler who hm
taivfully Ifta the book go tliroui^'h him. Which do you deaire

Whilat it iis i»e<X'-s>*ary tliat you Hho<il<l havr th»- nifre cant
phra-siM of lilenaiirt', 1 wouid, .-w your alTictioiiate CitluT, covins*-!
yuu a^'aiusl ;aiy uiuM.-vmly |>edantry. Vou may, witliout micri-
ficing luiy of the time due to the 8friou« |»ur|Ht.S(rt of life, obt-iin a
autliciiut knowle<lge of lKM.ikH, whrreby to |>;i.ss for a mau of verv
t'oiiaidirable iuformation ; ami, in tliiK world, a 8uco«*sful seeniiii*
i» t'Vi-ry bit an goml :ls the ival thing. Look an.iuuil upou men ;
l»eliold the Btations tliey till, ainl tell me if it l»e not so.

Vou shave once s ilay. Well, purchase a cheap ix»]'V of Black-
stone's ('ommentai"u'j<uu tlie I.,;iWf ^>f Kiigland. Vou will jK-rceive
that in bin Pi-eface, Sir William speaks of the necessity of every
gentleinau knowiug something of the statutes he lives under.
Now, my deiir boy, I would have you learn the laws of your
country, as I would have you, ere you ent<?red an orchard to
plu -k the be.st fruit growing tliere, know the wherealiout of ilie
Ui:ui-tni|>s and the wires of the spring-guns. Having such know-
ledge, you may here pluck a pippin, heit gather a plum ; and
cnauming your iK)ckets full of the juiciest produce of the plaet-,
return over the w;dl whence you came without a single scratch,
and altogether shot-free. Now, you have only to consider the
wiiole vorld an orchard gujirdetl by the man-tnps and spring-
puns of laws : and have only to know ic/iere the laws are hiid,
that though you intrude ujK>n them ever >o closely, you are nevt-r
ciught or Mt by them. Do tliis, and who is to charge you with
Iiaving pilfrred a single co<ilin ] Vou have nevei been caught in
the tmp, the law h;ts never tired upon you, .and you have rliere-
fore yi'ur action for li!>el ag:uiist any man who shall dare s-o
n.uch .us to wuik at yuu :ujd whisj-er " C(.Kii;n.s ! "

VOL. U CO

4r<0 PUKOH'8 LETTERS TO HIS SON.

To return. Yon shave onrv a day.* W.ll, tour off n l»Hf of
BlackstoiK*. ainl wIuIbI you are str<>pi>in^' yonr n»Z'>r, rnr«'riilly
reail it. 'lliU \aso much time saved ; and l>y thin ilaily practice,
you will in due Bea-non digest the whole of the C<>ranientarie«.
S<>tn<'tiines yoii will jjo ovor your Iward a set-oij-l or a third tiinv, —
wherotjjM.il, 8tr0|) your razor a^jaiii and ajjain, and ;;o throuj^li two
or three jMigoa. I knew a Lord Chancollnr who. like T/onl CheBter-
flold's friend, w.-m'^siich an econonii«t of time," that he went
throuu'h all the slatuti-B only in tliis manner. iW-ini: happily
l)le«sod with a ver>' Btuhbom Waptl, he latl>or«i| hiniMolf at lea.Ht
thrice a moniiuK : on each occasion j^ottin? J>v heart throe loav.-s
of lopil wimiotii. I havo known liim do<'lar»* that as a lawy.-r. he
wa.H confidrnt he owc«l all hiM pro^iwrity in life to cIoho nhaving.

You are toc<>n«ider that the operation of nhavinp in nin^'uhirly
auH])iciotiB to Htudy. Tlio B">uI soom.i rotiroil fr>>in the Hurroundii ,'
vanitioHof the world. an<l f.akoi rofu^<' in it.*<If. A proat nov. l.-f
liaji declared that if, when he nvte fmm hi.i deok, he left a pair of
lowrs in a quandary, hail his hero or h»'roino at a dead lock,
vanted a lucky eHt^THw, or an in-^'enious illRi-ovory, — ho wont to
h^ sorcnely certain that the whole difficulty would be Bolv«-d
with the tiharin^ »oap of tlie next morninjj t llonco, hi." novels
may Ik' e*>nfiider>-«l im much the off-tjirin;; of the razor as of the
g(MM«>-qnill. I mu<h quoHtion whother the la<k of iniapnative
work* among the nxxlem Jewish Ilabhiit may not l>e attrihuted
a'' thfir oopioiisnejoi of l)oan! ; thoy novor shave ; hence, in a
lofty, dignifying s«-n!«<-, thoy novor think.

Having gone thnMigh Hlackstone, razor in hand, you may then
in liko nianiior addrrss \oiir«>lf to anciint and ino<I»ni hi.ttory.

You will know (juit<- as muoh of the Modes ami I'trxians, the
builders of the Pyramids, Magna t'harta, and all such shadowy
matters, after a month's gr«xl stropping, — as if you had sat with
vf.ur brow In-twoon y^ur thuniKs ixmdering and di-eaming for a
twi-lvonn'iith. You will havo g.»t by hoart a pretty aitalogue of
names ; and names, not things, are quite sufficient for a m.an, if
bo will but troll thom lx«Mly ove" hi.s tonguo. as though he ha<l
tlio roost intimate acquaintance with all that Wdongoil to them.
" Yirtue and learning," aavs Pliilip Lord Chesterfield, "like
golil, have their intrinsic value; but if they are not polisho-l,
thoy certainly lose a great dt-al of their lu.'*tre: ami even polishoil
bniss will ytkss upon more people than rough gold." Ix»rri
ChcHtorficld knew what was due to life and — the peerage,

• P'jnch c<^nfe<«*t that he owe* the idea of this proce** to the Karl of
0>e»i»Trield. who in hi« " L*tt«T ci.'' to hii »<>n, »ii?L'«>t« even a mora
ilI^t'n:I>u« niude of ati«'>rbir.g the c»M>Qce o' " all Uie LaUu rtxrta."

t Sec Lockhart't " Life of Seott."

HOW LEARNING MAY liE OBTAINED. <L1

Tliere is nlsD aiiuthur w:u' of (ilitaiiiiiijr the wisdoiii of l>. loks.
You liuve iloulttlfSd seen the Hilvertinfiiu'iitK of benevolent s,i{;es
wlio profess to cure iliHeasu l>y Kini|(ly smelling cerUiiu ilruLTs and
einijiles. Nothing' nee<l l>e 8W;ill<»\vetI, n<>tliinij nee<l he atlniinis-
t«iv>l. These <loctur» owe nothin;.; to the natvinil tijichiiij; of the
ibis, to wbujn, if historv speak truly, E.s<Mila|>ius w.-is 80 niueh
in<ie!ite(J. All they renuire is, that a p.itient shall have a nose ;
juiil that orj^an j,Maiiteil, they j;ii arm tee a cure. In like manner,
do many very clever jieople obtuiii learning : they smell the
Volumes — nothing more. They t.ike a gi»<»l snilF of a }M>ok. and
I'.istory, polities. jMietry, jMilemics, all fly up their nose in jKirlicles,
like so much liKrtshorn ; nor is such n moilc of education, in xlie
*or<ls of the lU'V. L)r. liusby, to l>e HUeezed ftt.

If this were not the fact, du you think so many jhtsoius would
juireh.u-ie liltniries ? l)o you supjKise they buy tin- books Ut Jfore
ov.rthemf ( Vrtainly n<it. It is sunieji-nt that they have the
volnni'S on tin- shelves ; an .Troui.i of h-aming .irises from them ;
it is receivi'il into the system of the owner, and he is, and
cnnnot help it, lenrned. If this were not the case, think you su
many human )u«es wouM l.iy o«it so much money on ru>«sia-
bindiugs r No: ibt-y eurefidly shelve the IxHiks. nnd catch
learning, as they sometimes catch cohl, by coming down the
/ staircase.

ILmng said thn< much, it is. I think, unnecessary for me to
give you a list of books for your private study. All that is
necessary, is to borrow the volumes, and those as li.'iudsome us
possibK', and having once secured the books, the leaniiug iu
them is, of course, your own. I would, however, advise you to
carefully stu<ly T/ie Neicfjate ddendar, a work enshrining so
many instances of human tngenuitr, connige and Bulfering •, a
ndne of gohl from which philosojiliic novelists have cast pocket-
liertH's for lailics, and mantel-piece ornaments for boai-dmg-
schools. You willtind in the lilenu*)' oti'-shoots of the records of
the giillows, that the human soul is in its coniiMjsitiou, very liko
R Iwill of India-rul>lK-r ; the lower it falls, the higher it bounus.
Or it may be likened to the Greek tire, that burns the brightest
ill a common sewer.

I would atlvise you also to take a peep into the Grecian
mythology ; tliere jire some pretty names there with which you
may sometimes spangle your discourse, not un])rolit,'ibly. There
is also much monil instruction to be gathered fi-om the stories.
Let me jiarticularly recommen<l to you the tale of the abduction
of Proserpine by Pluto. Proserpine has been jM-ooiiscd a full
divorce from the king of hell, if she liave tastfed nothing in
Lis domLiU(.'U,->. Unable to coutrol herself, she has taken a

4M PUXCirS LKITERS TO HIS SOy.

ponipgn»nnl« ueed, wnl th«« divorce t\oe» not stnnd goot\. I hftve
no (loiiht (if it coiild Ix.' <ii«c>>vere«l) tli.it this c-aso li.iJi U-i-n con-
gitliTvd ill ni.'Uiy nice juili;nuntiii«l" tlio l'Icclf*i:»>tiial Court.

Hinl<>ry liaa bovu caile«l "philonojiliy If.iehiujj l>y exMupIe."
Yon nmv. il yoii will. cc>tu«ult it iu thin Mpirit ; but l\u> truent
philosophy tonohiii); hy cxnniplt> that t-vi-r came under my
ui>(!<-e, w.iM ill a litih- t«iwn in Kntiif<-, at a iHMikiK-Ui'r'M whop.

1'he Iwautiful national son^ i/albrom/h I'en vt-t-en truerrtf
%'onlM an 1 niii»i<-. ' u in tin- witnlovr ; anil th<Ti> Hto^Kl lui

oUI Kn-n'iiw.ini.m, ,: ii» Iht li md a littU* (Juul of «ouic nix

Vfnnt uld, whuiu like a youni; iitarlinL; iihe wan at once teachinfi;
wnnlfl and Hoiiij. What a laUiur of hivc »he niailc i>f hor taj«k I
liuw i»h<' iTwwi-d firth tlie air. jiifv'iiiir. Jui 't »h««, with conl*.'Uiiit
fur iui^Uuid, aud huw tlie child c'hirrup|K-d oftvr her !

•* M«l)imui;h •*rn »«.l-in inirfrf,
Mirontoa, minintun, iniri>iit«jn«,
M«l'ip>urfh t'l-n t«-tM-ii (furrrr,
Nr Mil quanil rrticiiiln ! "

** llitTf. Indee«l," said I to myi»«df. cazin^ on the old wonuui
nnd h«T puf il ; "then', iudevd, w Ilmlory — there U I'hdooophjr
ttachini; by example I '*

I.EITKU XIV.

THE KVIL or BBNBUllUTT. — HTOIlT or THE BAXKER's CLERK.

A ma.\ who would thrive in the world hns no such enemy as
what iH known by the tenn — sensibility. It u to walk l>are-
fo*>ted in a nu>b : at every I'llu-r stop your tin-si are cni.ihed by
the iron-«hoo<-ktt," cuunsils luiutlu-r ; quite uncun-scioua of the deep
)>hilosophy enriching hia advice. Yes, my son ; diSicult a« it
may apjH-ar, the only thin;,' lor th»' man to do — that i», the poor
man Uini with «eiisibility — is to put hL<i toe.s into his jMicket ; in
plain wonis, to gniotlier hi.<< 8<.-nstbility iu the ]iiacu where he
Lofies some day to carr)' his moiu-y.

Many are the martyrs, my hon, whose lives will nev^r l>e
penn»''l. Miuy the viitinia who, in ganvft. and in cellars, have
>indjc«tcd what is <:aiied tuu hcruisiu of iiutuuii nature, iU4d by

THE DANK1:R-3 CLERK. 453

llip awful mnfiniaiiiiuity of sjiflVrinp, given afjsuninee of the
ftlnTe:il t«'iii|M'r of tin* liuiiiaii spirit. Iluw many, even with
eartlily faniine wliiti-niii;; their hps, have smiKnl in h)vely patience,
thinkin<;of imiuorUil tal'h»«I How many, in the tattent of hepg.iry,
r« ikifijr in th# nostrils of their f""ll 'W-mat). have ap|>ar«'Ilt<l tlieni-
Hi'lvLS ft»r C'io<l I The looks of juiiiels have made hri;;lit thedark-
Tiejw of a (lnn:»<'on ; and the odoum of seraphic winga sweetenetl
tlic vapoiirs of a vault.

lint no, ray »oii, 1 must not pursue this theme. Who would
think that I could talk thuH ? I ! a mountehank — a mummer —
the buffoon for hair|>ence f Oh, my Ron, it was Hhallow philosophy;
it wa-s Worse ; it w.is a wick<-<l want of charity in Dr. Johnson to
exclaim, " I'fNcn has no feflinj^ ! " The world, I grant gives
me hut little ci-edit for such jvigseasious ; ami, therefore, 1 am
prone to wrap nivnelf up in the pride of mystery, and to affect
inM-iiHii.ilily. that I may ejMra|>e the ch.arge of hyjKJcrisy. Who
would Udieve in the tear* of PcxcH ? Who, though he saw
them trickling down my nose, would Wdieve they came hot and
hitter from mv h-art t A heart I Said I a heart? Who would
U ii.ve I had Ku.h an oi-g-»i» 1 Alln-it I were lai«l u|>on the

/ /»"i"jr«>n'» table, tlie crucial incision nuwle in my brwist — nay, the
' heart itself pluek.^l out — who wovdd V>elieve in its ventricles I
A he:irt I A cushion — a thing stulfed with linui, to Htiek pins
in : for so the world has use*l it. My s«.n, ruNcii is not the only
creature thu'» lilM-lle<l. l>ecause inwar>ily unknown. The Poverty
of the world is hut a |«ile-f:icc<l. melancholy Punch ; a creiiture
denied sensibility, that it maybe ma<leto beiu- the harder buffets.

• Allow to Poverty all the tine nionU organisation — the 8;ime
susoeptiliility that makes the system of tiie rich man delicately
nifl.Mliousius a musical snuff-lnjx, — and we should give ear to the
uitiTHiice of hum.'ui wiujta iis to a flood of holy song ; as to the
most plaintive, yet most saered music of the habitable earth,
liut no ; the or<ranis:ktion is tlisxillowed, and therefore such music
is impossible. Thus is it with Poverty in the ears of Worldly
Pride ; aiul thus to Worldly Ignorance is — Pu.vcH !

However, the purjxse of tln*se letters is to fit you for a
prosperous career in life ; and therefore, I charge you, by all
vour hojHiS of larder, wine-cellar, banker's account, and carriage
—I charge vou put down, smother every rising of sensibility.
Von raiglit as well take a v<.yage U> the North Pole in your shirt,
n.«4 hope to live comfortaldy in the world, if endowed with sensi-
bility. Hail you l>een l»orn to a golden pap-spoon, it might have
been otherwise ; but yon, a ehihl of the gutter, the sjjawn of t)ie
highway— you to talk of sensibility— you might as well talV of
the family jewels.

<3» PUN'Cirs LETTKIL3 TO HIS SON.

Aware of cciuibtlity. If it btfcoiuo niurbi>lly atTect«<J, the
r«i4ull in —

Hut I will narmt* to vuu a hintory, my won, illuntrative of iU
|x>riU : n tnie hint.-ry — true a» my Iniiich. Uow I cnmc by it,
mattm n<>t. Stiflu-« it to nay, it in ju* true a* the aunfionmx.

Stki'IIES Ui„\- - ■ V -for that <»liuinK« lii« iir.- - • ' • •• n-
t< • mil year, «:k^ . at a bniiki-r'!! <li-nk. i liia

aliiuxtt fcniiniiu' temlcmcM of iii.-wiiier, moilo hiin the t.tvotintc
if -.II \*? ' ' !• ' .wi-«l w;' ■■ ' noiiiii.

l.ilty. ii .at til- .1 of »

■tmngrr : ami when hia employer, aji wotiUl oftcu hn|>|wn. npnke
in C"m:: wouM ;.'imh fr')iiihii

eyi-«, au.l :; ; ; . f«»ot, liku a lirtfiUil

ri;l|>nt. Fur three yc&nt St«-|ihfn nMiiaiite<l in the employ ot

M**iMrM. : an<l every year, mu-h waa hi« n<Mii|uity. such hia

r- • - I -, - • ' ' • - I Aln-aily iheo|.|«.l

< i.^toiio wuuhl auoii be

a Junior jiortufr."

When S! ■ ' ' i hi.H t 1 year, a mKhlcn

Alteration %» iiireH — : .i-r. l>ay by <l.iy,

he became hav'L'anI— earewnm. Iliii fare w.im pnleaml jiiieeletw;
ami hi« ryoA, I ' ilull nml ftluutl, wotiM iiu<l<lei ly fla<«h

vith limtnum b: ■*. 'flir ' > • • •i ' ' •• k.- him

atart a« at a tir.. . »«h. Ii. i-<i the

chaiipe ; and a^'ain and ai^in ilmirttl Stephen to fun-go hia

• ' • ■ ' . ; but

; • U|>on

H«* wnuhi ileclace he waa vef)' Well ; if he lr>oke«l ill,
•r \»! \ !,. t]: T h*? w;ui in ••xcrllrnt liealth ;

...r lt'.!« r. A.. ..iv by ilay he meme"! to wante

ami \rithi>r ; aiul tlay by day tliK wi-i<;bt Ujam hii« lij/irita grew
the beavicr.

At len^rtb, Steph' II ■« ..-..i'.; '* '*•■••*

to a phv>i<-i:iii ; wb.., ha ■ »l<>ry, i iin

iRrhat »<eme4l an acoiileiital meeting with the clerk.

" Why, Mr. (Jlailstone, you are not well. Come, come I I see
what tJii« is."

•*lndee<l, sir, yoii mistake: I am well^-<]nite well. Surely
•ir, 1 rIk'hM know K-st," 8.iid .Steplu-n, a little imt-tt»Ml.

*■ N'.'Ver tell me," naid tlie ]>bysiiian, whu*; coplial tone ami
benevolent manner would have fjaine«l the conti«lence of a miAuD-
Lhn'j-e ; I see your case plainly ; it'* love — nothing but love."

Stephen ItM^ked a look of mi.seiy in tlie physician's face,
«upp^e^»sed a ji7P>ftn, and bn-ke from him.

A week el;»i«ed, and Stephen suddenly appeared before the

.i ■

•■

«•

the ch

b.-l.r.

•rk.

•« 1

Li \ 'T

-hi

THK liANKKH'S CLERK. 455

dortor. Ilin f;ice wa.s ilijilorli"! with .inj;iii>h ; he re«l(.'<], ami
fell into :i cli.iir ; iiiiil »-it ^xspiii'^ with the bmin's :i^i>iiy.
Iikntaiitly the physician was at his side — Kouthing, coiufurtiiijj
him.

" I can cnjuru it no hmjjcr : you sliall know all, doctor, — all,
thouj»h the han^^nnn bo at the door. Listen ! you know not, fur
thi'.-M' nix inonthH, what scorpions liave In-en stin'^iiijj me. To-day
»t;.iin -this very tLiy — my employcm niiseii my inconu- : tlit-y
reward mo — nu ! Doctor, look at tliat hand I It is a thi-r.>< — £
tell you it is a thiefs I But I naid you sliould know all. My
ntH.ster» — kind souls I have praised me for my zeal — have desin-d
me t4) s.i-k norealion — to alr^ent myself fn-m the hoUHe ! 0\\,
(J«)d I if late and early I w.-ui at the <le.<4k, it w:ts that my b<Miks
mi^^ht escn|>e detection I And th'*y call this zeal, and tiny
r-wanl me f ^r it — me, who have rol»lH«>l, have pill.i;^ed tht-m I "

Ixinij and kind wjis the 8|)eech of the physician, who at len'^^th
ch;4ij;<'d himH4-lf to break the bunineHS to the ma-strrH of tha
uift.lied youth, and with heavy heart dejiartetl uu his missiun.
His t:Je was soun tcdd.

"Hal ha! ha I Im|K»4sible," cried the l»ankcrs. "G!a<lstone
eiiil" v./le money ! why, he couldn't take a farthiii},' — not u
Cartliitt;,' : all liis books have l>cen regularly balanced. " It waj»
iiideed SO. His morbid sensibility, worked upon by the (tr>s8ibility
of the act, lia>l, in his f:uit.istic terrors, made him a criminal.

" This is a mistake, cjuite a mistake : " and the physicijui sought
tj STM.the the mind of the excited clerk.

" Then I am uo thief f " anketl Stephen, as if awakened from a
horri'l Iranee.

" You've U'eu unwell — nothing more ; a little unwell," said
tlic phytiiclau.

The discovery of his innocence wa.s, however, too much r>r
the vouiig m.aii's reju«4in : liom tliat mouunt it was uiie ]y
»hattereil. The bouker's clerk — ala:i I povr humitu nature.' —
diel a maiii&c

4M PrN'CHS LKTTKRS TO HIS SOX.

LETTKR XV.

WKAI.Tn XVV ITS C8RS. 8TORT uF mS 8UITKI8.
" JCbT BSuCGil."

Onk of the l»'st ftH'l tnr>«t (»ntHfii>*l'>ry uhpb of woaltli, inv clear
I'oy, in to ila/^.U* with our rii'luH tin- rvo» i»f our iifi^liltonni.
Your (IcAf iii<itii«-r once hit thin |>oiiit to n nict-ty. Wc hml loii;;
exp^Tt*""! the |invinent of n mn.'kll l« ^ja.-y lKM|u<<.'tthe<l t> lu-r I'v a
fiirttniit relation, wlinwe ex- * ' rrv of kiii<lre«l I rnr»t| not much
to inqiiin- into. It wa« i : : r uh thnt vour di-ar nioihor's

nnme wiu down in the wilt ; nnd thnt tht> exerutor« pnmiiaed
■ooie dnjr to faithfully jx-rfonu tho ii ' uh of tht dt-nr

(leceajicd. "Ami wlien we ^'i t thin niom . i your niothrr to

Tiie in ft moment of conniiiiiAl confidence, " I Udl you what we'll
do with it — I tell you, my love, what wr'll do with it." A* I
knew she Would pnx-eed no furtln-r until I U'u'fjeil to know her
intentionii, I at once put the qu«i«lion. '" What, my ili-are»t,
what will vou do with it I" ** Whv, mv love," niMWi-red vour
pnreiit, her eycfi Hftarklini; with pleaj«ure, "we'll takf thf pintc
out f>f {tawn, ami };iv«« a party." Ye* ; the j.'rent i,Taliticfttion to
W frathereii from the lepwy wax, that we mi^ht fta/«h our fonr tea-
ii|HH>nH and i>air of ton^r* in the ey«Tt of |M<ipU' f..r whom we h.nd
not the iili;,'iitej*t esteem ; and to one of wh<iiu your mother hail,
I know, on thre« occaaioiu captioiiiily refuaed the loan of her
bellowa.

You will find, aa yf the worhl, that your
ipother'H tea-»i>o«»n« and ton:.'^ are, all«eit the humMe, yet th»' true
repr»^'ntAtive« of wh<>le hufTrt.** of plate. You will )M>i«Hili|y find
Toiiiiw-ll invited to fea*t with a man who cares not a tittle
wi ether you nave a dinner or not ; hi>t only ol.ject is to hh"W
you your enviou.s face in hia goMen salvers, U) make your niouth
wat«T with hi.s I)utch fniit pier«i; in a word, not to fill your
Wily with hi.H turtW- and v«-ni,s->n, l»ut to abaacyour mind with a
projitrating seiiae of his wt-alth. He takes poesesaiou of your
;idniimtiun, jis a feudal chit-f rec€iv»>:< the homaj;e of hi.s vassal.
And this you are to consider the true use — the real dignity of
wealth.

There are 8ome enthu.<»iai»ts— th.it is, the generous mob of
philanthropists with empty jMK-ket.H — who vow that we.ilth is
only given to the rich in tni.-^t for the fxx>r. Whilst you remain
a paii}H?r, remain of thi.>< religion — when you obtain money, read
vour recantiktiou before Miilaa,

WEALTFI AND IT^ USE>, ETC. 4:.7

Pliilosoplu Ti* liHVi- IkIiI tliul till* fiuriim fto('if>i/^, if taken ii)to tiio
huiiiaii svhUmii, tfixU tort'liue inoiial rliiv of its inlu'reiit <jri«s-.rifs>>,
niul !•>• tlt*j.'ree>« tu UHMiiiiiliite tlu; tli«!i of eartlily man t«> tin- tiesh
of tli»? g(Ml8. Whether t^pUi l»e •w.iUowe*!, i»r a Hiithcieiit quantity
of it Ik- niert-ly nirried tit the |HK'k<l, tlie j,T:itofiil result is precisely
the Mtnie. ( oiiKnier iiuutlreiiit ot liie heavy purse-lxarein of tho
World, nn<l tell nie if it he otherwise witli them. They h;;*'e the
liueamentK of men ; they nrv hi|M-<l« liki- tlie jK>orest Wjrpar : but
tlieir moral and jihysieftl nvHteiuM are no col<*ure(l, mo jMriueated
with tlie j»reciou8 metal, that they are creatures ipiite apart from
the onli nary nice of mortal*. l»o th<'ir daily ael» l»otniy their
affinity with them ? Are they n««t fw far aUive the pauper who
qut-nfliet* IiIh thirst nt the hrook, an the pau]KT altove the froj,' h»»
diHturltK th -re ?

I tliink I havp heanl you say, you love the face of Natui-e ?
The o|H'n sky — the lields, the treeK, the shininj; river, all are
glorioua to you I My dear boy, wlintevcr niay hv your present
doIii;ht in ct>ntcmplatinj; these object*, nn yet you know nothing
t>f their value. l>«>k upon them with the eye of a pr>ipnetor,
and mhat ft bloniu will come upon the picture I Kv.ry bit of
turf will be an emerahl to you ; every gnui.sliop{>er will chirrup
— a very an-.'el to your •elf-compl.icemy ; every tree, moveil by
the wind, will bow to you an you p.-iss by it ; the Very tibh iu the
river will

" Show to the tun thrir war'd coats dropp'd with (told,"

reflectinjr there tfour wealth, and not their beauty. Nay, that
portion of the sky which rains and shines its bleMsings u{M>n your
1h!iiI, you will lH-hold a* yours ; \e;i. human j»ride, stioui; in it«
faith of piiijH-rty, will read ujmu the face of heaven it»tdf— »
** Mkum I " Every sunltenm will l>e to you as t^-mgible as if it
Mere an inj:r>t. How delicious and how entmncinj; must have
been the feelinpj of A<lam when he awoke in Ldcn, to find him-
eelf— a landed jiroprietor !

If yf>u can walk the lield.s aiid look upon the sky with these
ennolilin;; emotions, then, mv son, vou will know the real merits
— the true uses of wealth. You will then own that it is only the
man of money who can worship Nature as she ouj.dit to be
wiirshipj^ed ; in:u<much as it is only he who cm truly est'uiate
her thousand beauties ; who can feel his heart rise .-ind <,dow
a-s hesurvp_>'s her charms ; and, putting his hands iu his pockets,
can love her with a lover's tenderness.

This man, rejoicing on his own land, meets something in shape
like himself |>lo<lding the sod. This two-legged animal envies
the squirrel in the wood — the hare he has startled from its form '

458 PUXCH'S LETTKR3 TO HIS SON.

Ii«' lias iiotliiiifT ; liis very liniui:* ure iiseles-s to liiiit : lie in ilcnied
a Hpaile to litlve witli, :i ploii'/li t<i muile. I'oor \vr-t<li I he ia
incrusted with ii,'n"»ratjce ; i"i<Ver»Ml like a tortoise. WluU eye*,
what tlioii;,'htj« has lie fur the lovelinetis of Nature ] Ixft tlio
pmcious gentleman wlio owiw the soil and the {>au|>er encuni-
hviiiij^ it, «it with him upon two hillocks Jiiiil ili.sonirse on the
lovelimtw of life.

Wi'll. tlt^y have tnlko«l thi-re three hours ; for see. the sun u
M.Hziri'.: ill thf west, Wlmt have ymi h< anl fn»iii the inuii of
wriiltli / H:u* he not n|>okiii of Natuiv »•« a l>eiii;4naiil i;o«]»U-!«—
]);iH he not painteil life with the lilooni of Paratlirie Hiill u|»uu it t
HiH whole HiM'e<h li.-w Ih-.-ii a thaiiks,'iviii<4 I What have you
heaiil froiu the |Miu|H.-r I— evidence of grua-seut i;,'norauce.

** A primrov? tir a ri»pr'» hrim,
A jvllow priiiirnM- i« l<> liiin —
Ami it i» riothintf m<>rv."

lie look.s upon the mead.-*, pmnke<l with a thousand flowprs. with
a he.ivv, leaden look ; tin V are, he says, to him a hl.ink — a
nothiiiL.'. — Aiid f'T life, h*: fecin i' iii'>st whvu it is gnawing at
Ills liowels.

Will you, after thi««, my son, «iy that one of tlie hi;,'hest uses of
Wealth is not to quicken our apprehension to the thousand
be.iiities showeni! almut us f Hence, my child, the inevitable
iiiti Uigence and suj>erionty of the rich — hence, the gloom and
ci.i.^situile of the jM-or. If vou love nature, you must obtain
winlih for the true — the lawful enjoyment of her. You must
wed her with a golden ring.

Il.iving olitained wealth, you nre only to consider your own
gnitifio.ation iu its outlay. There are foolish ]»eople wlio stint
their ap|»etitea of m.iny plp.i.sant filliiw, that when the worm ia
wriggling in their shrouds their thankful children may be sure of
dinners. I^-ave your children U» shift fur themselves — Desti-
tution is a tine whetstone to ingenuity.

In the ctiurse of my travels, I once entered a church in
Aiiisterdain. I wa.s attracted to a monunieiit bv a [>air of
filipIHi-s, cut in niarhle ; and underneath wad written, as I waa
toKI, in Flemish, —

" JcsT ENoron."

I found upon inquiry that this was the monument of a wi.'^e, rich
man. who resolved to m.ike his living appetites the tomb of his
wtalth; and so nicely adjusted his outl.iy, that when he died
noiiglit wa.s left of his ninguificent fortune but his pair of old
slippers. '" I: h juat enough,'' he said, and expiied.

HOW TO CHOOSE A FRIEND, ETC. 459

TliPi-e are rich men who live and die in the spirit of the
FI<'riiisli spondtliril't : for to them, this world — aud this world
oui^ is — "Just Knuuuu."

LETTEi: XVI.

now TO cnoosE a fuiknij: the iurposes of rniK.NnsniP.

A STuKY of *' KRIKNDS."

My dear Rjy, — Choose your fri«iid as you would choose an
orange ; for his ^'«il<leii outjjide lUid the iiroiuise of yielding ntuch,
when well 8<|uef/f<l.

I^ord ('li»>>^tt rlield has beautifully and truly remarked -. " whnt-
ev.r is worth doimj at all, is worth Join;/ veil" This axiom
ajuilii-s ailmiiahly to tin- tivatmjfnt of a frienil.

There is no surer evidence of a contented meanness of spirit
iu a youu-^ niau, than a dis|>08itiun to cliil> a Irii Mil.^liip wiih
merely his eipials in life : whilst, on the other liand. the anient,
speculative mind, that, lookiiiL; aliroad fur a commuiiitpu of feelinj^,
BelecLs his rylades froin tlie rich and powerful, imlieates a just
knowledge of the whole and sole })ur|)oses of human friendship.
^Vi)at is its ohj^'ct ? Is it not to succour ami assist tlie man elected
for its twin brother \ And how are you, j>oor and powerless, to
expect aiil and practical consolation frniu one as iiel|>less as your-
self ? Can tlie naked clothe the naked \ Can the l>. ggar bestow
hims u|K>n the In-ggar / No; be a.ssui-ed of this truth ; it is to
defeat the pur]x»se of all friendship, it is to frusti-ate its most
Wnelicent and humanising end, to ally yourself with any com-
panion, who cannot better your fortunes: to wlu.m you cannot
on all occasions resort, either for the interest of his word, or for
what must be indisputably acceded to b<' the purest, the noblest
offering of the human soul. — ready money.

For a poor man to l>oast of a j)Oor man for his friend, is to
flourish in the face of the world an empty purse. To such a m-iu
a jwor friend is a clog, an incumbrance ; a reduplic.itioii of his
own wants ; an ex.-igiiei-ation of his own squalor. What should
Lazarus do but burden Laz;iru3 ? To enter into such a compact
is to make friendsliip a bubble — the echo of a name — an e:upty
8t>und !

IIuw different your condition with Gloriosus for yoiu friend !
The je^^el on your linger is a briili.iut evidence of the value of
fciendship. The hoi-se you sometimes ride proves to y« m-self aud

460 prxcjrs letters to his sox.

all the worM that amity in a HiilMtontinl ni.iUcr ; thf biir^mdy
tl):it at (iloriortus'* table Ix-ara* in y<»ur eyes, ami circtiLitta* in
ycjiir »yst<iii, inakefl your bo.-wmi gl<>w with tlie BweelcBl feeliiigB ;
:uul you lay your haufl upon your heart, atul feel frien<lHiii|> to bo
a lovely, a m<«st Butljeiiij^ thing ! Thus, yi>u buiM an sltar to
frieiitlship in your very Belf. You an- a bn-athiii^. njoviuj^,
R.itin-cheekeil evidence that frieniLship is not, what cynii-s auJ
niis-intliro|>cfl call it, a thin;; of air — the dream oi ftM^U.

Can you <]•» thirt if you han^ ui>ou the nkirtM of yi.ur feilow-
|M>or ? No, my ttjiu Therefore, if yi>u have a nature cupal)le
of frlendithip, — if you woulil prove U) the worhl the .sur]>a&<in^
beautieH of the fi-elinj; which |KH>t/i have Hunt;, and Ra;^e.H melo-
dioUHly diHTdunwd of, — hang on the rich, select the man of
mealtli, an<l him only for your fnend ; dwell and glitter in liin
btitfiru like Iuh diamond ahirt-Htud.

Poimil ly t' iv l>e ill-mannered p*M>plo who f«>r thin will

rail yi.u a t '-r. Ia'I theiu : I will in few word;*, and from

truthful hii»t4>rv, t^rach vou how to ajMwer them.

The ill jiaturt'd aiif iijuaries of the Neth>rIar»d-<, wiih bile
ajaiii.xt the |>.>lit«'!*t nation upon eartli — i>f counK-, I njean the
French — haveileclare*! that what are now <|uartere<) ai the lilies
of France, were orijjinally toads. Tlie Ablio DuboM gives a
rea-utnablc exeuoe for this ; an exctute that ou^ht to disarm
niali^^'nity of its sneer ; the French c<iuld not help it. The
Gennanic nations — the Fren<-h then Ix-ing a f«rt of them — having
t ; 1 all tin- 1 terriblf bird.-* and Im-.iMs, Huch a*

r.i^ . mns, gr _ lid thf Ilk'-, lift nnthih^' wiiatever

for the |ioc»r Franks; who wen? therefore com|»clleil to go to
the pud'lle.t f«ir their bearin-.^, and so content«Ml them-wdves with
a tiiad. Thitt tooil, in pnxx-HS of time, leamic metani')r)iho«ed
into a bee, for on the 2Tth of May, ir>.>,'>, the (*ui"6 of St. Brie,
at Tournay, wishing to enlarge his wine-cellar, the workmen he
bad employed ujxin that l»encvcdent objinrt. came plump ujxm the
Coffin ot King t'liilderic I. It w.xs then discoven-d that upon hia
Maji-siv'ii royal nd* were sewed innumerable golden bees.
Tlie.ie w.-re Rulwt^^^uently removed In the royal cabinet of France.
Whether, however, they took tli;;ht at the r\-volution, 1 know not.
** I do not doubt," says the Abl»c DuIkw, " that our befji, by the
i^'nonuice of painters and sculptors, have b«.»eome filieM." Lilies,
that, accordiu'i to >Lilherbe, were once especially fragrant in the
QosiriL of John BuU.

" A liur odeur I'Anglsi* «• rclichsnt,
Nnire auntie tm revhrfchsnt.
Et i'E>pairn"l, prodigo nuTrriiltox,
L'eMc detrc urgueilleu&."

HOW TO CHOOSE A FRIEND, ETC. 4«l

Yon may risk me, my Uon, wli;it luw tlii.s anrnju.-nian ii.:iiKiiole
■boiit lliL- toads, the bet's, .•«iul llie lilies ol" Kniiicf, to <li» with the
le88uii 1 would propound ou the bcuuty of frieud:>hip f My sou,
bf iiislriicted.

Let the envious call you toad-cat*r ; make you of that toad a
golden {>ev, still {gathering honey from your friend, and turiiing
it to your private advantnjje. And then, if detrictiou accuse you
of hoarding from the treasures of yuur Pylades, declare vour
friend«hip to have no bee-like propensity wluitever, but that it
{;row« in your heart, pure aiid odorous ma —

•• The hly, lady of the flowering field."

Thus, when the worhl throws the toad in your face, take a
le.ssou of the Frenchmen, ami <lecl.ire there was never aught
tiKul-like in the matter ; but alway.i, always a lilv ! Toa<ls y<.u
never eat ; you only snutf lilies.

Friend.ihi|i, like love, may, I know, have very o«ld beginnings.
I .s|x.ak, however, t>f the friend«liip of .Himpli-tDiis .and |>eniiiltHs
iiilhusiiust-H. 1 will mirrate to yuu what 1 think a very comicil
incident, illustnttivo of the mysterious working of friendship.

LiiUtenant Montgomery luul seen much milit.ary service.
However, the wan* were over, and he hml ni>uglit to do, but to
luunge .IS l»est he could through life u|»oii half])ay. He wjis one
day Utkiug his ease at his tavern, when he (<bf»erved a sti-angci,
evidently a foreigner, g;izing intently at him. The lieuten;int
apjK.;uid not to notice the iulrusio'i, but shilteti his pnsition,
A short time, Jiud the stranger shifted too, and still with
uublenrhe<l gaze he stared. 'J'his w;i8 too much for Montgomery,
who rose and approached his scrutinising intruder.

'• Do you kuow me, sir } " asked the lieutenant.

'* I think I do," answered the foreigner. He was a Frenchman.

" Have we ever met before ? " continued Montgomerv.

" I will not swear for it ; but if we have — and I am almost
sure we lu-ive," said the stranger, " you have a sabre cut, a deep
one, on your right wrist."

" I have," cried Montgomery, turning back his sleeve, and
displaying a very broad and ugly scar. " I didn't get tliis for
nothing, for the brave fellow who made me a present of it,
I repaid with a gash across the skull."

The Frenchmiin bent down his Ji-^d, parted his hair with his
hands, and s;ud — " You did : you may look at the receipt."

The next moment they were in each other's arms. They
became bosom friends for ii^'e.

402 PUNCH'S lt:tti:rs to his son.

LETTErv XVII.

Olf rOLITICAL FLATTRKT. — THE SKVIA. GOBLET.

One GemclH C.irreri, a travt-lloil It.ilinn. hns proaerve<] tbe
followinp Btury. Pon<ler on it, my son ; f(»r, tluly consi«]ere<l,
'twill Ir- foiiml tn m.^liriiie the noMest w.irMly wisilom.

You lijive dnulitless lie.inl of Sliah-Al».\s. calU-il the fJi-«.it ?
If not, it is no matter. A goo<l story is just as p<vm1, and what
may soem strange t^i your unii|»e reflection, is just as tnUy
vliether the hero of it ever lireil or not. To the pliihisnuhic
mind, Ti>n> Tlmnih is as iTal a thin^' a.s Aloxamler. Tiie wise
man is a.s well taught by a shadow, a.s by Ctesar at the head of liis
Jij^ions. — Ili'wevtr. to ^et baok to Shah-Abas. Iff ^r.^s a grr-at
man, for he kill<'d a certain kiiij,' of the U-sln-i-ks ; and Iia\ in;,' killi.'<l
him, did not ingloriously thrust all his carr.-iss into a hole, but
]>reservefl the royal skull from wonns and tlarkni"ss. and made it
tlie com|>anion of his can>us;il:< and his nierrj' night.s. Briefly,
the great Shah-Aba.s had tlie king's skull set in gold, for a
<lrinking cup. Well had it l»een for the world, had all kingly
skulls been ever as socially enijiloTed I "Die Shah died ; anil for
vhat wt- know, had a mt-rry laugh in the shades with tlu- king
of the UsWcks, when he met and told him of the late hotij-s his
skull still kept on the earth, of the wine that sparkled in it, of
the free talk that passeii alM>ut it, of the jokes that were cracked,
of the songM that were chirmpped ! Tlie Shah's descendant
luuch treasured the skull ; and feeling death to T>e the great
teacher, never slept, without tiking coj)ioiis advice from the king
of the Usbecks. It hapi>ened that the Usl)eck people sent an
ambassador to the Shali's descendant, to pennit and ratify a
treaty of commerce. In those days, commercial piinciples were
in the bud ; and therefore, the jirejudice of the Usbecks is not to
be considered in the strong light of present wisdom. Tlie
Usbecks prayed that they might be pennitted to exiwu-t their
fleas free of duty into the realm of the Shah ; offering as an
equivalent, to admit the Shah's blue-bottle flies on the same
enlightened footing. The question, as you may conceive, was of
great national importance : many of the oMest l"sl>ecks declaring
they were a lost folk from the moment they admitted blue-bottles
duty free : whilst some of the Shah's jteople maintained the
exclusive privilege of their fleas, as though they were creatures
of their own flesh ; and loudly clamoured for stringent retstrio-
tioQS, fur the sh.-irpest scrutiny. Every Ui?beck should be

THE SKULL GOBLET. 4«3

pearclit'il to tlie skin, to ini'vciit tlie smu.r.!,'liii!,' of floa.s : w'lllat
the U.slK-cks, firing at tliis, tlire.itened to tlirow up ;i line of
oKservatoriea on tlie fiitutiei-s to jw^event the entry of a single
bliii--liottle into tlieir kingdom. Tlie Sliali's ^K'nple were )»ot
l>eliiu<lliaiul ; for albeit tliev had all along admitted the L'sbeoks'
sheep, they jirayed the Shah that he would hencefortli have
every bejist shaved bare as his hand, fleas having been known^
it hatl been proved ujton committee — to be conveyed into the
kingdom liy niean.s of the wcxjI. The jMjnple also called for an
army of inspection on the annual flight of the swallows from the
Usl)ecks to the country of the Shall : they, t^io, had brouglit
llejus into the country, to the manifest injury of the home-breeder.

^Litters were at the height, when the Shah gave a handsome
baiKpiet to the amb.ussador of the U.s\ieck.s. In the midst of the
iollity, the Shah called, in tlie irony of his heart, for the loving-
cup. The cup-bearer ai>i>ro;iched, and on ben<led knee presented
the skull of the Usbeek king ; the ambassador started at the
indignity ; and felt a nervous contraction of his fingers that
Buddenlv seemed to hunger for the handle of his scimetar.
Another scetmd, and he had certainly made a cut at the throtit of
tlie Sh.ili, when his eye falling on the goblet-skull of his late
revered monarch, he thought he saw the bcjiiy cavity, wherein
wa.s wont to roll and flash the burning eye of fiery despotism,
quickly and most significantly contract as with a wink, and the
j.iw-bone slightly move, as much as to look and say — " Don't
make a noodle of yourself." Ilappil}-, too, at the same moment,
the Usbeek ambassador felt the fleas of his native country close
Rt his bosom. The ambassador smiled.

"What think you of the goblet?" asked the Shah, with a
very ungentlemanly leer.

" I think," said the ambassadoii " my monarch was most
happy, most ho'.ioured, in falliug by the hands of a great king:
but he is still hajipier, still mf^ry honoured, in liaving his skull
preserved by a greater."

The king was mollified : from that moment the Usbeek fleas
hopped without any fiscal restriction into the Shah's dominions,
and the blue-bottles of the Shah, without let or hindrance on the
jiart of custom-house mercenaries, sang their household music iu
the jiarlours of the Usbecks, and in their hospital larders made
provisions for their oviparous little ones.

I trust, my son, you can ajjply the moral of this veracious
story ? If the amb:i.ssador had given vent to his rising imagina-
tion — if on the introduction of the ro)'al skull, he had delivered
liim.-elf of some red-hot sentence or two,— why, the anti-flea-law
bigots had triumphed. Until this day, perhaps, fleas had been

4«< PUNCH'S LITTERS TO UlS S(»N'.

f(iiiui;v,'U-d into the laii>U uf tlie Sh:ih ; nixl Miie-lxtttles, nave as
|».U tor tlie ricli, l>f»,'ii iinkiKiwii in the lainl of tlie Usliocka.
iiut thi- aiiil»:usji.iii<>r riglitly Uikinjj tlie wink from the royal
vkull, tlie luwe8t subject of the Shnh has the luxury of tieaa ;
wliilrtt fly-lilowii iniiltoii — uliowin):^ he can get oiuttou at all — ia
nitliiii the naih of the nie:aiebt Usl»e«k.

Here, my Hon, you jierceive the beauty, the utility of political
fl.vttery I If Fortune, »leteru»ining to show a i,'reat exan)i>le to
nieu, resolve to ni;ike you a cabinet minister, en;,'rive this story
on your heail. Never «lo any |M.litical act by Htnii^'htforward
nieano. Always t;o roiiutl about your |Miri»ose. Anil for this
rearviii ; .Htnii;.'htf>>rw;ir«l liuneMty \a tlie Lust re-soiin-e of a fool —
mere lione.-ty i.s the %vhilc chicken's f.;ither in the cap of the
simpleton.

Y>'U were six ye.-ir* oM when I t'Mik you Uj see my friend
Mr. I'olito's eleph-tnt, .ind trave you a h:tlf|>eiiny. With a nascent
generosity, which nearly brouj^ht tears to my paternal eyes, yoa
flunji down the cop|>er coin at the feet of the majestic animal
Kemi-ml>er yo>i not your tir>*t wonder, when the el<-pliant took
the haltpenny up ( Wiiat a curve he f?avc hid trunk ! How
iiwaiy bendin;^ and turnings he employed ere he placed the
hilf|»«-iiny c;ike, piir<-h.*i.sed with Christian-like .Hjiirn<-ity of the
trailesm.'in ne;ir his lien, in his cajta-'ious uiouth I The same
action employed by that elephant to pick up a half]N'nny, would
be appli<-d to tin- tearing; up of the forest pl.me. My son, the
elephant is a practical |Militi-iau : nmeiulK-r him, anil if you ;,'et
exalted, do nothing great or small unle-ss you do it with a twist.

As the remainder of the sheet is not surticient for us to di.scusa
a new subject, l<-t me fill up the bl.kuk that remains with a few
tliouj,'hts on the drinking; goblet of the Shah. In the matter of
kings, you must acknowledge, from what I narratetl, that their
intiueuce p:is.-.e8 not from the e.-irth with their death. Though
they are nothing, lor gixxl or ill, their skulls — so to 8[>eak —
rem.-iin. What a great lessou does Naf>oleon otf» r to those French-
men who every morning w.-ish thenj.selves ! Undei-staml lue.

The French are, above all nations of the earth, a people ol
practical wisdom — of pnu-tical morality. They make the glory
of their great n>en a household thing.

Napideon is ou his death-l>ed, his eagles flee upon their golden
wings to darkne.Sij — the trumpet wails in his ear — the l:ist llutter
of his heart rises with the muttering drum — and " teU (Tannee ,'"
is his death-sob. X:i|Hjleon is <lead. A few minutes — the jdiister
is poured above tlie tiice of imperial clay, and jx.sterity is insured
the iwa ejfiijiei of that thuudexbolt of a man, just as the bolt
tras spent.

ON SOCIAL FLATTERY. 465

Now tliat face, in its droodful c;iliuiios-<, is nuiltiplied in silver
— jii btx)ii/e — in marble — in riclnst metal and in purest stone !
And now, to teach a daily lesson to the common mind, that
awful countenance, with the weight of death upon it, is sold
molflled in — soap !

Thus, have we not monU reflections brought to the very
fin iters' ends of tlje people ? As the mechauic cleanses his
palms, and feels his em|)eri>r'rt m.se w.ustiuij away in his tingers
he tJiiuks of Mai'eugo and Ausl«rlitz ! With the imperial face
the pickiKK-ket makes his hamls clean from l:vst night's work
thinking the while of the rifled halls and galleries of Itiily : the
butchir, new from his inoriiinLj's killing. w;i.shes his h;iu<ls with
the coimteuaiice of the emperor, the while he muses on Waterloo,
aud uhi-stles the "Downfall of Paris:" and the philosopher
jX'»'ps into tho tub, and sees tin- type and memory of the warrior's
deeds in bubbles llouliug u]x>u dirty water.

LETTEll XVIII.

ON SOCIAL FLATTERY : 8TORT OF THE DOO POSTO — PIQ AND

PRDNB 8AI7C1C.

Mr DEAR Son, — Having in my last dwelt upon flatteiy, aa
necessary to the success of a politician, I dedicate this letter to a
consideration of its utility to every man who would, by the
exercise of his wits, make his way in the world. There is a
negative flattery, as there is a positive flattery. A knowledge of
the one is equally vit^il with the practice of tlie other. For
instance : — You would conciliate the good graces of a man of
wealth or interest ? You hang and flutter about him for the
bounty of his purse, or tiie magic of his good word in high places.
This man may be a fool : I do not, understand me, fall in with
the \"ulgar cry of j^>aupei"3, that every man who is bom rich is
therefure born brainless ; but your patron, or the man you would
ni;ike your patron, may be a fool ; and, consequently, is the more
frequently tempted, like the climbing ape, to show his natural
destitution. I think it is Mr. Addison who says, " He who is
iiijur-d, and having brought his enemy on his knees, declines to
punisli him, was born for a conqueror." This is the sentiment,
though not perhaps the exact words ; for I have long since put
aside The Spectator with your mother's cracked china. Mark mv
W'U, a higher, a severer test of magnanimity He who hears the

▼OL I. ' H H

466 nWCirS LETTERS TO HIS SOX.

a)x>rtive jest of a rich fool, yet refuses to turn his folly insiile ont>
is bom to fiiipcr rea'ly money. This, my son, is flfttttry \>y
m-^'ative. Have what wit you will, but cairy it — as courtiers
carry their swords in the royal presence — in the scabbard.
Siitfur your jwitron to nui yt>u, as he thinks, through an»l throuj;h
•with his wooden da^'^er of a joke ; but never Itt yourself be
temptcil to draw. Flattery has its martyrdom, the same as
rf'li^'ion — and this is of it. Bear all the wounds inflicted upon
you by Wraith with a njerr\' face ; join in the latii;h that's raised
agnin-st you ; but as you value success in life, ntvi-r show an inch
of steel in self-defence. Men who do otherwise may be ckronicled
for brave, cxjicif wits ; but th»'v die Ix'^t^'ars.

Come we now to positive flatt<ry. Whatever dirty-shirted
phil<'S>>phera may say to the contrary, flattery is a tine social
thing ; the beautiful handmaid of life, castin^j flowers and o<Jori-
ferous herbs in tlie paths of men, who, cnisliini; out the sweets,
curl up their noses as they snutf the o<lour, and walk half an inch
hij^her to heaven by what they tread upon.

Your icit rill is an a«s : you hear his ) : '- ' is :

asinui i.s writun all over him in Nati. ud.

Well, by delicately dwelling upon the melodious wisdom of his
worils — by ' touching on the intellectual Wauty with

which fate : lowed him, you make him for the time love

wis<loni Iwcause he thinks it a part of him.self — you draw his
a-iiuii.-it ion towards the expression of the intellectual every time
he looks in a mirror. You are thus, in an indirect way, sernng
the cause of wis<loni and intellect by jugglin;^ a fool into a
worshipiwr. I>ct it be granted, that yon have your reward for
tliis— that, in fact, you undertake the lal>our for the wapos of
lile : what of it \ In not the task worthy of payment ? When
men, in the highest places too, are so well paid for fcKiling
common sense, shall there be no fee for him who elevates a
nincompoop ?

You see an ass browsing upon thistles. On this you fall into
raptures at his exquisite taste for roses ; the ass, with great
complacency, avers that he always had a peculiar relish for them.
Tlie ass brays. Whereuyion you make a happy allusion to the
vibrations of the >E<jliau harp. The ass declares it is an instru-
ment above all others he is most inclined to. Are not roses
and ."Eolian harps thus honoured, even by the hypocrisy of
admiration %

Believe whatever the rich and powerful say ; that is, seem to
believe it. Albeit they narrate histories wilder than ever Ario.sto
fabled, averring themselves to have been eye and ear witneases
to what they tell, yet, without a smile upon your face, gulp it aJL

ON SOCIAL FLATTERY. 467

Thon2;h the stories be long and nanseons as tape-worms, yet
swallow them as thouLrh they wore delicate as macaroni. You
recnllect Sir Peter liullhead ? He owed all his fortune to a dog.
I will tell yon the story.

In early life, Sir Peter became footboy to Lord Tamarind ; a
man who returned from the East Indies with a million of money,
and his liver no bigger than the roasted liver of a capon. Lord
Tamarind was a liar of the very finest courage. There was no
story he would not undertake, and make his own. Had he
resolved upon it, he would have been present at the siege of Troy,
and more, have shown you the knee-buckles he had, in single
combat, wim of Nestor.

Ix)rd Tamarind had a favourite story of a dog : which story he
would di-ag in upon all occasions. His Lordship, go where he would,
never went without his dog. "Very curiou.s, indeed, very ; and
t;dking of that, reminds me of an extraordinary anectlote of a
dog. You never heard it, I know ; a remarkable case of con-
science, — very remarkable ;" and then his Lonkhip proceeded —
his hearci-s meekly resigning themselves to the too familiar tale.

" Ycu must know that in li;it;ivia — it wa.s when I was there —
there was a certain Dutch merchant ; I mention no names, for I
respect his family. Well, tliis merchant — a sliocking thing ! —
he was a married man : sweet little woman — five or seven
children, and all that. Well, this merchant — very dreadful ! —
kept a mistress, country-house, and all things proper. Well,
every evening he used to leave his lawful liome to pass an hour
or two with the fatal syren. He had a dog, a faithful, humblo
dog, that always followed him ; — that was, moreover, greatly
petted by the illegal enchantress. The dog, being particularly
fond of his lawful mistress, became, day by day, very uelancholy,
Bad, heavy-eyed and moping.* Then arose suspicions of hydro-
phobia — talk of poison, double-barrelled gun, and all that. StiJl the

• The sagacity of Ponto is nothing to the sensibility of the race of King
Charles's spaniels, that ever since the martyrdom of Charles the First have
betrayed an inconsolable melancholy. The spaniels lost their liveliness
when Charles lost his head. We take this assurance from a French author.
In the Journal des Chasseurs, ou Sporting Magazine Franqaii, for March

1842, will be found the story as related by the Comte de St. P . The

Count in the autumn of 1841, is shooting with a spaniel, when he falls in
wuh an Englishman, who enlarges in this way (as told by the Countj on
the merits of spaniels generally : —

" ' Cesont des queteursinfatigables', me dit-il; 'excellens pour les fourres,
dont ils fouillent les moindres buissons : nous les employons beaucoup en
Angleterre, oQ le prix de tel indi^-idu est, suivant sa genealogie, fort eleTo.
// n'ya gti'un sexd reproc/ie a letirfaire;' mais, ajoute-il,'ce defaut s'appliqu*
maiheureuiement a I'espece entiere.'

B H 2

463 rUXCH'S LETTERS TO HIS SON".

dogfoUowc'l hia roaster on hia evcninqf c.ill. One evening, howeror
— all liay lung it lia<l l>een remarked that Ponto was more than
usually iijfilitative — the dog paused at the DalilahV door. * Puiito,
Ponto,' cried the merchant, gaily entering the ab<>du of wicked-
ness, and whistling hia dog to follow him — ' Ponto, Ponto ! ' — But
the dog stood with hia fore-feet on the iloor-st^-p, and wouldn't
budge. ' I'onto, I'unto — sweet Ponto — good Ponto,' cried the
wicked woman herself, coming to the door, and offering from her
white hanil the whitest cake, i'onto wa.s immovable. Then
'«okiug at his master, the dog shook his head four or five times,
an mu'jh as to say, 'Ar'n't you ashamed of yourself?' — sighed
very deeply, and ilropj)ing hi.s tail, walked solemnly home. The
merchant w.-w soatfected by the dog's reproof, — (all this happened
while I w.'is in Ritavia,) that he followed Ponto back to his
lawful hearth, and for the rest of his natural life was never
known to make an evening call again."

Lord Tamarind had time uej>hews ; he cut every one off wi',.i
a -xhilliug for having boisterously expressed a doubt of the truth
of what had ocourred whilst he wa.-* in liatavia ; but Peter Bull-
head, wlio never failed to ask for the story of the dog — Peter,
who had risen from footboy to his Lordship's secretary — inherited
all the penK>nal property of the Eastern story-teller. My son,
every rich man has some sort of Ponto.

There will be occasions when it may be necessary for you
to use considerable address. You must not flatter one at the
expon-te of another ; that is, when you h.ave equal hopes of each.
A frieiiil v( mine, who had lived all his life at court, told me a
i>tory that will illustrate what I mean. It happened that the
king and queen were in the garden, and some of tlie courtiers
with them. Aly friend was called by the king. Now it happened
that their majesties were so placed that my friend couUl not go
to the king without turning his back — an act at court only little
less than high treason — uj>on the queen. Here was a dilemma !
'• And how did you get out of the scrape 1 " I asked my friend.
" In this way," he answered, " I walked aidexcays." I have known
many juen in life get to the golden gate of fortune by walking
every inch of the path — sitleways.

In your flattery of mankind, you must also discriminate
character, lest you throw away a valuable commodity. I have
known men so unprincipled, that they have received the incense

— ' Et quel est-il ? ' demandai-je a mon intcrlocuteur,
— ■ Ils soNTTKisTEs'— reprit^rai-eme>i< celui-ci — ' liepvis la xout no
koi Charles ! ' "

— < Ui'on this, the Count obserTCs, as well he may^, —
*' Sa^ierstition uaive et touchante ! "

THE PHILOSOPHY OF DRUNKENNESS. 46t

of adulatiou half tliL-ir iiv'c.s, iiuii, <l\iuy, liave Ictt the man whd
burnt his uiynh uml IVaukiuccuse for tlieiu, uothiiig in reward
but a miserable jest iu the codicil.

Tliere was my j»our frieud Snifl't<in. He hated pig and prune-
sauce ;ls he hated a poor rehitive. Nevertheless, lor twenty
years did he cousent to eat it at his uucle's table ; uor could he
hud words rich enough wherewith to do honour to uncle's pig
and prune-sauce. Uncle died. 'Thank heaven ! " cried Snifftou,
'• I shall now receive my reward iu hard CAsh fur my sacrifice to
that damned pig and prune-sauce." The will was read, and thus
wjis Sniffton rewarded :

" And 1 hereby give and bequeath to my dearly-beloved
nephew, Peter Sniffton, in consideration of his peculiar love of my
pii,' ami prune-sauce, the whole and sole — recipe whereby he may
cook it."

My son, be wary, and avoid such WTCtches.

LETTER XIX.

THE PIIILOSOrnT OF DRUNKENNESS : THE GENIUS OF THE CORK.

My DEAR Boy, — I know few things that tell so fatally against a
young man, when entering the world, as a weak stomach. I
therefore most earnestly entreat you to fortify it by every means
that may present themselves. It is true, that the increasing
effeminacy of the world requires of the ingenuous youth a less
capacity for the bottle than when I was young ; nevertheless, there
are occasions, when a man's previous habits and education will be
tested by vintner's measure. Can there be anything mure disgust-
ing than to see a young man aft«r, say, the third bottle, in a state
of maudlin drunkenness ? What tricks he i)erpetrate8 ! How he
lets all the world peep through the loop-holes of his soul ; and
how they who spy, grin at him and chuckle over the exhibition !
What, too, is the end of this ? I have known an otherwise
jn-omising young fellow so forget himself, as to render back in
the most ungracious manner the hospitality of the host, who —
suppressing his indignation by contempt — has ordered the
servants to take off the gentleman's cravat, and lay him upon
the mat for recovery. Then what running to and fro for vinegar
— what wet towels for the temples — what hints, in desperate
cases, of the lancet— until at length the wretched victim rol'ia
from side to side, and gargles his throat with — "Better--

470 PUN'CH'S LKTTEIIS TO HIS SON.

latter — ni-ocli bitter!" This is not only disgusting, — it is un-
prolital'le.

No, my son ; never get drunk — tlmt is, in company, — above
the girdle. There is a tlannunu'ter ot dninkeniuss which every
wise youu;.; man who hiis to elbow hiu way tlirough the world
would do well to consider. A m:in may be knee-drunk —hip-
drunk — shoulder-drunk — nay, chin-drunk ; Ijut tlie wine should
bo allowed to rise no higher. Then he .sit« with a fine fluency oi
speech — his counteuance brightened, his wit iri-adiat4'd by wijat
ho has swallowed. And, j^rhaps, tln-re is no situation in mortal
life which so ma-jnifiLvntly vimlicutos the ethere.d nature of man,
as that which pret«entM hitn to us triunijihing witl» ro«y face above
the mists and clouds of wiue that roll aroimd him ! He is like
tlie ]>eak described by the poet : although vapours obttcure him
midway —

" Eternal •nncliine settle* on hi* hratl."

Tliere he sits ! His toes, it is true, may be of-clay — bnt his head
is of lustrous gold. Like the oracles of the ancient day, he
Bj>eaks wisdom through the clomls that circle him !

My son, by all means lalM)ur to arrive at this blessed, this
most profitable condition. Then, though you stumble a little on
going away, your stumbling will never be seen ; for the potency
of your head and stomach has survived the obsen-ation of your
co-drinkers; and thus, though you arc helped to your hackney-
coach, a wine-skin, a very Silenus up to the shoulders, you have
the uncloudeil head of S - to adoni them I IIuw many a

Worthy gentleman lives ; : s with an umleniable cluiracter

for sobriety, from only having kept his head above the p>rt ! A
character is to be saved like a Ufe, by merely keeping the chin
alxive the fluid it swims in.

To obtain this power requires, I allow it, great practice :
therefore, as a scholar, make your bottle your private com-
panion. Take your liquor, as you would take your book, iu
profoundest solitude. "Try conclusions " with yourself iu your
own garret, that you may achieve victories in other men's
dining-rooms.

I know that shallow, inexperienced moralists declaim again.si
what they are pleased to call the vice of solitary drinking. Why,
there is no such thing. A man can no more drink alone, thau
he can drink without his shadow.

Pop ! There — the cork's drawn. GurgU — -gurgle — gurql^-^
good — good — good — No ! it is in vain ; there is no tj'pe — there
are no printed sounds (allow me the concetto) — to descriV>e the
uieiodyj the cadence of the out-pouring buttle. "Well, the bottle

THE PHILOSOPHY OF DRUNKENNESS. 471

has rendered its virgin soul- You Lave resolved to sate yourself
upon its sweetness. You think yourself alone. Oh, the vanity
of i^niorance ! Why, the curk of what is called a solitary
drinktr, drawn from the bottle, is an audible chai-m that calls up
a spirit— (aiigel or devil, according' to contending moralists) — to
come :uid sit with the toper. You have, therefore, only to retire
with a full bottle to your own garret to be sure of company —
aiid of the nuwt jtrofitable sort t-jo ; for your companion c;u-ries
away no drop of your liquor ; but there he sits with a jocund,
leering look, on that thn-e-legged stool ; and there ho tells stories
to you — and sings to your rapturous si)irit — an<l now hangs your
whiti'-w.-tslicd walls with Sidonian tapestries — and now fills your
?[apiiig pockets with ideal g"ld !

AVhat a world are you in I IIow your heart grows and grows !
liow, witli fnantic benevolence you rend a.side your waistcoat
(how yott'll hiuit for tlie t^'v dropt buttons in the morning !) to
tnvc tli« croai-'ire rcvuu for its utterjm>8t expansion ! What a
ligure you resolve to ma.ke in the "world ' What woman — nay,
what women — you -will msirry ! Now. you are gathering rose*
wiili t.laliviui' Louriij, — and now fwith old Hoasard) —

*' Poschnnt no sray tjMfiles pierrcB,
Au bord de I'lndique mtr! "

And whilst you take yom- flight here and there, how the spirit
evoked by th* cork hugs himself, and grins at you !

It is by such discipline, my son, that you will be enabled when
in society to maintain the look and something of the reiisomng
I lowers of a man, when your wliole cai-ca.«s is throbbing with
alcolioL You will also find a bottle the handmaid (bottles are,
evidently, feminine) of philosophy. After every night's good set
in with the genius of the cork, you will be the better able to
iudge of the true value of all worldly endowments. You will
also have a finer, a deeper, a more enlarged comprehension of
tbe weakness of human uature. If, before, you were not
sufficiently impressed with the utility of money, you will,
shortly after every visit of the genius of the cork, know its
iccixasing beauty. It may be, too, you liave not paid suflicient
anenlion to that wondixsus machinery — that complex simplicity
of the human ajiimal, — that you have not essftutially considered
your immortal essence to be what it really is —

" A soul, hung up as 'twere in chains, , .^

Of uerves, and arteries, and veins ! "

Tins inxittention will he remedied — this ignorance informed — by
freqiunt apj>eiUs to the bottle. You will, in a short time,

472 PUNCH'S lettp:rs to his son.

acknowlefipe the exquisite sensibilitj of the nerves ; for yoa
shall not b<' aide to lift ymir njorning tea-tMip without mar^'olliinj
at the woiulrijua machinery vihi-ating Ufore you. And the
tongue, too, — that <lelicate infttrunient of silver sounil, — that
shall lie like dry dirt in ymir month, hfMvy, hot, and vnioelesa f
And from thisy>m will leani and fe«l tluit man is clay, and be
at once raised and humbled by the knowledge.

Depend upon it, the Ixittle is the sprinjj. the true source of all
human inspii-ation — the fountniu from which all jJiilosopli- i-^ -dl
sages, have dnmk their l>e»t wi«dom.

What would have lieen Newton without a V>ottle ? l>u yuu
think he would ever have made his ijrand discovery unhiw he
had iliutnl finit 7 Sitting in hi.s orchard he saw an apple fall,
(what a part hare applet jjlayed in human hii«tory !) and as it fell
it tiirh' ' ' '-,! ' I)() you imn;^'ine that Newton would have
Ihxu .- . ~ ••ptible of the luniing of a pippin, if he had

not that tLiy dniwn a cork ? Stniek with the nascent idea, he
calletl for another bottle, — and then for another ; and wht-u the
philosopher had pondere^l upon the apj)le, had worked his
analogies, and had dnmk a thiiil iMittle, — he was convinced, that
not only had the apple spun as it fell, but that the whole world
turned round. If you would prove the centre of gravity — get
drunk.

My son, in conclusion, it is well to drink from jour own
bottle ; but it is still bett«r to drink from another nuui'a.

LETTKR XX.
ox rmt PHiLosorar or oaki5o.

Mt dear Son, — You will, I trust, after these many fond and
anxious epistles, look upon all men .xs divide«l into two chxises —
the men who eat men, and the n>en who are eaten. With this
conviction, it will, I hope, be your determination always to obtain
a^ood sufficing bellyful of your fellow creatures ; and never to
contribute in your own ji. rs. .n i siu<jle mouthful to the banquet
of the anthropophagi.

It is a vulgar mistake, the very crassitude of ignorance, to
look upon only those men as man-eaters, who dispatch their
victims with a club or tomahawk, and lighting the festive fire
make their own man an honourable tomb for their enemies. Thia
mode of eating only distinguishes the savage from his more

ON THE rHILOSuPHY OF GAMING. 473

refined brother, who disgiiises and sophisticates his cuukcTv, and
by the aid of certain social sauce, makes even himself forgetful
of the horror wliich — to use the cook's phrase — is the stock of the
feast.

In your J>oylii»nd, you wen.-, I knnw, a most active taker of
binls' ni'.sts. It w;is your dflighf to jmssess yourself of the eggs,
ere the process of incubation had commenced, and having very
adroitly sucked out the contents, you wouM thread the mere
shell on a piece of grass, as a troj)hy of your success and good
fortune. My dear boy, it is quite possible — indeed, it is everj
day aecomjilished — to treat tlie substance of men, as yovi liave
treated the eggs of larks and sparrows. How m.any succfs.sful
egg-siickei-s could I |x>int out to you, who applying tlu- th jusan J
means with which law and social chicanery supply every man,
wise and adroit t-nough to use tlu-in. have so sucked and suikeJ
tli:it they have left nothing but the mere outside — the fiagile
shells of men ! There is n>y old acquaintance, Barabbas Moses,
with his si.xty in a hundred. Twenty years ."igo he lived by
putting off jHiUciLs with ui)ocryphal lead in them. How ha.s he
grown thus rich — how has he become thus treble-gilt ? My son,
he has been a most enterprising egg-sucker. How many birds of
fine feather h.as he destroyetl in the egg — how many shells of
men might he wear al>out him I It is a poor thing to sc:ilp a
m:ui ; a coarse, rough, operation : but to feast ujjon ids vitals,
nay, to abstract his very marrow from him, to leave no Vilood-
mark there, yet leave him with suflicieut vitality ta crawl about
and lotik like a man, that, my son, is the master-piece of civilisa-
tion, the genius of refined life.

There is, however, a more open, a more generous mode of
li^'ing upon men ; a mode, dignified by fashion, exalted by
authority — I mean gaming.

The gamester is, indeed, a privileged person ; a creature, who
merges .all the petty, wearying an.vieties of life into one sublime
passion. Become a gamester, and you are fortified, nay, exempt
from the assaults of divei"s other feelings that distract and worry
less happy men. Gaming is a moral Aaron's rod, and swallows
uj) all meaner passions.

Consider, my son, the vigilance, the self-concentration, the
judgment, the quickness of wit, and at times, the dexterity of
finger, necessary to a successful gamester ; and you will look
upon the character with still-increasing veneration. Did you
ever know a gamester fall madly in love ? Did you ever know
him, if a married man, w;iste his profitable time, his profitable
thoughts, upon the woman he has Vmckled himself to 1 If he \>q
9 father, what is the laughter of his chiidi-en to the melody- of

474 PUNCH'S LETTKRS TO HIS SON.

the* iliro ? Wli.it, hiniiaii htiiilH to tin- ace an-l kitii; <»f tlio same
Kiiit, when truni{w ? lie ia exalted far alnive tlie wcakfiiiiii»
influences that pull ilown other men, and from his elevation
looks with a coM eye of diijnity upon tlie pettiness of human
tt'.r'-ctioiis. You will hear other men rave al>out the l>eautiea of
nature; of hill and dale, mountAin and floo<l. To the fjriuiester,
)iow small the space that bounds his imagination — but then
liow rich, how fertile — those half-ilozen yards of bright green
clotii !

You will liear men talk about the sweeta of industry ; of the
fli^'nity of lalwtur ; the more esjH'cially those men who never yet
B'-'l tii<'ir foot to a spade, or their hand to a plouj^h. The sweets
of industry ! what are they to the sweets of fortune ? And for
tlie dignity of laliour, pive me, say I, the dij^iity of luck !

Oliserve what ia cidled the inau-striniH man. Mark his d.aily
martyrdom. IIo rises early ; breakta^ts li)j;htly ; hurrioa otT
with his bread-and-butter yet undig(^te«l to hia lal>our. He toils
his eii^'ht, t«n, nay twelve h<»urs ; ooim-s Innnc ; eats his crust ;
and with hanlly slren>^th n-ujainin;; to takf oil" iiis stockinga,
blinks wearied to bed. lu a V»rief time — how very brief! — the
cock crowa, and the industrious n>an has sfrious thoiij^hts of
shaving : a^'ain he is up — again has he lx>lte<l hia morning meal,
— anil again is ho out to go o%'er the drudgery of how m.iny
thou.H.ind ye«t«'nlays ! The ye.-ir's wountl up ; and for all this
toil, this anxiety, this daily crucifixion of spirit, the industrious
man counts one — two — sliall wes-iy thn>e hundred gohh-n }>iecea ?
For all this tedious mia<'ry — thre«,' hundred (Ktunds !

My s«»n, turn your eyes to the gamester. IT vlau ho

likes — dalliea, at " his own aweet will," with hU i.^t. He

then lounges away the liours, pleasantly meditating on the
coming night. He enters the arena. With what a graceful
assurance doth he take the box in his haiuL Oni- — two — three ;
he throws sixes, and [KK'kcts 6ve hundred jxiunds ! What a
miserable, felon, outcast sneak-up does your industrious man
appe.ar after this I Wh.at a poor sweating slave ! Whilst on
the other h.uid, what an air of jMjwer is about the gamester !
What a glory — what a magic ! He inherits in one minute, by
the jx^tent shake of hia elbow, all that jxtor, sonlid labour we;ir8
ita back into a hoop for — its eyes into blindness ! Will you,
afler this, ever <lream of becoming that miserable negative — an
industrious man ? Dej>end upon it, the true jewels of life^
rightly worn — are the four aces. Uope has been vulgarly
pictured witli an anchor. Let your hope carry a dice-box !

As for luck, you may nearly always ensure that, if you pro
Dc-ly educate your perceptions, and your fiugci-s. Cultivaio

Till': PHIL0S01'H\ OF GLURY, ETC. 475

your thumb-u;iiLi, my dear boy ; tlie .smallest sacrifice to the
|>ei-suiial graces is not lost ujx>i» the gamester.

But I will take the worst side of the picture. You art doomed
to be uiiluoky — you are fated always to lose. You have no
genius — like the genius of Socrates, that always pojiped into its
niaster's Imnd the very trump retjuired — to aid and abet you.
The world turns its back on you ; and neither by cards nor dice
can you fob your bn)ther mortal out of a single guinea. Debts
ci>me in like the waves abotit you : you h:ive no home — no
abiding place ! This is the moment, my son, for you to exercise
the ujost heruie of virtues. There is cord — there is steel — there
are silver rivers. If you cuinot live, you can die ; and dying you \
will have this consolation : if you have steadily and inexorably
vindicated the character of a gamester, your death will inflict no
})ang upiiu a single creature left behind you ; and you will have
the ple;irting consolation to reflect that you never did the world a
greater bervice than when you quitted it.

LEITER XXI.

THE PIIlLOSOrilT OF OLORT : THE SWORD AND THE GOSLINGS.

Mv DEAR Boy, — I ho|>ed that, long ere this, your hankering
pa-ssion after what is called glory, had died a natural death ; and
that you had be^un to consider glory at the best but as a <luil
mountebank — a thing of strut, and frij)pery, and emptiness.
When St. Austin was a little boy, he and his mother went on a
day's pleasure with a certain Roman pnetor, to pay their
resixjcts to the tomb of Oes^ir. St. Austin has handed down to
us the following lively portrait of the imperial corpse. "It
looked of a blue mould ; the bone of the nose laid bare ; the flesh
of the nether lip quite f:dlen off; his mouth lull of worms ; and
in his eye-pit a hungry toad, feasting upon the remnant portion
of flesh and moisture ; and so," mondises the saint, " he dwelt in
Lis house of darkness." He did no such thing; he had vacated
his dwelling. Death had written on the coi-psc " This house to
let," and the worms and the toad became the tenants. Well, and
what had they to do with C»sar ? What had the "blue mouldy
flesh" .-mil the "nose laid bare" to do with Caesar dead, more
than the paring of Csesar's nails with Gaesar living ? Is the evil
fame that may be flung upon a house, to attach to a pre-
vious occupant ? Our maiden queen Elizabeth made sundry

47C PUNCH'S LETTKIIS TO HIS SON".

I>pjgrea8f« ; honoured suii'lry lunni^ions witli her uight-cap. What,
if in la|i»e of time, "iH' of fhi-s«' huu.Mcs BhoiiM hjivo s<> f:ill<'n iu
rtfjmtation, that its aflor iui<iuitv has lHM?n puMi.shc«i \>\ cauille
uifl pai»cr laiitliom ? 1 ><)♦•« the evil fame of the house taint or
ik>il tlie ermine fame of our »j>otlesB Klizalioth ?

One Jeremy Taylor, who can fxv>a.Hiniially twine deatliVheada
with roi»e-hud«, ami strew a coffin with Hj>ii-f«, toll« u.t a Nl.-ry of
a fair young (lemian genth-man who, though uiuch ini|><irtuned
bymanyyci' • ' • ; for his |M>rtniit, would nevir cuiMent.
(S<i far lie v f there K- a plagtjf u|Hin earth, it ia

the (ilagiio of flitting under a continual Htni(;(;le to call into your
fa'N- and k« your vt-ry pr> • •"'''.

until duly I... .. . hy pigiurnt-i, uj .. !;...•

fair young Herr, however, made at la«t a eompromi.Me. lie, in
the haniUoHKiit manner, eonnented to sit f -r hi« |»ortrait after a
few da\s' hnrial, u|K.n the h'tioiirahle understr.r '••• • '^lat the
{Kiinter, visiting the vault, 8lii>idd limn the ct> t h» it

ap|)eare«i ; giving no check " a little re<l," putting no complt-
I \ dimple in ' •. Ihe

1 wa« Bent ' , r with

"his face luilf eaten, and \\\a midriff and backbone full of
Berj«ent« ; and «o he ittanilii pirtund anion;; his armed ■ :•«."

Ami a very foolish figure he must ■■' ' imon;; hi. .. j, ydly
Company.

Ftar not, my fl<>n ; I am not alM>ut to cLip in with shallow
m<'rali«t<i who would show the nothingiie.'w of glory, by showing
that which is. inde^l, no jmrt of it; who would put the living
( 'n&uir's nose out of joint by displaying hia dom " laid bare " iu
his ooflin ; who w<. ' ' ' • w.-m a vanity of v . lo

j«niht a fair young ' . i/« the flesh, becau- . . :. he
took his departure from it, and waa no longer in any way
inswerahle for any disgrace it m into — serjHjnt.'* might

geniKr there. Let us follow out t;.. j «ophy.

Tlie Geruians, aa you know, are a nation of cabliage-eaters.
Tliey sophisticate good wholesome worts with vine;:ar, and

Beelzebub alone, who =■■••'- - '■ ns with cooks, knows

what In-side. This vr. - they call ttmer kraut.

Now, let ns imagine the imme<]iate descend.ant of the fair-haired
youuLj <Jerman, with liis napkin tuckeil undt-r his chin, about to
plnngH his fist into the d sh. lie pauses — liM'k.s .senou.-< — a t«^-ar
steals into the comer of his eye : solemuly remo>'ing the napkin
from his button-hole, he ris.-s, and reraeml>iring that the
chui-chyanl wherein his ancestor was decently deposited, lias
been convertetl into a vegetable garden, he points to the tnuer
kraut, and exclaims, — " Bcdiold the vanit}- of all earthly things ;

THK PHILOSOPHY OF GLORY. ETC. 477

the particles of our beloved ancostors have undergone a very
peculiar arnaigeuient ; what tcai our dear friend Karl, U now a
—Cabbage ! "

Now do we not gather as Gne jihilosophy from the savoy as
from the 8eri>ent ] What is either cabbage or snake to Karl,
who, crowued with amaranth, looks duwii from hi« starry home
upon his Wduld-be-wise descendant, and thinks him a prodigious
noodle for pausing in his dinner ?

I have. I know, in a former letter, indicated the shallownies?
of this reasoning, as exposed by my very Intimate friend the
Hermetic rhilosupher ; but your last letter, my 8t>n, in which
you would fain draw a picture of military glory, has tempted mo
to this iteration. I have pondereil ujKjn your picture ; now,
look at mine.

^L'u^y vcoi-s ago I sol.aced myself with a brief residence in
France. I'urchasing a blouse, and donning a cap, I avoided the
intrusive h(.>ni>urs that might otherwise have been paid to the
reputation of I'cscii, and to the vulgar I —

— " »pp«&ri-(l ioinc harmli-ts vilUijer."

On a certain Sunday, I had taken my customary stroll towards
the fields. I well recollect it was Sunday, from a sudden jarring
of my moral sense— a shock to my feelings. 1 was overtaken by
a cart rattling on at a good pace : it contained half-a-dozen men
and Women, laughing as if there were no world to come, and
looking as joyous and aa happy as though the devil himself were a
mereabstraction. The worst remains to be told ; the cart, in addition
to the merry-makers, contained a fiddle and a bass-viol ; and it
was but loo evident, from the affectionate way in which the
instruments of sin were hugged by two of the men in tlie cart,
that the unh.allowed catgut was to be fingered that very day to
the tri{>iiiiig toes and heels of the wicked. I, who had for years
been disciplined by the moral regularity of an English Sunday —
I, who had spiritually paid reverence even to Siibbath-keei)ing
housemaids, as, with noses flattened against parlour and kitchen
panes, they solemnly pondered on sin and death, and the vacant
street before them, wondering when the milkman would come,
and especially wondering if John I^oberts would keep his hour ;
I, thus naturalised to the proprieties, felt my blood bubble to
my cheek as I beheld the fiddle and the viol, and was rushing
forward to check the horse, and remonstrate with the wicked
holiday-keejiers, when, hajipily, I obsei-ved that the driver
was furnished with a long and unusually substantial whip.
I stopped, said a short prayer for their souls, and struck into
the fields.

478 PUNCFTS LETTERS TO HIS SOV.

Sunk, mnny fathoms deep in my feelinps, I was wandering
over a firld of vetche«, when I was start lot! by the Imiil and
siiriiificniit uttenince of nii.HCcllaneous oath.t, while a half-qiiackinjj,
hair-wliLstlinfj noij»e roue an a sort of under acctmipaniinent to
the execration. Liflinp up my eyi-s, I beheld a gariU-fhamp^trt,
ill cocked hat, with a dmwn-«wonl. Now, n ' ' ''re,

my «4>ii, in a »<>rt of fiehl-coiiMtahle, who takes <■ wh

in his district, with the sloe and hlackU'rr>--bushe8 ; who seea
tliat tlie iiii'Iea are not disturbed in thtir s'.' • sis,

and who Itenevolently asHiMts the \\<'\:^ oi,- JJ

they chance to stick in it : albeit the prorinion of nature waa
ii'vcr more l>eaulifully • 1 than in t' niv of Fn-neh

h' i;.H ; for nature, kuuu...^ a dreadful i.... • . .ids they have

to walk u|Min, has Itcnovulontly put them ufxin stiltii. To return
to the (j>irde-<hampftrt.

I l«M(ke<l and Udielii this field-onietT, as I hnvo ' • ■ ';»>!
hat and with di-nwii swurd : and there he w.-lh .ud

shouting; at what — think you ? Why, a drove of goetingB !
Tlu'V ha<l — Ivild binl.H '- ' ' ' ' ' ' ,.y.

and lh« re was the ijn- ^ i —

methiuks I see the bbide now, eleamine in a July sun ! — ilriving
tli'W«» bits of ipia'-kiii^. .'•-!., —

i.'W with his weafxiii j .. ...^ .^ . .;.; ; ...jw

lir.ing one — now chiding another — until he got them all into

v.ry poinl marching onler — and then with a sweet serenity, be

' I from sweariug into singing, and cocking his cocked hat,

\ k U|>—

" En »T«nt, raarrhon* !
Contra leur CAonon ; "

the goslings, with all their might, quacking and whistling in
chorus,

I turned round, and pensively leasing my back against a tree,
watched the garde-champftrt as he marched along ; and as he
sang and the goslings responded to him — the hapless goslings,
puiiled by the sword to have their throata cut some day for the
kitilun, — 1 said to myself —

" There goe« glory ! "

From that day. my son, 1 have never seen a regiment of horse
or foot without thiiikiiag of the goslings.

ON TilE CHOICE AND TKEATMENT OF A WIFE. 479

LETTER XXIl.

OH TUB CHOICE AND TnF.ATMENT oK A WIFE.

Mt dk-vr Son, — It w.xs the reiiun k of a no less <liatiiiijtii.HliiM
nuiuiitebank th.-ui Caniiuiil dc llctz — (he aiul I were very
intinmte, albeit ho never puMicly ackno\vle<lged the acquaint-
anccshiis) — that it mattered little what were the talentH of a
man, wliat waa his good fortiiue in every other resjH.'ot, if ho
were unlucky in a wife. P.y which the CardiujJ me:iut — and if
he did not, I do — that a wife to be jually called the better part
of a man, must bring with her a sufficient quantity of t!.
precious lueLal : otherwise, she In only flesh of his llesli, aitd 1" i
of his bone ; a bunlen of clay, aiid not an onuuiient of gold.
Happily, my son, this truth is now «■ "ly acknowk'ilged in

good society that, unle.-vs you wn ..:uliy callous to its

influence, you could not fail to be affected by it. A wife is the
husband's chattels — the philoBojthy of law declares it: imleed,
the sjKJUse of vour bosom is considennl by the law to l>e gocxls in
a more es()ecial degree than any oihi-r propi-rty. A man rolis
you of your wife, and thereby — I put an extreme case — snaps
y«'ur heart-strings : you lose your better half, and you sue the
thief to make good the k«s by the j«iymeut of so many pieces of
metal. The same man, respecting your heart-strings, makes a
snatch at your watch-chain, and takes to his heels with the
booty. You shout " Stop thief," but the rogue escapes you.
Well, the thief would quietly arrange the matter ; would, for a
fair consideration that should remunerate him for skill and loss
of time, render back the abstracted chronometer. Hereupon
the law cries — " What are you about ? what ! compromise a
felony ? Beware of the penalty !" No : you must put the thief
into the dock, if he can be caught ; you must punLsh him for the
wrong he has done to society by stealing your repeater. If,
on the other hand, he steal your wife, the matter — by the
benevolent aid of judge and jury — may be settled between you,
and your attorney empowered to give a fair receipt for tke
damages. Thus, above all other muudiine possessions, a wife is
property.

It is with this conviction of the true v;Jue of female excellence,
that you must cast your eyes about you for a wife. Y<»u are to
reflect upon the huge amount of evil brought upon man by
woman, and are therefore in your own person to obtain as great

4?0 PUNCH'S LETTEllS TO HIS SON.

a d. i:r.'.' nf rr|Mirntioii nn in [xWiMe fn>ni the tiauglitii> -.f the
first ..tlfiiilrr.

You know the cumlition of a wife in thi- bava^i' state. She \h
th«' ■' "f lier ' ■ lonl ; who .1(m m litfh' hut hiok nl

bim- .: I gliuM, i: ive bctn lucky tiiou^jh to rlianjji* Hkin«

for one ; ainga, eata, pUja, and met-ta in cuuncil. Hiii wife, with
a wiK).lcn n>atf<M-k, or the y • hl.ide of a huffalo, dipa the

c.ij'th ftinl NoWH thf itjrn ; «;.■ ..i,.»-i nway the hinl», ancl, in due
Hf.iHo:!, ;;:klh<n» the liar^'eat '. she pf>uniU com an<l naitu buffalo's
mcnt ; and hewi4 wood and drnws w.it«T, aiul prvparen the feaat ;

i' ^ ■ ' the jK>Ie« of t' d when a

. . it in Bhe who - uii up, her

Boverei;;!! U»nl. the Ureat Kngle, doinc nothing. My dear Uiy, it

■ ■ ■ t is. if fi ' • ' '^.U

:.. M, »hel:...^ :.. ;..ii»-y

br which they arc done, and the convenience and enjoyment

'' i.' r ! equally well inwun^l. In what«'vcr rank of

I ; :i»il to move, you are to choose your wife aa the

lii* pquixw — for h«-r ability to niininter to your

idlcnt-iui

I ' .■• ■ ■ '■ '*. '" K' ' ' .krv hrld in t viu

► uj- : - \. I • I it. ii ; fi.r tl ^ it 1-1 1 tilt cr«;\tiir< f«

of suiierior nenHibilify of heart and refinement of apirit. (Tljere

T ■ \ •• aln^a-l to

;.. . . ,,. . ,. :.. ^e«uc>i : ..: . .^cil,

U»<inb««i, «lrv»««d, and allowed [>ockct-raoney by their helpmates.)
The .il«!*unl d«'fen'nce |>nid by u* to our women is finely rvbuke<l
' • • '-.' • -•' v. ' ■ 'hey httVf the prettii-st wonU for

t lid. I know not a more di^Miified

Condition of man than that frequently exhibite^l at a French
-' : •' . huMlAnda and fathers are to

1 ■■ — the mere wjuaw — ki't'pinf;

a fitful eye upon her shop from the reoeaaes of her back-parlour.
My Soil, I know you arc fond of billLardii. Obtain a wife who by
the vuik of her fingers, or by the produce of acquired gain,
eaableb you to gi"ow grey making cannons, — und at the won-t,
you will know something of the true dignity of wedlock, it."*
beauty .ind its excellence.

In your choice of a wife, never forget that age is to l»e
bmioip'd when as80ciate«l with money. Nothing more reverent
fl.au .silv.r ' ih gold in the jK>cket8. Et-aidcj*. by marrying

a w.inan »<. .. iyen in years, you will Ix; insured a^ain.st tht;

tortures of jealousy, at least on your own part ; and what is
more, you will have continually by yf ur side (that is, when you
are at h <me,) a memento of the certain decay of mortality;

ON THK CHOICE AND TREATMENT OF A WIFE. 48i

wlikh memento, if you ri;;htly consider it, will he the surest
iU'Uieement for you to enjoy lite by every strictly lepal means in
your power. In all your pleasures, however, rca|H'ct the laws of
your country. Remember, that an act of Parliament is like a
riH'k ; it nuittera not how nearly you approach it, so you do not
bump aj^ainst it.

As for your days of courtship, you are to rememlier that as
Wf)man is the weaker animal, it In-hoves your ma^^imniuiity
aever to cro.H.s her fancy, even in \Ih mo.st ri«liculous whimsies.
(live her, as horttemeu have it. Iter head a^ much as Rhe
tikes, until you turn /roin the church: you may aftoi war.l.s
a.Hsort the supremacy of maid>oo«l, and revenge the wrouj^a of
Adam.

There are various ways of attaching the sex : but the surest
is not to attempt to >' ' ' ' ' - . off in crackers of

jokes bi'fore them. . . e the »:uue tear of

witty men as of fireworks ; and thus, how often do pretty lively
creatures link them.selves to fo<ds ! The most certain pl.m «>f
succeas (I have it fnau a woman, and I lielieve an excellent
authority,) is any way to iiiteresl them. In my own case — (I
thouglit your jKHir moth<'r ha«i a deal of money, but — well, never
niiini,) — I at l;»j*t affected con.sumptiun. For a long time your
mother refusetl to have me ; when, however. I made h'-r believe
that I should not Jive six weeks, slie married me directly, if an
heiress nfuse you, j>ret<'nd to take to your l>ed with typhus
fever, and ten to one but hhe'll in.-ist upon your getting up to '^o
to church with her.

If, after long courtship, you find the lady has not the money
you a'- first ima^^iued, hesiuite not a ntoment, but drop her.
It may seem cruel, but depend ujion it, 'tis all for her good. Aa
for the nonsense of romantio writers about the wear and tear of
tlie female he.irt, 'tis a lie ui print, and uotiiing more. Wear
and tear ! Female hearts never uj;«j : no, my sou ; they always
atretch.

roi. I. 1 I

482 PUNCH'S LETTKRS TO HIS SON.

LKTTKR XXIII.

A rK.W LAST WORDS. PCNCH REVIEWS HIS LABOURS. THE
LOTTERT OF LIFE.

Well, my Son, I now approach the end of my lahourn.
T'eflccting ii[>oii what I have written, I feel that I may in «
doiihle Bcntn.' call my.sflf your father. You are not merely the
ofT^^pring of my loina ; but I trust, I may gay, I have begotten
your mind.

Yt'S, I have thriee somtrho.1 my hiMd, and feel that I have
nothing more tn gay to you. I have now merely to contemplate
— with that delicions self-complacency which plays tiie divinest
muHic on a man's heart-Htrimr* — the Wauty an>l ex<"elling utility
of the laW>ur undertaken hy my parental love. I have now only
to lean back in my easy chair, and twirling my thumlw. see, with
dreaming eyes, my WIovihI child playing a most prosjx-rous part
in this eventful world. Ix>t other.-* call it a vale of tears, you,
my son, will walk through it with a continn.d chuckle. Let
others groan over the uncertainty of daily bread ; you, my son,
will have "your teeth white with milk, and your eyes reil with
wini\" Let others hK)k with lon^dng glance at pau|>er sixpences,
you — for you have taken your father's counsel — will know where
to lay your hand ujmn ingots,

Con.sid'T, my son, what gratitude yon owe to deatiny for
making you what yoa arc. You are the son of Po^cn. Yoa
mit,'ht have been the child of a Ix.nl Chancellor. Fmm your
cradle you inherited a wis<lom denied to millions of others. Had
you been born to finest cambric and Brussels Jace, you had never
l>een tauglit the beautiful truths of life, which it has been ray
patem.ll care to tattoo in your adolescent mind. The son of
P:7NCH ! Consider, my child, the many, many million chances
ycu had again.it your being this, and be grateful for your
exc. edinjr felicity.

Air. William Worvis worth .i.iy.'* —

" Our birth i§ but a sleep and a forjfetting :
The Mul that rises with us, our life's star
Hiith had elsewhere its setting,
And Cometh from afar."

Now. for a moment adopting this poetical conceit, imngine the
miliious of soulii about to be despatched to this world, as a sort

A FKW LAST WORDS, ETC. 4S3

ol i>enal seltlcnuiit, an uncoinfuiUhle half-wuy house, on t'ue
roail t'l inuiuirtal tiAAa of asi)hodi.-l. Have you set-n whole
clou<l» of 8 Wallowa conffregating on the sea-shore for their
uivstorioua flight to — ic/iert, still remains a mystery ? This
iiHiltitudinous liuttering of wings can give you but the poorest
iilea of the gathering of human souIh, bomid to earth, and
"trailing clouds of glory" from the home they axe about to
It-avc. Your tinitt- apprehension cannot grasp the marvel in its
entirety; yt-t it may do Honuthing. You see the myriads of
winged souls — you hear their fluttering ; you see that they are
like one another, as swallow is like to swallow ; their chirp is in
the same key ; no soul asserts a tliguity ov*»r its fellow-voyager ;
eaoh has the same length of wing, the same hue of feather.
These are souls not yet provided with loilgiugs ; they are souls,
•«> to speak, in the abstract. Well, swoop th«y come down on
earth, and like the swallows I have siX)keu of, take their
residence in clay.

Ahus and alas ! poor souls ! Some are doomed to coal-pits,
Bome to arsenic niiiu»8, some dig in misery and darkness, some
toil and toil, and hunger and hunger ; and every day is but the
wretched repetition of the past. And yet with all this certain
evil grinding an<l crushing of thousands, how few among them
woulil consent to draw their lot again, if Destiny were to hold
forth her human lucky-bag, to give another chance ! " No, no,"
says the Hottentot, with a proud downward look at his girdle of
sheep's-gut — " no, no ; I don't draw again ; for who knows, I
might come up a Dutch boor." " No lucky-bag for me," cries
the Escjuimau.x ; " I might h'se my delicious whale blubber, ai^d
tiinuns; up an Engli.-^hmiUi, be doomed to beef and porter."
••Much obliged to you," says the poor idiot with a goUre at his
throat as big as a foot -ball, — " I hear there are such folks .-ui
PatagoiJans ; straight-limbed fellows, seven feet high ; no lucky-
bag for me — I might be one of them."

if such, then, be the contentment of the great mass of the
suffering world, — how prodigious &hould be your felicity to know
that you are the son of Pcnch ! — to feel that you hold a position,
the proudest, the noblest, — the —

• •••••

• • • • •

• •••••

• • • • •

• •••••

If the reader be a father, surely, surely he will sympathise
with my feelings.

484 PL'NCH'S LKTTERS TO HIS SOJi.

I had not heard from my sou for a Inv^ time. I was thiuking
of him, wlien 1 waii startled by the kinH-k of the po^,tm:lIl. I
know uot how it wa^ ; but the smitten iron sent a chill through
my heart, antl the gooseHjuill fell from my lin;,'or3.

Uur iaiKllu'ly — we wcro then in lo<iging8 — brought me ujt a
letter. My wife «aa happily from home ; calle<l to assist at a
neighb«jur's labour. 1 imme<liat<ly recognised the h:indwriti«g
of my son ; and, with trembling tiugers, broke the water. I give
tlte eonteuts.

" Condemned Celi, \evpate.

" IIoxocRED Parent, — I have to the be»t of my abilitie*
followed the advice sent to me from time to time in your Letters.
Yi>u will, therefore, as the On li nary says, not be surprised to
find I write from this place. It is a cnsc of uiuttou, and I am to
be luiUged ou Monday.

" Your Son,

"rUXCIl, THE YOUNOKR.

"P.S. You will find that, in spite of my misfoi tunes, I have
the crtdit of my family still at heart. I shall therefore be
hanged as John Jones."

My heroic boy kept hi» word ; and until this very hour, hia
mother is ignorant of hi^ fate, believiug him to be at thia
Diomeul AmbiLMador at the Court of

THE EM).

BlxbBrtT, AG5EW, 1 CO., PBIVIKSS. WUITBFII1*8.

SOUTHERrJ BRANCH

University of California

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