MODERN CLASSICS. ^^^ 
 
 The convenient little volumes published under 
 this general title, are in the best sense classic though 
 all of them are modern. They include selections 
 from the works of the most eminent writers of Eng- 
 land and America, and translations of several mas- 
 terpieces by continental authors. 
 
 These selections are not what are generally known 
 as "elegant extracts," single paragraphs which are 
 peculiarly quotable ; but they consist in most cases 
 of entire poems, essays, sketches, and stories. The 
 authors are not only shown at their best, but so 
 fully as to give an adequate idea of their various 
 styles, modes of thought, and distinguishing traits. 
 
 In several instances the selections from an author 
 are accompanied by a biographical or critical essay 
 from another writer, — an arrangement which cannot 
 fail to lend additional interest both to the essay and 
 to the selections, especially when the books are 
 used in schools. The choice character of the selec- 
 tions in these volumes makes them peculiarly suit- 
 able for use in schools for supplementary reading ; 
 as indeed it also makes them peculiarly desirable 
 for household libraries.
 
 MODERN CLASSICS, 
 
 The list of Tolumes now ready is as follows : — 
 I. Evangeline. ) 
 
 The Courtship of Miles Standish. > Longfelixiw. 
 
 Favorite Poems. ) 
 
 a. Culture, Behavior, Beauty. J 
 
 Books, Art, Eloquence. | Emerson. 
 
 Power, Wealth, Illusions. ) 
 J. Nature. _ ) 
 
 Love, Friendship, Domestic Life. > Emersoh. 
 
 Success, Greatness, Immortality. ) 
 
 Snow-Bound ) 
 
 The Tent on the Beach. > Whittieb- 
 Favorite Poems. ) 
 
 5, The Vision of Sir Launfal. ) 
 
 The Cathedral. | Lowell. 
 
 Favorite Poems. ) 
 
 6. In and Out of Doors with Charles Dickens. Fields. 
 A Christmas Carol. Dickens. 
 
 Barry Cornwall and some of his Friends. FtBLos. 
 
 The Ancient Mariner. 1 -->. „ 
 
 Favorite Poems. } Coleridge. 
 
 Favorite Poems. Wordsworth. 
 
 Undine. ) t- ^ 
 
 Sintram. J ^°"Q"«- 
 
 Paul and Virginia. St. Pierre. 
 
 Rab and his Friends; Marjorie Fleming. ) 
 
 Thackeray. \ Dr. John Browii 
 
 John Leech. ) 
 
 Enoch Arden. ) 
 
 In Memoriam. > Tbnnysos. 
 
 Favorite Poems. ) 
 
 See page opposite inside of last caver.
 
 ^^oticrn Cla^^ifiS? 
 
 THACKERAY'S LIGHTER 
 HOURS 
 
 BEING SELECTIONS FROM THE 
 MINOR WRITINGS 
 
 OF 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
 
 Stack 
 
 /8^o 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 — • — 
 
 Page 
 DR. BIRCH AND HIS YOUNG FRIENDS. 
 
 Tbe Doctor and his Staff ...... 5 
 
 The Cock of the School ...... 9 
 
 The Dear Brothers 14 
 
 The Little School-Room 15 
 
 A Hopeless Case 17 
 
 A Word about Miss Birch 21 
 
 A Tragedy 26 
 
 Briggs in Luck 2B 
 
 A Young Fellow who is pretty sure to succeed . 29 
 
 Duval the Pir.\tb 33 
 
 The Dormitories .34 
 
 A Capture and a Rescue 35 
 
 The Garden .37 
 
 The Old Pupil . . 40 
 
 Epilogue 46 
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS. 
 
 Prefatory Remarks 50 
 
 The Snob playfully Dealt with ... 56 
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 
 
 Thorns in the Cushion 64 
 
 On Screens in Dining-Rooms 79 
 
 Tlnbridge Toys ....... 92 
 
 De Juvektuie . = - c s . 103
 
 IV CONTENTS. 
 
 Roundabout the Christmas-Tree .... 129 
 
 On being found out 144 
 
 Ogres *. . . 156 
 
 Nil Nisi Bonum , 170 
 
 De Finibus , 185 
 
 Actour de Mon Chapeao ..... 202 
 
 The Last Sketch ....... 220 
 
 THE CURATE'S WALK . . . * 227
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH AND HIS 
 YOUNG FRIENDS. 
 
 THE DOCTOR AND HIS STAFF. ' 
 
 IK*S|HERE is no need to say why I became 
 M^^ assistant-master and professor of the 
 English and French languages, flower- 
 painting, and the German flute, in Dr. Birch's 
 Academy, at Rodwell Regis. Good folks may 
 depend on this, that it was not for choice that I 
 left lodgings near London, and a genteel society, 
 for an under-master' s desk in that old school. 
 I promise you the fare at the usher's table, the 
 getting up at five o'clock in the morning, the 
 walking out with little boys in the fields (who 
 used to play me tricks, and never could be 
 got to respect my awful and responsible char- 
 acter as teacher in the school). Miss Birch's 
 vulgar insolence, Jack Birch's glum condescen- 
 sion, and the poor old Doctor's patronage, were 
 not matters in themselves pleasurable : and 
 that that patronage and those dinners were
 
 6 THACKERAY. 
 
 sometimes cruel hard to swallow. Never mind 
 — my connection with the place is over now, 
 and I hope they have got a more efficient un- 
 der-master. 
 
 Jack Birch (Rev. J. Birch, of St. Neot's 
 Hall, Oxford) is partner with his father the 
 Doctor, and takes some of the classes. About 
 his Greek I can't say much ; but I will construe 
 him in Latin any day. A more supercilious 
 little prig (giving himself airs, too, about his 
 cousin, Miss Raby, who lives with the Doctor), 
 a more empty, pompous little coxcomb I never 
 saw. His white neck -cloth looked as if it 
 choked him. He used to try and look over 
 that starch upon me and Prince the assistant, 
 as if we were a couple of footmen. He did n't 
 do much busmess in the school ; but occupied 
 his time in writing sanctified letters to the boys' 
 parents, and in composing dreary sermons to 
 preach to them. 
 
 The real master of the school is Prince ; an 
 Oxford man too ; shy, haughty, and learned ; 
 crammed with Greek and a quantity of useless 
 learning ; uncommonly kind to the small boys ; 
 pitiless with the fools and the braggarts ; re- 
 spected of all for his honesty, his learning, his 
 bravery (for he hit out once in a boat-row in a 
 way which astonished the boys and the barge-
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 7 
 
 men), and for a latent power about him, which all 
 saw and confessed somehow. Jack Birch could 
 never look him in the face. Old Miss Z. dared 
 not put off any of her airs upon him. Miss 
 Rosa made him the lowest of courtesies. Miss 
 Raby said she was afraid of him. Good old 
 Prince ! we have sat many a night smoking in 
 the Doctor's harness-room, whither we retired 
 when our boys were gone to bed, and our cares 
 and canes put by. 
 
 After Jack Birch had taken his degree at 
 Oxford — a process which he effected with great 
 difficulty — this place, which used to be called 
 " Birch's," " Dr. Birch's Academy," and what 
 not, became suddenly " Archbishop Wigsby's 
 College of Rodwell Regis." They took down 
 the old blue board with the gold letters, which 
 has been used to mend the pigsty since. Birch 
 had a large school-room run up in the Gothic 
 taste, with statuettes, and a little belfry, and a 
 bust of Archbishop Wigsby in the middle of 
 the school. He put the six senior boys into 
 caps and gowns, which had rather a good effect 
 as the lads sauntered down the street of the 
 town, but which certainly provoked the con- 
 tempt and hostility of the bargemen ; and so 
 great was his rage for academic costumes and 
 ordinances, that he would have put me myself
 
 8 THACKEKAY. 
 
 into a lay gown, with red knots and fringes, 
 but that I flatly resisted and said that a writing- 
 master had no business with such paraphernalia. 
 By the way, I have forgotten to mention the 
 Doctor himself. And what shall I say of him ? 
 Well, he has a very crisp gown and bands, a 
 solemn aspect, a tremendous loud voice, and a 
 grand air with the boys' parents ; whom he re- 
 ceives in a study covered round with the best- 
 bound books, which imposes upon many — upon 
 the women especially — and makes them fancy 
 that this is a Doctor indeed. But law bless 
 you ! He never reads the books, nor opens one 
 of them ; except that in which he keeps his 
 bands — a Dugdale's " Monasticon," which 
 looks like a book, but is in reality a cupboard, 
 where he has his port, almond-cakes, and de- 
 canter of wine. He gets up his classics with 
 translations, or what the boys call cribs ; they 
 pass wicked tricks upon him when he hears the 
 forms. The elder wags go to liis study and 
 ask him to help them in hard bits of Herodotus 
 or Thucydides ; he says he will look over the 
 passage, and flies for refuge to Mr. Prince, or 
 to the crib. He keeps the flogging department 
 in his own hands, finding that his son was too 
 savage. He has awful brows and a big voice. 
 But his roar frightens nobody. It is only a 
 lion's skin ; or, so to say, a muff.
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 9 
 
 Little Mordant made a picture of him with 
 large ears, like a well-known domestic animal, 
 and had his own justly boxed for the caricature. 
 The Doctor discovered him in the fact, and was 
 in a flaming rage, and threatened whipping at 
 first ; but in the course of the day an opportune 
 basket of game arriving from Mordant's father, 
 the Doctor became mollified, and has burnt the 
 picture with the ears. However, I have one 
 wafered up in my desk by the hand of the same 
 little rascal. 
 
 THE COCK OF THE SCHOOL. 
 
 I AM growing an old fellow, and have seen 
 many great folks in the course of my travels 
 and time : Louis Philippe coming out of the 
 Tuileries ; his Majesty the King of Prussia and 
 the Reichsverweser accolading each other at 
 Cologne at my elbow ; Admiral Sir Charles 
 Napier (in an omnibus once), the Duke of 
 Wellington, the immortal Goethe at Weimar, 
 the late benevolent Pope Gregory XVL, and a 
 score more of the famous in this world — the 
 whom whenever one looks at, one has a mild 
 shock of awe and tremor. I like this feeling 
 and decent fear and trembling with which a 
 modest spirit salutes a Great Man.
 
 10 THACKERAY. 
 
 Well, I have seen generals capering on horse- 
 back at the head of their crimson battalions ; 
 bishops sailing down cathedral aisles, with 
 downcast eyes, pressing their trencher caps to 
 their hearts with' their fat white hands ; college 
 heads when her Majesty is on a visit ; the 
 Doctor in all his glory at the head of his school 
 on speech-day ; a great sight and all great men 
 these. I have never met the late Mr, Thomas 
 Cribb, but I have no doubt should have regarded 
 liim with the same feeling of awe with which I 
 look every day at George Champion, the Cock 
 of Doctor Birch's school. 
 
 When, I say, I reflect as I go up and set him 
 a sum, that he could whop me in two minutes, 
 double up Prince and the other assistant, and 
 pitch the Doctor out of the window, I can't but 
 think how great, how generous, how magnani- 
 mous a creature this is that sits quite quiet and 
 good-natured, and works his equation, and 
 ponders through his Greek play. He might 
 take the school-room pillars and pull the house 
 down if he liked. He might close the door, 
 and demolish every one of us, like Antar, the 
 lover of Ibla ; but he lets us live. He never 
 thrashes anybody without a cause ; when woe 
 betide the tyrant or the sneak ! 
 
 I think that to be strong and able to whop
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 11 
 
 everybody — not to do it, mind you, but to 
 feel that you are able to do it — would be the 
 greatest of all gifts. There is a serene good 
 humor which plays about George Champion's 
 broad face, which shows the consciousness of 
 this power, and lights up his honest blue eyes 
 with a magnanimous calm. 
 
 He is invictus. Even when a cub there was 
 no beating this lion. Six years ago the un- 
 daunted little warrior actually stood up to 
 Frank Davison (the Indian officer now — 
 poor little Charley's brother, whom Miss Raby 
 nursed so affectionately), — then seventeen 
 years old, and the Cock of Birch's. They were 
 obliged to drag off the boy, and Frank, with 
 admiration and regard for him, prophesied the 
 great thmgs he would do. Legends of combats 
 are preserved fondly in schools ; they have sto- 
 ries of such at Rodwell Regis, performed in the 
 old Doctor's time, forty years ago. 
 
 Champion's affair with the Young Tutbury 
 Pet, who was down here in training, — with 
 Black the bargeman, — with the three head 
 boys of Doctor Wapshot's academy, whom he 
 caught maltreating an outlying day-boy of ours, 
 etc., — are known to all the Rod well Regis men. 
 He was always victorious. He is modest and 
 kind, like all great men. He has a good, brave,
 
 12 THACKERAY. 
 
 honest understanding. He cannot make verses 
 like Young Finder, or read Greek like Wells 
 the Prefect, who is a perfect young abyss of 
 learning, and knows enough. Prince says, to 
 furnish any six first-class men ; but he does his 
 work in a sound, downright way, and he is made 
 to be the bravest of soldiers, the best of country 
 parsons, an honest English gentleman wherever 
 he may go. 
 
 Old Champion's chief friend and attendant is 
 Young Jack Hall, whom he saved, when drown- 
 ing, out of the Miller's Pool. The attachment 
 of the two is curious to witness. The smaller 
 lad gamboling, playing tricks round the bigger 
 one, and perpetually making fun of his pro- 
 tector. They are never far apart, and of holi- 
 days you may meet them miles away from the 
 school, — George sauntering heavily down the 
 lanes with his big stick, and little Jack larking 
 with the pretty girls in the cottage windows. 
 
 George has a boat on the river, in which, 
 however, he commonly lies smoking, whilst 
 Jack sculls him. He does not play at cricket, 
 except when the school plays the county or at 
 Lord's in the holidays. The boys can't stand 
 his bowling, and when he hits, it is like trying 
 to catch a cannon-ball. I have seen him at 
 tennis. It is a splendid sight to behold the
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 13 
 
 young fellow bounding over the court with 
 streaming yellow hair, like young Apollo in a 
 flannel jacket. 
 
 The other head boys are Lawrence, the cap- 
 tain ; Bunce, famous chiefly for his magnificent 
 appetite ; and Pitman, surnamed Roscius, for 
 his love of the drama. Add to these Swanky, 
 called Macassar, from his partiality to that 
 condiment, and who has varnished boots, wears 
 white gloves on Sundays, and looks out for Miss 
 Pinkerton's school (transferred from Chiswick 
 to Rodwell Regis, and conducted by the nieces 
 of the late Miss Barbara Pinkerton, the friend 
 of our great lexicographer, upon the principles 
 approved by him, and practiced by that admi- 
 rable woman) as it passes into church. 
 
 Representations have been made concerning 
 Mr. Horace Swanky's behavior ; rumors have 
 been uttered about notes in verse, conveyed in 
 three-cornered puffs, by Mrs. Ruggles, who 
 serves Miss Pinkerton's young ladies on Fridays, 
 — and how Miss Didow, to whom the tart and 
 inclosure were addressed, tried to make away 
 with herself by swallowing a ball of cotton. 
 But I pass over these absurd reports, as likely 
 to affect the reputation of an admirable semi- 
 nary conducted by irreproachable females. As 
 they go into church, Miss P. driving in her
 
 14 THACKERAY. 
 
 flock of lambkins with the crook of her parasol, 
 how can it be helped if her forces and ours 
 sometimes collide, as the boys are on their way 
 up to the organ-loft ? And I don't believe a 
 word about the three-cornered puff, but rather 
 that it was the invention of that jealous Miss 
 Birch, who is jealous of Miss Raby, jealous of 
 everybody who is good and handsome, and who 
 has her own ends in view, or I am very much in 
 error. 
 
 THE DEAR BROTHERS. 
 
 a melodrama in several rounds. 
 
 The Doctor. 
 
 Mr. Tipper, Uncle to the Masters Boxall. 
 BoxALL Major, Boxall Minor, Brown, Jones, 
 Smith, Robinson, Tiffin Minimus. 
 
 B. Go it, old Boxall ! 
 J. Give it him, young Boxall ! 
 R. Pitch into him, old Boxall ! 
 S. Two to one on young Boxall ! 
 
 Enter Tiffin Minimus, running. 
 
 Tiffin Minimus. — Boxalls ! you're wanted. 
 (The Doctor to Mr. Tipper.) — Every boy in 
 the school loves them, my dear sir ; your
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 15 
 
 nephews are a credit to my establishment. 
 They are orderly, well-conducted, gentleman- 
 like boys. Let us enter and find them at their 
 studies. 
 
 Enter The Doctor and Mr. Tipper. 
 
 Grand Tableau. 
 
 THE LITTLE SCHOOL-ROOM. 
 
 What they call the little school-room is a 
 small room at the other end of the great 
 school ; through which you go to the Doctor's 
 private house, and where Miss Raby sits with 
 her pupils. She has a half-dozen very small 
 ones over whom she presides and teaches them 
 in her simple way, until they are big or learned 
 enough to face the great school-room. Many 
 of them are in a hurry for promotion, the grace- 
 less little simpletons, and know no more than 
 their elders when they are well off. 
 
 She keeps the accounts, writes out the bills, 
 superintends the linen, and sews on the general 
 shirt-buttons. Think of having such a woman 
 at home to sew on one's shirt-buttons ! But 
 peace, peace, thou foolish heart ! 
 
 Miss Raby is the Doctor's niece. Her mother 
 was a beauty (quite unlike old Zoe therefore) ;
 
 16 THACKERAY. 
 
 and she married a pupil in the old Doctor's 
 time, who was killed afterwards, a captain in 
 the East India service, at the siege of Bhurt- 
 pore. Hence a number of Indian children come 
 to the Doctor's ; for Raby was very much liked, 
 and the uncle's kind reception of the orphan 
 has been a good speculation for the school- 
 keeper. 
 
 It is wonderful how brightly and gayly that 
 little quick creature does her duty. She is the 
 first to rise, and the last to sleep, if any business 
 is to be done. She sees the other two women 
 go off to parties in the town without even go 
 much as wishing to join them. It is Cinderella, 
 only contented to stay at home — content to 
 bear Zoe's scorn and to admit Rosa's superior 
 charms — and to do her utmost to repay her 
 uncle for his great kindness in housing her. 
 
 So you see she works as much as three maid- 
 servants for the wages of one. She is as thank- 
 ful when the Doctor gives her a new gown, as 
 if he had presented her with a fortune ; laughs 
 at his stories most good-humoredly, listens to 
 Zoe's scolding most meekly, admires Rosa with 
 all her heart, and only goes out of the way 
 when Jack Birch shows his sallow face ; for she 
 can't bear him, and always finds work when he 
 comes near.
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 17 
 
 How different she is when some folks ap- 
 proach her ! I won't be presumptuous ; but I 
 think, I think, I have made a not unfavorable 
 impression in some quarters. However, let us 
 be mum on this subject. I like to see her, be- 
 cause she always looks good-humored : because 
 she is always kind, because she is always modest, 
 because she is fond of those poor little brats — 
 orphans some of them, — because she is rather 
 pretty, I dare say, or because I think so, which 
 comes to the same thing. 
 
 Though she is kind to all, it must be owned 
 she shows the most gross favoritism towards 
 the amiable children. She brings them cakes 
 from dessert, and regales them with Zoe's pre- 
 serves ; spends many of her little shillings in 
 presents for her favorites, and will tell them 
 stories by the hour. She has one very sad 
 story about a little boy who died long ago : the 
 younger children are never weary of hearing 
 about him ; and Miss Raby has shown to one of 
 them a lock of the little chap's hair, which she 
 keeps in her work-box to this day. 
 
 A HOPELESS CASE. 
 
 Let us, people who are so uncommonly clever 
 and learned, have a great tenderness and pity
 
 18 THACKERAY. 
 
 for the poor folks who are not endowed with 
 the prodigious talents which we have. I have 
 always had a regard for dunces ; — those of my 
 own school-days were amongst the pleasantest 
 of the fellows, and have turned out by no means 
 the dullest in life ; whereas many a youth who 
 could turn off Latin hexameters by the yard, 
 and construe Greek quite glibly, is no better 
 'than a feeble prig now, with not a pennyworth 
 more brains than were in his head before his 
 beard grew. 
 
 Those poor dunces ! Talk of being the last 
 man, ah ! what a pang it must be to be the last 
 boy — huge, misshapen, fourteen years of age, 
 and " taken up " by a chap who is but six years 
 old, and can't speak quite plain yet ! 
 
 Master Hulker is in that condition at Birch's. 
 He is the most honest, kind, active, plucky, 
 generous creature. He can do many things 
 better than most boys. He can go up a tree, 
 pump, play at cricket, dive and swim perfectly 
 — he can eat twice as much as almost any lady 
 (as Miss Birch well knows), he has a pretty 
 talent at carving figures with his hack-knife, he 
 makes and paints little coaches, he can take a 
 watch to pieces and put it together again. He 
 can do everything but learn his lessons ; and 
 then he sticks at the bottom of the school hope-
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 19 
 
 less. As the little boys are drafted in from 
 Miss Raby's class (it is true she is one of the 
 best instructresses in the world), they enter and 
 hop over poor Hulker. He would be handed 
 over to the governess, only he is too big. Some- 
 times I used to think that this desperate stu- 
 pidity was a stratagem of the poor rascal's, and 
 that he shammed dullness, so that he might be 
 degraded into Miss Raby's class — if she would 
 teach me, I know, before George, I would put 
 on a pinafore and a little jacket — but no, it is 
 a natural incapacity for the Latin Grammar. 
 
 If you could see his grammar, it is a perfect 
 curiosity of dog's ears. The leaves and cover 
 are all curled and ragged. Many of the pages 
 are worn away with the rubbing of his elbows 
 as he sits poring over the hopeless volume, with 
 the blows of his fists as he thumps it madly, 
 or vnth the poor fellow's tears. You see him 
 wiping them away with the back of his hand, 
 as he tries and tries, and can't do it. 
 
 When I think of that Latin Grammar, and 
 that infernal As in prsesenti, and of other 
 things which I was made to leam iu my youth, 
 upon my conscience, I am surprised that we 
 ever survived it. When one thinks of the boys 
 who have been caned because they could not 
 master that intolerable jargon ! Good Lord,
 
 20 THACKEKAY. 
 
 what a pitiful chorus these poor little creatures 
 send up ! Be gentle with them, ye school- 
 masters, and only whop those who won^t learn. 
 
 The Doctor has operated upon Hulker (be- 
 tween ourselves), but the boy was so little af- 
 fected you would have thought he had taken 
 chloroform. Birch is weary of whipping now, 
 and leaves the boy to go his own gait. Prince, 
 when he hears the lesson, and who cannot help 
 making fun of a fool, adopts the sarcastic man- 
 ner with Master Hulker, and says, " Mr. Hulker, 
 may I take the liberty to inquire if your bril- 
 liant intellect has enabled you to perceive the 
 difference between those words which gramma- 
 rians have deJBned as substantive and adjective 
 nouns ? if not, perhaps Mr. Ferdinand Timmins 
 will instruct you." And Timmins hops over 
 Hulker's head. 
 
 I wish Prince would leave off girding at the 
 poor lad. He is a boy, and his mother is a 
 widow woman, who loves him with all her 
 might. There is a famous sneer about the 
 suckling of fools and the chronicling of small 
 beer ; but remember it was a rascal who ut- 
 tered it.
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 21 
 
 A WORD ABOUT MISS BIRCH. 
 
 *' The gentlemen, and especially the younger 
 and more tender of these pupils, will have the 
 advantage of the constant supermtendence and 
 affectionate care of Miss Zoe Birch, sister of 
 the principal, whose dearest aim will be to 
 supply (as far as may be) the absent maternal 
 friend." — Prospectus of Rodwell Regis School. 
 
 This is all very well in the Doctor's prospec- 
 tus, and Miss Zoe Birch — (a pretty blossom 
 it is, fifty-five years old, during two score of 
 which she has dosed herself with pills ; with a 
 nose as red and a face as sour as a crab-apple) 
 — this is all mighty well in a prospectus. But 
 I should like to know who would take Miss Zoe 
 for a mother, or would have her for one ? 
 
 The only persons in the house who are not 
 afraid of her are Miss Rosa and I — no, I am 
 afraid of her, though I do know the story about 
 the French usher in 1830 — but all the rest 
 tremble before the woman, from the Doctor 
 down to poor Francis, the knife-boy, whom she 
 bullies into his miserable blacking-hole. 
 
 The Doctor is a pompous and outwardly 
 severe man — but inwardly weak and easy ; 
 loving a joke and a glass of port-mne. I get
 
 22 THACKERAY. 
 
 on with him, therefore, much better than Mr. 
 Prince, who scorns him for an ass, and under 
 whose keen eyes the worthy Doctor writhes like 
 a convicted impostor ; and many a sunshiny 
 afternoon would he have said, "Mr. T., sir, 
 shall we try another glass of that yellow sealed 
 wine which you seem to like ? " (and which he 
 likes even better than I do) had not the old 
 harridan of a Zoe been down upon us, and in- 
 sisted on turning me out with her abominable 
 weak coffee. She a mother, indeed ! A sour- 
 milk generation she would have nursed. She 
 is always croaking, scolding, bullying — yowling 
 at the housemaids, snarling at Miss Raby, 
 bowwowing after the little boys, barking after 
 the big ones. She knows how much every boy 
 eats to an ounce ; and her delight is to ply with 
 fat the little ones who can't bear it, and with 
 raw meat those who hate underdone. It was 
 she who caused the Doctor to be eaten out 
 three times ; and nearly created a rebellion in 
 the school because she insisted on his flogging 
 Goliath Longman. 
 
 The only time that woman is happy is when 
 she comes in of a morning to the little boys' 
 dormitories with a cup of hot Epsom salts, and 
 a sippet of bread. Boo ! — the very notion 
 makes me quiver. She stands over them. I
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 23 
 
 saw her do it to young Byles only a few days 
 since ; and her presence makes the abomination 
 doubly abominable. 
 
 As for attending them in real illness, do you 
 suppose that she would watch a single night 
 for any one of them ? Not she. When poor 
 little Charley Davison (that child a lock of 
 whose soft hair I have said how Miss Raby still 
 keeps) lay ill of scarlet fever in the holidays — 
 for the Colonel, the father of these boys, was 
 in India — it was Anne Raby who tended the 
 child, who watched him all through the fever, 
 who never left him while it lasted, or until she 
 had closed the little eyes that were never to 
 brighten or moisten more. Anne watched and 
 deplored him ; but it was Miss Birch who 
 wrote the letter announcing his demise, and got 
 the gold chain and locket which the Colonel 
 ordered as a memento of his gratitude. It was 
 through a row with Miss Birch that Frank 
 Davison ran away. I promise you that after 
 he- joined his regiment in India, the Ahmednug- 
 gur Irregulars, which his gallant father com- 
 mands, there came over no more annual shawls 
 and presents to Dr. and Miss Birch ; and that 
 if she fancied the Colonel was coming home to 
 marry her (on account of her tenderness to his 
 motherless children, which he was always
 
 24 THACKERAY. 
 
 writing about), that uotion was very soon given 
 up. But these affaiis are of early date, seven 
 years back, and I only heard of them in a very 
 confused manner from Miss Raby, who was a 
 girl, and had just come to Rodwell Kegis. She 
 is always very much moved when she speaks 
 about those boys ; which is but seldom. I take 
 it the death of the little one still grieves her 
 tender heart. 
 
 Yes, it is Miss Birch who has turned away 
 seventeen ushers and second-masters in eleven 
 years, and half as many French masters, I sup- 
 pose, since the departure of her favorite, M. 
 Grinche, with her gold watch, etc. ; but this is 
 only surmise — that is, from hearsay, and from 
 Miss Rosa taunting her aunt, as she does some- 
 times, in her graceful way ; but besides this, I 
 have another way of keeping her in order. 
 
 Whenever she is particularly odious or inso- 
 lent to Miss Raby, I have but to introduce 
 raspberry jam into the conversation, and the 
 woman holds her tongue. She will understand 
 me. I need not say more. 
 
 Note, \2ih December. — I may speak now. 
 I have left the place and don't mind. I say 
 then at once, and without caring twopence for 
 the consequences, that I saw this woman, tliis 
 mother of the boys, eating jam with a spoon
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 25 
 
 OUT OF Master Wiggins's trunk in the 
 BOX-ROOM : and of this I am ready to take an 
 affidavit any day. 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 THE DRAMA OUGHT TO BE REPRESENTED IN 
 ABOUT SIX ACTS. 
 
 [The school is hushed. Lawtience the Prefect^ 
 and Gustos of the rodsy is marching after 
 the Doctor into the operating-room. 
 
 Master Backhouse is about tofollow.~\ 
 
 Master Backhouse. — It 's all very well, but 
 you see if I don't pay yoii out after school — 
 you sneak you ! 
 
 Master Lurcher. — If you do I '11 tell again. 
 
 [Exit Backhouse. 
 [The rod is heard from the adjoining apart- 
 ment. Hivish — hwish — hicish — hwish 
 — hwish — hwish — hwish ! 
 Re-enter Backhouse.
 
 26 THACKERAY. 
 
 BRIGGS IN LUCK. 
 
 Enter the Knife-hoy. — Hamper for Briggses ! 
 Master Brown. — Hurray, Tom Briggs ! I '11 
 lend you my knife. 
 
 If this story does not carry its own moral, 
 what fable does, I wonder ? Before the arrival 
 of that hamper, Master Briggs was in no better 
 repute than any other young gentleman of the 
 lower school ; and in fact I had occasion my- 
 self, only lately, to correct Master Brown for 
 kicking his friend's shins during the writing- 
 lesson. But how this basket, directed by his 
 mother's housekeeper and marked " Glass with 
 care " (whence I conclude that it contains some 
 jam and some bottles of wine, probably, as well 
 as the usual cake and game-pie, and half a 
 sovereign for the elder Master B., and five new 
 shillings for Master Decimus Briggs) — how, I 
 say, the arrival of this basket alters all Master 
 Briggs's circumstances in life, and the estima- 
 tion in which many persons regard him ! 
 
 If he is a good-hearted boy, as I have reason 
 to til ink, the very first thing he will do, before 
 inspecting the contents of the hamper, or cut- 
 ting iuto them with the knife which Master
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 27 
 
 Brown has so considerately lent him, will be to 
 read over the letter from home which lies on 
 the top of the parcel. He does so, as I remark 
 to Miss Raby (for whom I happen to be mend- 
 ing pens when the little circumstance arose), 
 with a flushed face and winking eyes. Look 
 how the other boys are peering into the bas- 
 ket as he reads. — I say to her, " Is n't it a 
 pretty picture?" Part of the letter is in a 
 very large hand. This is from his little sister. 
 And I would wager that she netted the little 
 purse which he has just taken out of it, and 
 which Master Lynx is eying. 
 
 " You are a droll man, and remark all sorts 
 of queer things," Miss Raby says, smiling, and 
 plying her swift needle and fingers as quick as 
 possible. 
 
 " I am glad we are both on the spot, and that 
 the little fellow lies under our guns as it were, 
 and so is protected from some such brutal 
 school-pirate as young Duval for instance, who 
 would rob him, probably, of some of those good 
 things ; good in themselves, and better because 
 fresh from home. See, there is a pie as I said, 
 and which I dare say is better than those which 
 are served at our table (but you never take any 
 notice of such kind of things. Miss Raby), a 
 cake of course, a bottle of currant-wine, jam-
 
 28 THACKEKAY. 
 
 pots, and no end of pears in the straw. With 
 their money little Briggs will be able to pay 
 the tick which that imprudent child has run up 
 with Mrs. liuggles ; and 1 shall let Briggs 
 Major pay for the pencil-case which Bullock 
 sold to him. — It will be a lesson to the young 
 prodigal for the future. But I say, what a 
 change there will be in his life for some time 
 to come, and at least until his present wealth is 
 spent ! The boys who bully him will mollify 
 towards him, and accept his pie and sweet- 
 meats. They will have feasts in the bedroom; 
 and that wine will taste more delicious to them 
 than the best out of the Doctor's cellar. The 
 cronies will be invited. Young Master Wagg 
 will tell his most dreadful story and sing his 
 best song for a slice of that pie. What a jolly 
 night they will have ! When we go the rounds 
 at night, Mr. Prince and I will take care to 
 make a noise before we come to Briggs's room, 
 so that the boys may have time to put the light 
 out, to push the things away, and to scud into 
 bed. Doctor Spry may be put in requisition 
 the next morning." 
 
 ''Nonsense ! you absurd creature," cries out 
 Miss Raby, laughing ; and I lay down the 
 twelfth pen very nicely mended. 
 
 " Yes ; after luxury comes the doctor, I say ;
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 29 
 
 after extravagance a hole in the breeches pocket. 
 To judge from his disposition, Briggs Major 
 will not be much better off a couple of days 
 hence than he is now ; and, if I am not mistaken, 
 will end life a poor man. Brown will be kick- 
 ing his shins before a week is over, depend 
 upon it. There are boys and men of all sorts. 
 Miss R. — There are selfish sneaks who hoard 
 until the store they dare n't use grows mouldy 
 — there are spendthrifts who fling away, para- 
 sites who flatter and lick its shoes, and snarling 
 curs who hate and envy, good fortune." 
 
 I put down the last of the pens, brushing 
 away with it the quill-chips from her desk first, 
 and she looked at me with a kind, wondering 
 face. I brushed them away, clicked the pen- 
 knife into my pocket, made her a bow, and 
 walked off — for the bell was ringing for 
 school. 
 
 A YOUNG FELLOW WHO IS PRETTY SURE 
 TO SUCCEED. 
 
 If Master Briggs is destined in all probability 
 to be a poor man, the chances are that Mr. 
 Bullock will have a very different lot. He is a 
 son of a partner of the eminent banking firm of
 
 30 THACKERAY. 
 
 Bullock and Hulker, Lombard Street, and very 
 high in the upper school — quite out of my ju- 
 risdiction, consequently. 
 
 He writes the most beautiful current-hand 
 ever seen ; and the way in which he mastered 
 arithmetic (going away into recondite and 
 wonderful rules in the Tutor's Assistant, which 
 some masters even dare not approach) is de- 
 scribed by the Doctor in terms of admiration. 
 He is Mr. Prince's best algebra pupil ; and a 
 very fair classic, too ; doing everything well for 
 which he has a mind. 
 
 He does not busy himself with the sports of 
 his comrades, and holds a cricket-bat no better 
 than Miss Raby would. He employs the play- 
 hours in improving his mind, and reading the 
 newspaper ; he is a profound politician, and, it 
 must be owned, on the liberal side. The elder 
 boys despise him rather ; and when Champion 
 Major passes, he turns his head, and looks 
 down. I don't like the expression of Bullock's 
 narrow green eyes, as they follow the elder 
 Champion, who does not seem to know or care 
 how much the other hates him. 
 
 No. Mr. Bullock, though perhaps the clev- 
 erest and most accomplished boy in the school, 
 associates with the quite little boys when he is 
 minded for society. To these he is quite affable,
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 31 
 
 courteous, and winning. He never fagged or 
 thrashed one of them. He has done the verses 
 and corrected the exercises of many, and many 
 is the little lad to whom he has lent a little 
 money. 
 
 It is true he charges at the rate of a penny a 
 week for every sixpence lent out ; but many a 
 fellow to whom tarts are a present necessity is 
 happy to pay this interest for the loan. These 
 transactions are kept secret. Mr. Bullock, in 
 rather a whining tone, when he takes Master 
 Green aside and does the requisite business for 
 him, says, " You know you 'II go and talk about 
 it everywhere. I don't want to lend you the 
 money, I want to buy something with it. It 's 
 only to oblige you ; and yet I am sure you will 
 go and make fun of me." Whereon, of course, 
 Green, eager for the money, vows solemnly 
 that the transaction shall be confidential, and 
 only speaks when the payment of the interest 
 becomes oppressive. 
 
 Thus it is that Mr. Bullock's practices are at 
 all known. At a very early period, indeed, his 
 commercial genius manifested itself : and by 
 happy speculations in toffey ; by composing a 
 sweet drink made of stick-liquorice and brown 
 sugar, and selling it at a profit to the younger 
 children ; by purchasing a series of novels.
 
 32 THACKERAY. 
 
 which he let out at an adequate remuneration ; 
 by doing boys' exercises for a penny, and other 
 processes, he showed the bent of his mmd. At 
 the end of the half-year he always went home 
 richer than when he arrived at school, with his 
 purse full of money. 
 
 Nobody knows how much he brought ; but 
 the accounts are fabulous. Twenty, thirty, 
 fifty — it is impossible to say how many sover- 
 eigns. When joked about his money, he turns 
 pale and swears he has not a shilling ; whereas 
 he has had a banker's account ever since he 
 was thirteen. 
 
 At the present moment he is employed in 
 negotiating the sale of a knife with Master 
 Green, and is pointing out to the latter the 
 beauty of the six blades, and that he need not 
 pay until after the holidays. 
 
 Champion Major has sworn that he will break 
 every bone in his skin the next time that he 
 cheats a little boy, and is bearing down upon 
 him. Let us come away. It is frightful to 
 see that big peaceful clever coward moaning 
 under well - deserved blows and whining for 
 mercy.
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 33 
 
 DUVAL THE PIRATE. 
 
 Jones Minimus passes laden with tarts. 
 
 Duval. — ■ Hullo ! you small boy with the 
 tarts ! Come here, sir. 
 
 Jones Minimus. — Please, Duval, they ain't 
 mine. 
 
 Duval. — Oh, you abominable young story- 
 teller, [He confiscates the goods. 
 
 I think I like young Duval's mode of levying 
 contributions better than Bullock's. The for- 
 mer's, at least, has the merit of more candor. 
 Duval is the pirate of Birch's, and lies in wait 
 for small boys laden with money or provender. 
 He scents plunder from afar off, and pounces 
 out on it. Woe betide the little fellow when 
 Duval boards him ! 
 
 There was a youth here whose money I used 
 to keep, as he was of an extravagant and weak 
 taste ; and I doled it out to him in weekly 
 shillings, sufficient for the purchase of the 
 necessary tarts. This boy came to me one day 
 for half a sovereign, for a very particular pur- 
 pose, he said, I afterwards found he wanted 
 to lend the money to Duval. 
 
 The young ogre burst out laughing, when in 
 a great wrath and fury I ordered him to re-
 
 34 THACKERAY. 
 
 fund to the little boy, and proposed a bill of 
 exchange at three months. It is true Duval's 
 father does not pay the Doctor, and the lad 
 never has a shilling, save that which he levies ; 
 and though he is always bragging about the 
 splendor of Freenystown, Co. Cork, and the 
 fox-hounds his father keeps, and the claret they 
 drink there — there conies no remittance from 
 Castle Freeny in these bad times to the honest 
 Doctor ; who is a kindly man enough, and 
 never yet turned an insolvent boy out of doors. 
 
 THE DORMITORIES. 
 
 MASTER HEWLETT AND MASTER NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 {Rather a cold winter night.') 
 
 Hewlett {fiinging a shoe at Master Nightin- 
 gale's bed, with which he hits that young gentle- 
 man). — Hullo, you! Get up and bring me 
 that shoe ! 
 
 Nightingale. — Yes, Hewlett. {He gets up.) 
 
 Hewlett. — Don't drop it, and be very care- 
 ful of it, sir. 
 
 Nightingale. — Yes, Hewlett. 
 
 Hewlett. — Silence in the dormitory ! Any
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 35 
 
 boy who opens his mouth, I'll murder him. 
 Now, sir, are not you the boy what can sing ? 
 
 Nightingale. — Yes, Hewlett. 
 
 Hewlett. — Chant, then, till I go to sleep, and 
 if I wake when you stop, you '11 have this at 
 your head. 
 
 [Master Hewlett lays his Bluchers on the 
 bed, ready to shy at Master Nightingale's 
 head in the case contemplated. 
 
 Nightingale (timidly). — Please, Hewlett? 
 
 Hewlett. — Well, sir ? 
 
 Nightingale. — May I put on my trousers, 
 please ? 
 
 Hewlett. — No, sir. Go on, or I'll — 
 
 Nightingale. — 
 
 " Through pleasures and palaces 
 
 Though we may roam, 
 Be it ever so hiunble, 
 
 There 's no place like home." 
 
 A CAPTURE AND A RESCUE. 
 
 My young friend, Patrick Champion, George's 
 younger brother, a late arrival among us ; has 
 much of the family quality and good nature ; 
 is not in the least a tyrant to the small boys, 
 but is as eager as Amadis to fight. He is box- 
 ing his way up the school, emulating his great
 
 36 THACKERAY. 
 
 brother. He fixes his eye on a boy above him 
 in strength or size, and you hear somehow that 
 a difference has arisen between them at foot- 
 ball, and they have their coats off presently. 
 He has thrashed himself over the heads of 
 many youths in this manner : for instance, if 
 Champion can lick Dobson, who can thrash 
 Hobson, how much more, then, can he thrash 
 Hobson? Thus he works up and establishes 
 his position in the school. Nor does Mr, Prince 
 think it advisable that we ushers should walk 
 much in the way when these little differences 
 are being settled, unless there is some gross 
 disparity, or danger is apprehended. 
 
 For instance, I own to having seen this row 
 as I was shaving at my bedroom window. I 
 did not hasten down to prevent its consequences. 
 Fogle had confiscated a top, the property of 
 Snivins ; the which, as the little wretch was 
 always pegging it at my toes, I did not regret. 
 Snivins whimpered ; and young Champion 
 came up, lusting for battle. Directly he made 
 out Fogle, he steered for him, pulling up his 
 coat-sleeves, and clearing for action. 
 
 " Who spoke to you, young Champion ? " 
 Fogle said, and he flung down the top to Mas- 
 ter Snivins. I knew there would be no fight ; 
 and perhaps Champion, too, was disappointed.
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 37 
 
 THE GARDEN. 
 
 WHERE THE PARLOR -BOARDERS GO. 
 
 Noblemen have been rather scarce at Birch's 
 
 — but the heir of a great Prince has been living 
 with the Doctor for some years. — He is Lord 
 George Gaunt's eldest son, the noble Plau- 
 tagenet Gaunt Gaunt, and nephew of the Most 
 Honorable the Marquis of Steyne. 
 
 They are very proud of him at the Doctor's 
 
 — and the two Misses and Papa, whenever a 
 stranger comes down whom they want to dazzle, 
 are pretty sure to bring Lord Steyne into the 
 conversation, mention the last party at Gaunt 
 House, and cursorily to remark that they have 
 with them a young friend who will be, in all 
 human probability, Marquis of Steyne and 
 Earl of Gaunt, etc. 
 
 Plantagenet does not care much about these 
 future honors ; provided he can get some brown 
 sugar on his bread and butter, or sit with three 
 chairs and play at coach-and-horses quite quietly 
 by himself, he is tolerably happy. He saunters 
 in and out of school when he likes, and looks at 
 the masters and other boys with a listless grin. 
 He used to be taken to church, but he laughed
 
 38 THACKERAY. 
 
 and talked in odd places, so they are forced to 
 leave him at home now. He will sit with a 
 bit of string and play cat's-cradle for many 
 hours. He likes to go and join the very small 
 children at their games. Some are frightened 
 at him ; but they soon cease to fear, and order 
 him about. I have seen him go and fetch tarts 
 from Mrs. Ruggles for a boy of eight years old ; 
 and cry bitterly if he did not get a piece. He 
 cannot speak quite plain, but very nearly ; and 
 is not more, I suppose, than three-and-twenty. 
 
 Of course at home they know his age, though 
 they never come and see him. But they forget 
 that Miss Rosa Birch is no longer a young chit 
 as she was ten years ago, when Gaunt was 
 brought to the school. On the contrary, she 
 has had no small experience in the tender pas- 
 sion, and is at this moment smitten with a dis- 
 interested affection for Plantagenet Gaunt. 
 
 Next to a little doll with a burnt nose, which 
 he hides away in cunning places, Mr. Gaunt is 
 very fond of Miss Rosa too. What a pretty 
 match it would make ! and how pleased they 
 would be at Gaunt House, if the grandson and 
 heir of the great Marquis of Steyne, the de- 
 scendant of a hundred Gaunts and Tudors, 
 should marry Miss Birch, the schoolmaster's 
 daughter ! It is true she has the sense on her
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 39 
 
 side, and poor Plautagenet is only an idiot ; but 
 there he is, a zany, with such expectations and 
 such a pedigree ! 
 
 If Miss Rosa would run away with Mr. 
 Gaunt, she would leave off bullying her cousin. 
 Miss Anne Raby. Shall I put her up to the 
 notion, and offer to lend her money to run 
 away ? Mr. Gaunt is not allowed money. He 
 had some once, but Bullock took him into a 
 corner, and got it from him. He has a moder- 
 ate tick opened at a tart-woman's. He stops 
 at Rodwell Regis through the year : school- 
 time and holiday-time, it is all the same to him. 
 Nobody asks about liim, or thinks about him, 
 save twice a year, when the Doctor goes to 
 Gaunt House, and gets the amount of his bills, 
 and a glass of wine in the steward's room. 
 
 And yet you see somehow that he is a gentle- 
 man. His manner is different to that of the 
 owners of that coarse table and parlor at which 
 he is a boarder (I do not speak of Miss R. of 
 course, foB her manners are as good as those of 
 a duchess). When he caught Miss Rosa box- 
 ing little Fiddes's ears, his face grew red, and 
 he broke into a fierce inarticulate rage. After 
 that, and for some days, he used to shrink from 
 her ; but they are reconciled now. I saw them 
 this afternoon in the garden where only the
 
 40 THACKERAY. 
 
 parlor-boarders walk. He was playful, and 
 touched her with his stick. She raised her 
 handsome eyes in surprise, and smiled on him 
 very kindly. 
 
 The thing was so clear, that I thought it my 
 duty to speak to old Zoe about it. The wicked 
 old catamaran told me she wished that some 
 people would mind their own business, and hold 
 their tongues — that some persons were paid to 
 teach writing, and not to tell tales and make 
 mischief : and I have since been thinking 
 whether I ought to communicate with the 
 Doctor. 
 
 THE OLD PUPIL 
 
 As I came into the playgrounds this morning, 
 I saw a dashing young fellow, with a tanned 
 face and a blonde moustache, who was walking 
 up and down the green arm-in-arm with Cham- 
 pion Major, and followed by a little crowd of 
 boys. 
 
 They were talking of old times evidently. 
 " What had become of Irvine and Smith ? " — 
 " Where was Bill Harris and Jones : not Squinny 
 Jones, but Cocky Jones?" — and so forth. 
 The gentleman was no stranger ; he was an 
 old pupil evidently, come to see if any of his
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 41 
 
 old comrades remained, and revisit the cari 
 luogJii of his youth. 
 
 Champion was evidently proud of his arm- 
 feilow. He espied his brother, young Cham- 
 pion, and introduced him. "Come here, sir,'* 
 he called. " The young 'im was n't here iu 
 your time, Davison." " Pat, sir," said he, 
 *' this is Captain Davison, one of Birch's boys. 
 Ask him who was among the first in the lines 
 at Sobraon ? " 
 
 Pat's face kindled up as he looked Davison 
 full in the face and held out his hand. Old 
 Champion and Davison both blushed. The 
 infantry set up a "Hurray, hurray, hurray," 
 Champion leading, and waving his wide-awake. 
 I protest that the scene did one good to witness. 
 Here was the hero and cock of the school come 
 back to see his old haunts and cronies. He 
 had always remembered them. Since he had 
 seen them last, he had faced death and achieved 
 honor. But for my dignity I would have shied 
 up my hat too. 
 
 With a resolute step, and his arm still linked 
 in Champion's, Captain Davison now advanced, 
 followed by a wake of little boys, to that corner 
 of the green where Mrs. Buggies has her tart 
 stand. 
 
 " Hullo, Mother Buggies ! don't you remem- 
 ber me ? " he said, and shook her by the hand.
 
 42 THACKERAY. 
 
 " Lor, if it ain't Davison Major ! " she said. 
 *' Well, Davison Major, you owe me fourpence 
 for two sausage-rolls from when you went 
 away." 
 
 Davison laughed, and all the little crew of 
 boys set up a similar chorus. 
 
 " I buy the whole shop," he said. " Now, 
 young 'uns — eat away ! " 
 
 Then there was such a ** Hurray ! hurray ! " 
 as surpassed the former cheer in loudness. 
 Everybody engaged in it except Rggy Duff, 
 who made an instant dash at the three-cornered 
 puffs, but was stopped by Champion, who said 
 there should be a fair distribution. And so 
 there was, and no one lacked, neither of rasp- 
 berry, open tarts, nor of mellifluous bull's eyes, 
 nor of polonies, beautiful to the sight and 
 taste. 
 
 The hurraying brought out the old Doctor 
 himself, who put his hand xip to his specta- 
 cles and started when he saw the old pupil. 
 Each blushed when he recognized the other ; 
 for seven years ago they had parted not good 
 friends. 
 
 " What — Davison ? " the Doctor said, with 
 a tremulous voice. " God bless you, my dear 
 fellow ! " — and they shook hands. " A half- 
 holiday, of course, boys," he added, and there
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 43 
 
 was another hurray : there was to be no end to 
 the cheering that day. 
 
 " How 's — how 's the family, sir ? " Captain 
 Davison asked. 
 
 " Come in and see. Rosa's grown quite a 
 lady. Dine with us, of course. Champion 
 Major, come to dinner at five. Mr. Titmarsh, 
 the pleasure of your company ? " The Doctor 
 swung open the garden gate : the old master 
 and pupil entered the house reconciled. 
 
 I thought I would first peep into Miss Raby's 
 room, and tell her of this event. She was 
 working away at her linen there, as usual quiet 
 and cheerful. 
 
 "You should put up," I said with a smile ; 
 "the Doctor has given us a half-holiday." 
 
 "I never have holidays," Miss Raby re- 
 plied. 
 
 Then I told her of the scene I had just wit- 
 nessed, of the arrival of the old pupil, the pur- 
 chase of the tarts, the proclamation of the 
 holiday, and the shouts of the boys of " Hurray, 
 Davison ! " 
 
 " Who is it ? " cried out Miss Raby, starting 
 and turning as white as a sheet. 
 
 I told her it was Captain Davison from India ; 
 and described the appearance and behavior of 
 the Captain. When I had finished speaking,
 
 44 THACKERAY. 
 
 she asked me to go and get her a glass of wa- 
 ter ; she felt unwell. But she was gone when 
 I came back with the water. 
 
 I know all now. After sitting for a quarter 
 of an hour with the Doctor, who attributed his 
 guest's uneasiness no doubt to his desire to see 
 Miss Rosa Birch, Davison started up and said 
 he wanted to see Miss Raby. " You remember, 
 sir, how kind she was to my little brother, 
 sir ? " he said. Whereupon the Doctor, with a 
 look of surprise, that anybody should want to 
 see Miss Raby, said she was in the little school- 
 room ; whither the Captain went, knowing the 
 way from old times. 
 
 A few minutes afterwards. Miss R. and Miss 
 Z. returned from a drive with Plantagenet 
 Gaunt in their one-horse fly, and being informed 
 of Davison's arrival, and that he was closeted 
 with Miss Raby in the little school-room, of 
 course made for that apartment at once. I 
 was coming into it from the other door. I 
 wanted to know whether she had drunk the 
 water. 
 
 This is what both parties saw. The two were 
 in this very attitude. *' Well, upon my word ! " 
 cries out Miss Zoe ; but Davison did not let go 
 his hold ; and Miss Raby's head only sank down 
 on his hand.
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 45 
 
 "You must get another governess, sir, for 
 the little boys," Frank Davison said to the 
 Doctor. " Anne Raby has promised to come 
 with me." 
 
 You may suppose I shut to the door on my 
 side. And when I returned to the little school- 
 room, it was black and empty. Everybody 
 was gone. I could hear the boys shouting at 
 play in the green outside. The glass of water 
 was on the table where I had placed it. I took 
 it and drank it myself, to the health of Anne 
 Raby and her husband. It was rather a 
 choker. 
 
 But of course I was n't going to stop on at 
 Birch's. When his young friends reassemble 
 on the 1st of February next, they will have two 
 new masters. Prince resigned too, and is at 
 present living with me at my old lodgings at 
 Mrs. Cammysole's. If any nobleman or gen- 
 tleman wants a private tutor for his son, a note 
 to the Rev. F. Prince will find him there. 
 
 Miss Clapperclaw says we are both a couple 
 of old fools ; and that she knew when I set off 
 last year to Rodwell Regis, after meeting the 
 two young ladies at a party at General Cham- 
 pion's house in our street, that I was going on 
 a goose's errand. I shall dine there on Christ- 
 mas-day ; and so I wish a merry Christmas to 
 all young and old boys.
 
 46 THACKERAY. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 The play is done ; the curtain drops, 
 
 Slow falling, to the prompter's bell : 
 A moment yet the actor stops, 
 
 And looks around, to say farewell. 
 It is an irksome word and task ; 
 
 And when he 's laughed and said his say. 
 He shows, as he removes the mask, 
 
 A face that 's anything but gay. 
 
 One word, ere yet the evening ends. 
 
 Let 's close it with a parting rhyme, 
 And pledge a hand to all young friends, 
 
 As fits the merry Christmas time. 
 On life's wide scene you, too, have parts, 
 
 That Fate ere long shall bid you play ; 
 Good-night ! with honest gentle hearts 
 
 A kindly greeting go alway ! 
 
 Good-night ! I'd say the griefs, the joys, 
 
 Just hinted in this mimic page, 
 The triumphs and defeats of boys, 
 
 Are but repeated in our age. 
 I 'd say, your woes were not less keen. 
 
 Your hopes more vain, than those of men ; 
 Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen, 
 
 At forty-five played o'er again.
 
 DOCTOR BIECH. 47 
 
 I 'd say, we suffer and we strive 
 
 Not less nor more as men than boys ; 
 With grizzled beards at forty-five, 
 
 As erst at twelve, in corduroys. 
 And if, in time of sacred youth, 
 
 We learned at home to love and pray, 
 Pray Heaven, that early love and truth 
 
 May never wholly pass away. 
 
 And in the world, as in the school, 
 
 I 'd say, how fate may chang-e and shift ; 
 The prize be sometimes with the fool. 
 
 The race not always to the swift. 
 The strong may yield, the good may fall, 
 
 The great man be a vulgar clown, 
 The knave be lifted over all. 
 
 The kind cast pitilessly down. 
 
 Who knows the inscrutable design ? 
 
 Blessed be He who took and gave : 
 Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, 
 
 Be weeping at her darling's grave ? ^ 
 We bow to Heaven that wilFd it so, 
 
 That darkly rules the fate of all, 
 That sends the respite or the blow, 
 
 That 's free to give or to recall. 
 
 This crowns his feast with wine and wit : 
 Who brought him to that mirth and state ? 
 
 1 C, B., Ob. Dec. 1843, fet. 42.
 
 48 THACKERAY. 
 
 His betters, see, below him sit, 
 Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 
 
 Who bade the mud from Dives' Wheel 
 To spurn the rags of Lazarus ? 
 
 Come, brother, in that dust we '11 kneel, 
 Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 
 
 So each shall mourn in life's advance, 
 
 Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed 
 Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, 
 
 A longing passion unfulfilled. 
 Amen : whatever Fate be sent, — 
 
 Pray God the heart may kindly glow, 
 Although the head with cares be bent, 
 
 And whitened with the winter snow. 
 
 Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 
 
 Let young and old accept their part, 
 And bow before the Awful Will, 
 
 And bear it with an honest heart. 
 Who misses, or who wins the prize ? 
 
 Go, lose or conquer as you can : 
 But if you fail, or if you rise, 
 
 Be each, pray God, a gentleman, 
 
 A gentleman, or old or young : 
 
 (Bear kindly with my humble lays,) 
 
 The sacred chorus first was sung 
 Upon the first of Christmas days.
 
 DOCTOR BIRCH. 49 
 
 The shepherds heard it overhead — 
 
 The joyful ang-eLs raised it then : 
 Glory to Heaven on high, it said, 
 And peace on earth to gentle men. 
 
 My song, save this, is little worth ; 
 
 I lay the weary pen aside, 
 And ^ash you health, and love, and mirth, 
 
 As fits the solemn Christmas tide. 
 As fits the holy Christmas birth, 
 
 Be this, good friends, our carol still — 
 Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, 
 
 To men of gentle will.
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS. 
 
 BY ONE OF THEMSELVES. 
 
 PREFATORY REMARKS. 
 
 [The necessity of a work on Snobs, demonstrated from 
 History, and proved by felicitous illustrations : — I am the 
 individual destined to write that work — 3fy vocation is an- 
 nounced in terms of great eloquence — I shoiv that the world 
 has been gradually preparing itself for the work and the 
 MAN — Snobs are to be studied like other objects of Nattiral 
 Science, and are a part of the Beautiful (icith a large B). 
 They pervade all classes — Affecting instance of Colonel 
 Snobley.'] 
 
 E have all read a statement (the authen- 
 ticity of which I take leave to doubt 
 entirely, for upon what calculations I 
 should like to know is it founded ?) — we have 
 all, I say, been favored by perusing a remark, 
 that when the times and necessities of the world 
 call for a Man, that individual is found. Thus 
 at the French Revolution (which the reader 
 will be pleased to have introduced so early).
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS. 51 
 
 when it was requisite to administer a corrective 
 dose to the nation, Robespierre was found ; a 
 most foul and nauseous dose indeed, and swal- 
 lowed eagerly by the patient, greatly to the 
 latter's ultimate advantage ; thus, when it be- 
 came necessary to kick John Bull out of 
 America, Mr. Washington stepped forward and 
 performed that job to satisfaction ; thus, when 
 the Earl of Aldborough was unwell. Professor 
 Holloway appeared with his pills, and cured 
 his lordship, as per advertisement, etc., etc. 
 Numberless mstances might be adduced to show 
 that when a nation is in great want, the relief 
 is at hand ; just as in the Pantomime (that 
 microcosm) where when Clown wants anything 
 — a warming-pan, a pump-handle, a goose, or 
 a lady's tippet — a fellow comes sauntering out 
 from behind the side-scenes with the very arti- 
 cle in question. 
 
 Again, when men commence an undertaking, 
 they always are prepared to show that the ab- 
 solute necessities of the world demanded its 
 completion. — Say it is a railroad : the directors 
 begin by stating that " A more intimate com- 
 munication between Bathershins and Derrynane 
 Beg is necessary for the advancement of civil- 
 ization, and demanded by the multitudinous 
 acclamations of the great Irish people." Or
 
 52 THACKERAY. 
 
 suppose it is a newspaper : the prospectus 
 states that " At a time when the Church is in 
 danger, threatened from without by savage 
 fanaticism and miscreant unbelief, and under- 
 mined from within by dangerous Jesuitism and 
 suicidal Schism, a Want has been universally 
 felt — a suffering people has looked abroad — 
 for an Ecclesiastical Champion and Guardian. 
 A body of Prelates and Gentlemen have there- 
 fore stepped forward in this our hour of danger, 
 and determined on establishing the Beadle news- 
 paper," etc., etc. One or other of these points 
 at least is incontrovertible : the public wants a 
 thing, therefore it is supplied with it ; or the 
 public is supplied with a thing ; therefore it 
 wants it. 
 
 I have long gone about with a conviction on 
 my mind that I had a work to do — a Work, if 
 you like, with a great W ; a Purpose to fulfill ; 
 a chasm to leap into, like Curtius, horse & 
 foot ; a Great Social Evil to Discover and to 
 Remedy. That Conviction Has Pursued me 
 for Years. It has Dogged me in the Busy 
 Street ; Seated Itself By me in The Lonely 
 Study ; Jogged my Elbow as it Lifted the 
 Wine-cup at The Festive Board ; pursued me 
 through the Maze of Rotten Row ; Followed 
 me in Far Lands. On Brighton's Shingly
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS. 53 
 
 Beach, or Margate's Sand, the Voice Outpiped 
 the Roaring of the Sea ; it Nestles in my Night- 
 cap, and It Whispers " Wake, Slumberer, thy 
 Work Is Not Yet Done." Last Year, By 
 Moonlight, in the Colosseum, the Little Sedu- 
 lous Voice Came to me and Said, " Smith, or 
 Jones " (The Writer's Name is Neither Here 
 nor There), " Smith or Jones, my fine fellow, 
 this is all very well, but you ought to be at 
 home writing your great work on SNOBS." 
 
 When a man has this sort of vocation it is 
 all nonsense attempting to elude it. He must 
 speak out to the nations ; he must unbusm him- 
 self, as Jeames would say, or choke and die. 
 *' Mark to yourself," I have often mentally ex- 
 claimed to your humble servant, " the gradual 
 way in which you have been prepared for, and 
 are now led by an irresistible necessity to enter 
 upon your great labor. First, the World was 
 made : then, as a matter of course, Snobs ; they 
 existed for years and years, and were no more 
 known than America. But presently — ingens 
 patehat tellus — the people became darkly aware 
 that there was such a race. Not above five- 
 and-twenty years since, a name, an expressive 
 monosyllaole, arose to designate that race. 
 That name has spread over England like rail- 
 roads subsequently ; Snobs are known and
 
 54 THACKERAY. 
 
 recognized throughout an Empire on which I 
 am given to understand the Sun never sets. 
 Punch appears at the ripe reason, to chronicle 
 their history : and the individual comes forth 
 to write that history in Punch.'" ^ 
 
 I have (and for this gift I congratulate my- 
 self with a Deep and Abiding thankfulness) an 
 eye for a Snob. If the Truthful is the Beauti- 
 ful, it is Beautiful to study even the Snobbish ; 
 to track Snobs through history, as certain little 
 dogs in Hampshire hunt out truffles ; to sink 
 shafts in society and come upon rich veins of 
 Snob -ore. Snobbishness is like Death in a 
 quotation from Horace, which I hope you never 
 have heard, " beating with equal foot at poor 
 men's doors, and kicking at the gates of Emper- 
 ors." It is a great mistake to judge of Snobs 
 lightly, and think they exist among the lower 
 classes merely. An immense percentage of 
 Snobs, I believe, is to be found in every rank 
 of this mortal life. You must not judge hastily 
 or vulgarly of Snobs : to do so shows that you 
 are yourself a Snob. I myself have been taken 
 for one. 
 
 When I was taking the waters at Bagniggie 
 Wells, and living at the " Imperial Hotel " 
 
 1 These papers were originally published in that popular 
 periodical.
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS. 55 
 
 there, there used to sit opposite me at break- 
 fast, for a short time, a Snob so insufferable 
 that I felt I should never get any benefit of the 
 waters so long as he remained. His name was 
 Lieutenant-Colonel Snobley, of a certain dragoon 
 regiment. He wore japanned boots and mous- 
 taches ; he lisped, drawled, and left the " r's " 
 out of his words ; he was always flourishing 
 about and smoothing his lacquered whiskers 
 with a huge flaming bandanna, that flUed the 
 room with an odor of musk so stifling that I 
 determined to do battle with that Snob, and 
 that either he or I should quit the Inn. I first 
 began harmless conversations with him ; fright- 
 ening him exceedingly, for he did not know 
 what to do when so attacked, and had never 
 the slightest notion that anybody would take 
 such a liberty with him as to speak first : then 
 I handed him the paper : then, as he would 
 take no notice of these advances, I used to look 
 him in the face steadily and — and use my fork 
 in the light of a toothpick. After two mornings 
 of this practice, he could bear it no longer, and 
 fairly quitted the place. 
 
 Should the Colonel see this, will he remember 
 the Gent who asked him if he thought Publi- 
 coaler was a fine writer, and drove him from 
 the hotel with a four-pronged fork ?
 
 56 THACKERAY. 
 
 THE SNOB PLAYFULLY DEALT WITH. 
 
 There are relative and positive Snobs. I 
 mean by positive, such persons as are Snobs 
 everywhere, in all companies, from morning 
 till night, from youth to the grave, being by 
 Nature endowed with Snobbishness — and others 
 who are Snobs only in certain circumstances 
 and relations of life. 
 
 For instance : I once knew a man who com- 
 mitted before me an act as atrocious as that 
 which I have indicated in the last chapter as 
 performed by me for the purpose of disgusting 
 Colonel Snobley ; viz., the using the fork in the 
 guise of a toothpick. I once, I say, knew a 
 man who, dining in my company at the " Europa 
 Coffee-house " (opposite the Grand Opera, and, 
 as everybody knows, the only decent place for 
 dining at Naples), ate peas with the assistance 
 of his knife. He was a person with whose soci- 
 ety I was greatly pleased at first — indeed, we 
 had met in the crater of Vesuvius, and were 
 subsequently robbed and held to ransom by 
 brigands in Calabria, which is nothing to the 
 purpose — a man of great powers, excellent 
 heart, and varied information ; but I had never 
 before seen him with a dish of peas, and his
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS. 57 
 
 conduct ill regard to them caused me the deep- 
 est pain. 
 
 After having seen him thus publicly comport 
 himself, but one course was open to me — to 
 cut his acquaintance. I commissioned a mutual 
 friend (the Honorable Poly Anthus) to break 
 the matter to this gentleman as delicately as 
 possible, and to say that painful circumstances 
 — in nowise affecting Mr. Marrowfat's honor, 
 or my esteem for him — had occurred, which 
 obliged me to forego my intimacy with him ; 
 and accordingly we met, and gave each other 
 the cut direct that night at the Duchess of 
 Monte Fiasco's ball. 
 
 Everybody at Naples remarked the separa- 
 tion of the Damon and Pythias — indeed, Mar- 
 rowfat had saved my life more than once — but 
 as an English gentleman, what was I to do ? 
 
 My dear friend was, in this instance, the 
 Snob relative. It is not snobbish of persons of 
 rank of any other nation to employ their knife 
 in the manner alluded to. I have seen Monte 
 Fiasco clean his trencher with his knife, and 
 every Principe in company doing likewise. I 
 have seen, at the hospitable board of H. I. H. 
 the Grand Duchess Stephanie of Baden — (who, 
 if these humble lines should come under her 
 Imperial eyes, is besought to remember gra-
 
 58 THACKERAY. 
 
 ciously the most devoted of her servants) — I 
 have seen, I say, the Hereditary Princess of 
 Potztausend-Donnerwetter (that serenely-beau- 
 tiful woman) use her knife in lieu of a fork or 
 spoon ; I have seen her almost swallow it, by 
 Jove ! like Ramo Samee, the Indian juggler. 
 And did I blench ? Did my estimation for the 
 Princess diminish ? No, lovely Amalia ! One 
 of the truest passions that ever was inspired by 
 woman was raised in this bosom by that lady ! 
 Beautiful one ! long, long may the knife carry 
 food to those lips ! the reddest and loveliest in 
 the world. 
 
 The cause of my quarrel with Marrowfat I 
 never breathed to mortal soul for four years. 
 We met in the halls of the aristocracy — our 
 friends and relatives. We jostled each other 
 in the dance or at the board ; but the estrange- 
 ment continued, and seemed irrevocable, until 
 the fourth of June, last year. 
 
 We met at Sir George Golloper's. We were 
 placed, he on the right, your humble servant 
 on the left, of the admirable Lady G. Peas 
 formed part of the banquet — ducks and green 
 peas. I trembled as I saw Marrowfat helped, 
 and turned away sickening, lest I should behold 
 the weapon darting down his horrid jaws. 
 
 What was my astonishment, what my de-
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS. 59 
 
 light, when I saw hiiii use his fork like any 
 other Christian ! He did not administer the 
 cold steel once, . Old times rushed back upon 
 me — the remembrance of old services — his 
 rescuing me from the brigands — his gallant 
 conduct in the affair wii;h the Countess Dei 
 Spinachi — his lending me the 1,700Z. I almost 
 burst into tears with joy — my voice trembled 
 with emotion. "George, my boy!" I ex- 
 claimed, " George Marrowfat, my dear fellow ! 
 a glass of wine ! " 
 
 Blushing — deeply moved — almost as trem- 
 ulous as I was myself, George answered, 
 " Frank, shall it he Hock or Madeira f " I 
 could have hugged him to my heart but for the 
 presence of the company. Little did Lady 
 Golloper know what was the cause of the 
 emotion which sent the duckling I was carving 
 into her ladyship's pink satin lap. The most 
 good-natured of women pardoned the error, 
 and the butler removed the bird. 
 
 We have been the closest friends ever since, 
 nor, of course, has George repeated his odious 
 habit. He acquired it at a country school, 
 where they cultivated peas and only used two- 
 pronged forks, and it was only by living on the 
 Continent, where the usage of the four-prong is 
 general, that he lost the horrible custom.
 
 60 THACKERAY. 
 
 In this point — and in this only — I confess 
 myself a member of the Silver-Fork School ; 
 and if this tale but induce one of my readers to 
 pause, to examine in his own mind solemnly, 
 and ask, "Do I or do 1 not eat peas with a 
 knife ? " — to see the ruin which may fall upon 
 himself by continuing the practice, or his family 
 by beholding the example, these lines will not 
 have been written in vain. And now, what- 
 ever other authors may be, I flatter myself, it 
 will be allowed that 7, at least, am a moral 
 man. 
 
 By the way, as some readers are dull of com- 
 prehension, I may as well say what the moral 
 of this history is. The moral is this — Society 
 having ordained certain customs, men are bound 
 to obey the law of society, and conform to its 
 harmless orders. 
 
 If I should go to the British and Foreign 
 Institute (and Heaven forbid I should go under 
 any pretext or in any costume whatever) — if I 
 should go to one of the tea-parties in a dressing- 
 gown and slippers, and not in the usual attire 
 of a gentleman, viz., pumps, a gold waistcoat, 
 a crush hat, a sham frill, and a white choker — 
 I should be insulting society, and eating peas 
 with my knife. Let the porters of the Institute 
 hustle out the individual who shall so offend.
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS. 61 
 
 Such an offender is, as regards society, a. most 
 emphatical and refractory Snob. It has its 
 code and police as well as governments, and he 
 must conform who would profit by the decrees 
 set forth for their common comfort. 
 
 I am naturally averse to egotism, and hate 
 self-laudation consuraedly ; but I can't help 
 relating here a circumstance illustrative of the 
 point in question, in which I must think I 
 acted with considerable prudence. 
 
 Being at Constantinople a few years since — 
 (on a delicate mission) — the Russians were 
 playing a double game, between ourselves, and 
 it became necessary on our part to employ an 
 extra negotiator — Leckerbiss Pasha of Rou- 
 melia, then Chief Graleongee of the Porte, gave 
 a diplomatic banquet at his summer palace at 
 Bujukdere. I was on the left of the Galeongee, 
 and the Russian agent, Count de Diddloff, on 
 his dexter side. Diddloff is a dandy who would 
 die of a rose in aromatic pain : he had tried to 
 have me assassinated three times in the course 
 of the negotiation ; but of course we were 
 friends in public, and saluted each other in the 
 most cordial and charming manner. 
 
 The Galeongee is — or was, alas ! for a bow- 
 string has done for him — a stanch supporter 
 of the old school of Turkish politics. We dined
 
 62 THACKERAY. 
 
 with our fingers, and had flaps of bread for 
 plates ; the only innovation he admitted was 
 the use of European liquors, in which he in- 
 dulged with great gusto. He was an enormous 
 eater. Amongst the dishes a very large one 
 was placed before him of a lamb dressed in its 
 wool, stuffed with prunes, garlic, asafcetida, 
 capsicums, and other condiments, the most 
 abominable mixture that ever mortal smelt or 
 tasted. The Galeongee ate of this hugely ; 
 and, pursuing the Eastern fashion, insisted on 
 helping his friends right and left, and when he 
 came to a particularly spicy morsel, would push 
 it with his own hands into his guests' very 
 mouths. 
 
 I never shall forget the look of poor Diddloff , 
 when his Excellency, rolling up a large quantity 
 of this into a ball and exclaiming, "Buk Buk" 
 (it is very good), administered the horrible 
 bolus to Diddloff. The Russian's eyes rolled 
 dreadfully as he received it : he swallowed it 
 with a grimace that I thought must precede a 
 convulsion, and seizing a bottle next him, which 
 he thought was Sauterne, but which turned out 
 to be French brandy, he drank off nearly a pint 
 before he knew his error. It finished him ; he 
 was carried away from the dining-room almost 
 dead, and laid out to cool in a summer-house 
 on the Bosphorus.
 
 THE BOOK OF SXOBS. 63 
 
 When it came to my turn, I took down the 
 condiment with a smile, said " Bismillah," 
 licked my lips with easy gratification, and when 
 the next dish w^as served, made up a ball my- 
 self so dexterously, and popped it down the old 
 Galeongee's mouth with so much grace, that 
 his heart was won. Russia was put out of court 
 at once, and the treaty of Kabobanople icas 
 signed. As for Diddloff, all w^as over with Mm : 
 he was recalled to St. Petersburg, and Sir Rod- 
 erick Murchison saw him, under the Xo. 3967, 
 working in the Ural mines. 
 
 The moral of this tale, I need not say, is, that 
 there are many disagreeable things in society 
 which you are bound to take down, and to do 
 so with a smiling face.
 
 EOUNDABOUT PAPERS.i 
 
 THORNS IN THE CUSHION. 
 
 N the Essay with which this volume com- 
 mences, the Cornliill Magazine was 
 likened to a ship sailing forth on her 
 voyage, and the captain uttered a very sincere 
 prayer for her prosperity. The dangers of 
 storm and rock, the vast outlay upon ship and 
 cargo, and the certain risk of the venture, gave 
 the chief officer a feeling of no small anxiety ; 
 for who could say from what quarter danger 
 might arise, and how his owner's property might 
 be imperiled ? After a six months' voyage, 
 we with very thankful hearts could acknowledge 
 our good fortune : and, taking up the apologue 
 in the Roundabout manner, we composed a 
 triumphal procession in honor of the Magazine, 
 and imagined the Imperator thereof riding in 
 
 1 Published in the Cornhill Magazine., of which Thackeray 
 was the first editor.
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 65 
 
 a sublime car to return thanks in the Temple 
 of Victory. Cornhill is accustomed to grandeur 
 and greatness, and has witnessed, every 9th of 
 November, for I don't know how many cen- 
 turies, a prodigious annual pageant, chariot, 
 progress, and flourish of trumpetry ; and being 
 so very near the Mansion House, I am sure the 
 reader will understand how the idea of pageant 
 and procession came naturally to my mind. 
 The imagination easily supplied a gold coach, 
 eight cream-colored horses of your true Pegasus 
 breed, huzzaing multitudes, running footmen, 
 and clanking knights in armor, a chaplain and 
 a sword-bearer with a muff on his head, scowl- 
 ing out of the coach- window, and a Lord Mayor 
 all crimson, fur, gold chain, and white ribbons, 
 solemnly occupying the place of state. A play- 
 ful fancy could have carried the matter farther, 
 could have depicted the feast in the Egyptian 
 Hall, the Ministers, Chief Justices, and right 
 reverend prelates taking their seats round 
 about his lordship, the turtle and other delicious 
 viands, and Mr. Toole behind the central 
 throne, bawling out to the assembled guests and 
 dignitaries : " My Lord So-and-So, my Lord 
 AYhat-d'ye-call-'im, my Lord Etcaetera, the 
 Lord Mayor pledges you all in a loving-cup." 
 Then the noble proceedings come to an end ;
 
 66 THACKERAY. 
 
 Lord Simper proposes the ladies ; the company 
 rises from table, and adjourns to coffee and 
 muffins. The carriages of the nobility and 
 guests roll bacls; to the West. The Egyptian 
 Hall, so bright just now, appears in a twilight 
 glimmer, in which waiters are seen ransacking 
 the dessert, and rescuing the spoons. His lord- 
 ship and the Lady Mayoress go into their pri- 
 vate apartments. The robes are doffed, the 
 collar and white ribbons are removed. The 
 Mayor becomes a man, and is pretty surely in 
 a fluster about the speeches which he has just 
 uttered ; remembering too well now, wretched 
 creature, the principal points which he did n't 
 make when he rose to speak. He goes to bed 
 to headache, to care, to repentance, and, I dare 
 say, to a dose of something which his body- 
 physician has prescribed for him. And there 
 are ever so many men in the city who fancy 
 that man happy ! 
 
 Now, suppose that all through that 9th of 
 November his lordship has had a racking rheu- 
 matism, or a toothache, let us say, during all 
 dinner-time — through which he has been 
 obliged to grin and mumble his poor old 
 speeches. Is he enviable ? Would you like to 
 change with his lordship ? Suppose that 
 bumper which his golden footman brings him,
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 67 
 
 instead i'fackins of ypocras or canary, contains 
 some abomination of senna ? Away ! Remove 
 the golden goblet, insidious cup-bearer ! You 
 now begin to perceive the gloomy moral which 
 I am about to draw. 
 
 Last month we sang the song of glorification, 
 and rode in the chariot of triumph. It was all 
 very well. It was right to huzza, and be 
 thankful, and cry. Bravo, our side ! and besides, 
 you know there was the enjoyment of thinking 
 how pleased Brown, and Jones, and Robinson 
 (our dear friends) would be at this announce- 
 ment of success. But now that the performance 
 is over, my good sir, just step into my private 
 room, and see that it is. not all pleasure — this 
 winning of successes. Cast your eye over those 
 newspapers, over those letters. See what the 
 critics say of your harmless jokes, neat little 
 trim sentences, and pet waggeries ! Why, you 
 are no better than an idiot ; you are driveling ; 
 your powers have left you ; this always over- 
 rated writer is rapidly sinking to, etc. 
 
 This is not pleasant ; but neither is this the 
 point. It may be the critic is right, and the 
 author wrong. It may be that the archbishop's 
 sermon is not so fine as some of those discourses 
 twenty years ago which used to delight the 
 faithful in Granada. Or it may be (pleasing
 
 68 THACKERAY. 
 
 thought !) that the critic is a dullard, and does 
 not understand what he is writing about. Every- 
 body who has been to an exhibition has heard 
 visitors discoursing about the pictures before 
 their faces. One says, " This is very well ; " 
 another says, " This is stuff and rubbish ; " 
 another cries, " Bravo ! this is a masterpiece : " 
 and each has a right to his opinion. For ex- 
 ample, one of the pictures I admired most at 
 the Royal Academy is by a gentleman on whom 
 I never, to my knowledge, set eyes. This pic- 
 ture is No. 346, " Moses," by Mr. S. Solomon. 
 I thought it had a great intention, I thought it 
 finely drawn and composed. It nobly repre- 
 sented to my mind the dark children of the 
 Egyptian bondage, and suggested the touching 
 stury. My newspaper says : " Two ludicrously 
 ugly women, looking at a dingy baby, do not 
 form a pleasing object ; " and so good-by, Mr. 
 Solomon. Are not most of our babies served 
 so in life ? and does n't Mr. Robinson consider 
 Mr. Brown's cherub an ugly, squalling little 
 brat ? So cheer up, Mr. S. S. It may be tlie 
 critic who discoursed on your baby is a bad 
 judge of babies. When Pharaoh's kind daugh- 
 ter found the child, and clierished and loved 
 it, and took it home, and found a nurse for 
 it, too, I dare say there were grim, brick-
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 69 
 
 dust colored chamberlains, or some of the tough, 
 old, meagre, yellow princesses at court, who 
 never had children themselves, who cried out, 
 " Faugh ! the horrid little squalling wretch ! " 
 and knew he would never come to good ; and 
 said, " Did n't I tell you so ? " when he assaulted 
 the Egyptian. 
 
 Never mind, then, Mr. S. Solomon, I say, 
 because a critic pooh-poohs your work of art 
 
 — your Moses — your child — your foundling. 
 W'liy, did not a wiseacre in Blackwood's Maga- 
 zine lately fall foul of " Tom Jones " ? O hy- 
 percritic ! So, to be sure, did good old Mr. 
 Richardson, who could write novels himself — 
 but you, and I, and Mr. Gibbon, my dear sir, 
 agree in giving our respect, and wonder, and 
 admiration, to the brave old master. • 
 
 In these last words I am supposing the re- 
 spected reader to be endowed with a sense of 
 humor, which he may or may not possess ; in- 
 deed, don't we know many an honest man who 
 can no more comprehend a joke than he can 
 turn a tune ? But I take for granted, my dear 
 sir, that you are brimming over with fun — you 
 may n't make jokes, but you could if you would 
 
 — you know you could : and in your quiet way 
 you enjoy them extremely. Now many people 
 neither make them, nor understand them when
 
 70 THACKERAY. 
 
 made, nor like them when anderstood, and are 
 suspicious, testy, and angry with jokers. Have 
 you ever watched an elderly male or female — 
 an elderly " party," so to speak, who begins to 
 find out that some young wag of the company 
 is " chaffing " him ? Have you ever tried the 
 sarcastic or Socratie method with a child ? 
 Little simple he or she, in the mnocence of the 
 simple heart, plays some silly freak, or makes 
 some absurd remark, which you turn to ridicule. 
 The little creature dimly perceives that you are 
 making fun of him, writhes, blushes, grows 
 uneasy, bursts into tears, — upon my word it is 
 not fair to try the weapon of ridicule upon that 
 innocent young victim. The awful objurgatory 
 practice he is accustomed to. Point out his 
 fa»lt, and lay bare the dire consequences there- 
 of : expose it roundly, and give him a proper, 
 solemn, moral whipping — but do not attempt 
 to castigare ridendo. Do not laugh at him 
 writhing, and cause all the other boys in the 
 school to laugh. Remember your owai young 
 days at school, my friend — the tingling cheeks, 
 burning ears, bursting heart, and passion of 
 desperate tears, with which you looked up, after 
 having performed some blunder, whilst the 
 doctor held you to public scorn before the class, 
 and cracked his great clumsy jokes upon you —
 
 KOUNDABOUT PAPERS. 71 
 
 helpless, and a prisoner ! Better the block 
 itself, and the lictors, with their fasces of birch- 
 twigs, than the maddening torture of those 
 jokes ! 
 
 Now with respect to jokes — and the present 
 company of course excepted — many people, 
 perhaps most people, are as infants. They 
 have little sense of humor. They don't like 
 jokes. Raillery in writing annoys and offends 
 them. The coarseness apart, I think I have 
 met very, very few women who liked the banter 
 of Swift and Fielding. Their simple, tender 
 natures revolt at laughter. Is the satyr always 
 a wicked brute at heart, and are they rightly 
 shocked at his grin, his leer, his horns, hoofs, 
 and ears ? Fi done, le vilain monstre, with his 
 shrieks, and his capering crooked legs ! Let 
 him go and get a pair of well-wadded black 
 silk stockings, and pidl them over those horrid 
 shanks ; put a large gown and bands over beard 
 and hide ; and pour a dozen of lavender-water 
 into his lawn handkerchief, and cry, and never 
 make a joke again. It shall all be highly-dis- 
 tilled poesy, and perfumed sentiment, and gush- 
 ing eloquence ; and the foot sha'ri't peep out, 
 and a plague take it. Cover it up with the 
 surplice. Out with your cambric, dear ladies, 
 and let us all whimper together.
 
 72 THACKERAY. 
 
 Now, then, hand on heart, we declare that it 
 is not the fire of adverse critics which afflicts 
 or frightens the editorial bosom. They may 
 be right ; they may be rogues who have a per- 
 sonal spite ; they may be dullards who kick 
 and bray as their nature is to do, and prefer 
 thistles to pineapples ; they may be conscien- 
 tious, acute, deeply learned, delightful judges, 
 who see your joke in a moment, and the pro- 
 found wisdom lying underneath. Wise or dull, 
 laudatory or otherwise, we put their opinions 
 aside. If they applaud, we are pleased : if 
 they shake their quick pens, and fly off with a 
 hiss, we resign their favors and put on all the 
 fortitude we can muster. I would rather have 
 the lowest man's good word than his bad one, 
 to be sure ; but as for coaxing a compliment, 
 or wheedling him into good-humor, or stopping 
 his angry mouth with a good dinner, or ac- 
 cepting his contributions for a certain Maga- 
 zine, for fear of his barking or snapping else- 
 where — allons done! These shall not be our 
 acts. Bow-wow, Cerberus ! Here shall be no 
 sop for thee, unless — unless Cerberus is an 
 uncommonly good dog, when we shall bear no 
 malice because he flew at us from a neighbor's 
 gate. 
 
 What, then, is the main grief you spoke of
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 73 
 
 as annoying you — the toothache in the Lord 
 Mayor's jaw, the thorn in the cushion of the 
 editorial chair ? It is there. Ah ! it stings me 
 now as I write. It comes with almost every 
 morning's post. At night I come home and 
 take my letters up to bed (not daring to open 
 them), and in the morning I find one, two, 
 three thorns on my pillow. Three I extracted 
 yesterday ; two I found this morning. They 
 don't sting quite so sharply as they did ; but a 
 skin is a skin, and they bite, after all, most 
 wickedly. It is all very fine to advertise on 
 the Magazine, "Contributions are only to be 
 sent to Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co., and not 
 to the Editor's private residence." My dear 
 sir, how little you know man or woman kind, 
 if you fancy they will take that sort of warn- 
 ing ! How am I to know (though, to be sure, 
 I begin to know now), as I take the letters off 
 the tray, which of those envelopes contains a 
 real bonajide letter, and which a thorn ? One 
 of the best invitations this year I mistook for a 
 thorn-letter, and kept it without opening. This 
 is what I call a thorn-letter : — 
 
 " Camberwell. June 4. 
 
 " Sm, — May I hope, may I entreat, that you wiU 
 favor me by perusing the inclosed lines, and tliat
 
 74 THACKERAY. 
 
 they may be f ouud worthj^ of insertion in the Corn- 
 hill Magazine? We have known better days, sir. I 
 have a sick and widoAved mother to maintain, and 
 little brothers and sisters -who look to me. I do my 
 utmost as governess to support them. I toil at night 
 when they are at rest, and my own hand and brain 
 are alike tired. If I could add but a little to our 
 means by my pen, many of my poor invalid's wants 
 might be suppHed, and I could procure for her com- 
 forts to vphieh she is now a stranger. Heaven knows 
 it is not for want of will or for want of energy on my 
 part, that she is now in ill-health, and our little 
 household almost without bread. Do — do cast a 
 kind glance over my poem, and if you can help us, 
 the widow, the orphans will bless you! I remain, 
 sir, in anxious expectancy, 
 
 " Your faithful servant, S. S. S." 
 
 And inclosed is a little poem or two, and an 
 envelope with its penny stamp — heaven help 
 us ! — and the writer's name and address. 
 
 Now you see what I mean by a thorn. Here 
 is the ease put with true female logic. " I am 
 poor ; I am good ; I am ill ; I work hard ; I 
 have a sick mother and hungry brothers and 
 sisters dependent on me. You can help us if 
 you will." And then I look at the paper, with 
 the thousandth part of a faint hope that it may 
 be suitable, and I find it won't do : and I knew 
 it would n't do : and why is this poor lady to 
 appeal to luy pity and bring her poor little ones
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 75 
 
 kneeling to my bedside, and calling for bread 
 wliich I can give them if I choose ? Xo day 
 passes but that argument ad misericordiam is 
 used. Day and night that sad voice is crying 
 out for help. Thrice it appealed to me yester- 
 day. Twice this morning it cried to me : and 
 I have no doubt when I go to get my hat, I 
 shall find it with its piteous face and its pale 
 family about it, waiting for me in the hall. 
 One of the immense advantages which women 
 have over our sex is, that they actually like to 
 read these letters. Like letters ? O mercy on 
 us ! Before I was an editor I did not like the 
 postman much : — but now ! 
 
 A very common way with these petitioners is 
 to begin with a fine flummery about the merits 
 and eminent genius of the person whom they 
 are addressing. But this artifice, I state pub- 
 licly, is of no avail. When I see that kind of 
 herb, I know the snake within it, and flmg it 
 away before it has time to sting. Away, rep- 
 tile, to the waste-paper basket, and thence to 
 the flames ! 
 
 But of these disappointed people, some take 
 their disappointment and meekly bear it. Some 
 hate and hold you their enemy because you 
 could not be their friend. Some, furious and 
 envious, say : " Who is this man who refuses
 
 76 THACKERAY. 
 
 what I offer, and how dares he, the conceited 
 coxcomb, to deny my merit ? " 
 
 Sometimes my letters contain not mere thorns, 
 but bludgeons. Here are two choice slips 
 from that noble Irish oak, which has more than 
 once supplied alpeens for this meek and un- 
 offending skull : — 
 
 " Theatre Royal, Donnybrook. 
 
 " Sir, — I have just finished reading the first por- 
 tion of your Tale, Lovel the Widower^ and am much 
 surprised at the unwarrantable strictures you pass 
 therein on the corps de ballet. 
 
 " I have been for more than ten years connected 
 with the theatrical profession, and I beg to assure 
 you that the majority of the corps de ballet are vir- 
 tuous, well-conducted girls, and, consequently, that 
 snug cottages are not taken for them in the Regent's 
 Park. 
 
 " I also have to inform you that theatrical man- 
 agers are in the habit of speaking good English, 
 possibly better English than authors. 
 
 " You either know nothing of the subject in ques- 
 tion, or you assert a willful falsehood. 
 
 " I am hapjjy to say that the characters of the 
 corps de ballet, as also those of actors and actresses, 
 are superior to the snarling of dyspeptic libelers, or 
 the spiteful attacks and brutumfidmen of ephemeral 
 authors. I am, sir, your obedient servant, 
 
 "A. B.C." 
 
 The Editor of the Cornhill Magazine*
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 77 
 
 "Theatre Royal, Donnybrook. 
 
 "Sir, — I have just read in the Cornhill Magazine 
 for January, the first portion of a Tale written by 
 you, and entitled Lovel the Widower. 
 
 " In the production in question you employ all 
 your malicious spite (and you have great capabilities 
 that way) in trjdng to degrade the character of the 
 corps de ballet. When you imply that the majority 
 of ballet-girls have villas taken for them in the 
 Regent's Park, I say you tell a deliberate falsehood . 
 
 " Having been brought up to the stage from in- 
 fancy, and though now an actress, having been 
 seven years principal dancer at tlie opera, I am com- 
 petent to speak on the subject. I am only surprised 
 that so vile a libeler as yourself should be allowed 
 to preside at the Dramatic Fund dinner on the 22d 
 instant. I think it would be much better if you 
 were to reform your own life, instead of telling lies 
 of those who are immeasurably your superiors. 
 
 " Yours in supreme disgust, A. D." 
 
 The signatures of the respected writers are 
 altered, and for the site of their Theatre Royal 
 an adjacent place is named, which (as I may- 
 have been falsely informed) used to be famous 
 for quarrels, thumps, and broken heads. But, 
 I say, is this an easy chair to sit on, when you 
 are liable to have a pair of such shillelahs flung 
 at it ? And, prithee, what was all the quarrel 
 about ? In the little history of '* Lovel the 
 Widower " I described, and brought to condign
 
 78 THACKERAY. 
 
 punishment, a certain wretch of a ballet-dancer, 
 who lived splendidly for a while on ill-gotten 
 gains, had an accident, and lost her beauty, and 
 died poor, deserted, ugly, and every way odious. 
 On the same page, other little ballet-dancers 
 are described, wearing homely clothing, doing 
 their duty, and carrying their humble savings 
 to the family at home. But nothing will con- 
 tent my dear correspondents but to have me 
 declare that the majority of ballet-dancers have 
 villas in the Regent's Park, and to convict me 
 of " deliberate falsehood." Suppose, for in- 
 stance, I had chosen to introduce a red-haired 
 washerwoman into a story ? I might get an 
 expostulatory letter saying, "Sir, in stating 
 that the majority of washerwomen are red- 
 haired, you are a liar ! and you had best not 
 speak of ladies who are immeasurably your 
 superiors." Or suppose I had ventured to 
 describe an illiterate haberdasher ? One of 
 the craft might write to me, " Sir, in describing 
 haberdashers as illiterate, you utter a willful 
 falsehood. Haberdashers use much better 
 English than authors." It is a mistake, to be 
 sure. I have never said what my correspond- 
 ents say I say. There is the text under their 
 noses, but what if they choose to read it their 
 Hurroo, lads ! Here 's for a
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 79 
 
 fight. There 's a bald head peeping out of the 
 hut. There 's a bald head ! It must be Tim 
 Mai one's." And whack ! come down both the 
 bludgeons at once. 
 
 Ah me ! we wound where we never intended 
 to strike ; we create anger where we never 
 meant harm ; and these thoughts are the thorns 
 in our Cushion. Out of mere malignity, I 
 suppose, there is no man who would like to 
 make enemies. But here, in this editorial 
 business, you can't do otherwise : and a queer, 
 sad, strange, bitter thought it is, that must 
 cross the mind of many a public man : " Do 
 what I will, be innocent or spiteful, be generous 
 or cruel, there are A and B, and C and D, who 
 will hate me to the end of the chapter — to the 
 chapter's end — to the Finis of the page — 
 when hate, and envy, and fortune, and disap- 
 pointment shall be over." 
 
 ON SCREENS IN DINING-ROOMS. 
 
 A GRANDSON of the late Rev. Dr. Primrose 
 (of Wakefield, vicar) wrote me a little note 
 from his country living this morning, and the 
 kind fellow had the precaution to write "No 
 thorn " upon the envelope, so that, ere I broke
 
 80 THACKERAY. 
 
 the seal, my mind might be relieved of any 
 anxiety lest the letter should contain one of 
 those lurking stabs which are so painful to the 
 present gentle writer. Your epigraph, my 
 dear P., shows your kind and artless nature ; 
 but don't you see it is of no use ? People who 
 are bent upon assassinating you in the manner 
 mentioned will write "No thorn " upon their 
 envelopes too : and you open the case, and 
 presently * out flies a poisoned stiletto, which 
 springs into a man's bosom, and makes the 
 wretch howl with anguish. When the bailiffs 
 are after a man, they adopt all sorts of dis- 
 guises, pop out on him from all conceivable 
 corners, and tap his miserable shoulders. His 
 wife is taken ill ; his sweetheart, who remarked 
 his brilliant, too brilliant appearance at the 
 Hyde Park review, will meet him at Cremorne 
 or where you will. The old friend who has 
 owed him that money these five years will meet 
 him at so-and-so and pay. By one bait or other 
 the victim is hooked, netted, landed, and down 
 goes the basket-lid. It is not your wife, your 
 sweetheart, your friend who is going to pay 
 you. It is Mr. Nab, the bailiff. You know — 
 you are caught. You are off in a cab to Chan- 
 cery Lane. 
 
 You know, I say ? Why should you know ?
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 81 
 
 I make no manner of doubt you never were 
 taken by a baliff in your life. I never was. I 
 have been in two or three debtors' prisons, but 
 not on my own account. Goodness be praised ! 
 I mean you can't escape your lot, and Nab only 
 stands here metaphorically as the watchful, 
 certain, and untiring officer of Mr. Sheriff Fate. 
 Why, my dear Primrose, this morning along 
 with your letter comes another, bearing the 
 well-known superscription of another old friend, 
 which I open without the least suspicion, and 
 what do 1 find ? A few lines from my friend 
 Johnson, it is true, but they are written on 
 a page covered with feminine handwriting. 
 " Dear Mr. Johnson," says the writer, " I have 
 just been perusing with delight a most charm- 
 ing tale by the Archbishop of Cambray. It is 
 called ' Telemachus ; ' and I think it would be 
 admirably suited to the Cornhill Magazine. 
 As you know the editor, will you have the 
 great kindness, dear Mr. Johnson, to communi- 
 cate with him personally (as that is much better 
 than writing in a roundabout way to the Pub- 
 lishers, and waiting goodness knows how long 
 for an answer), and state my readiness to 
 translate this excellent and instructive story. 
 I do not wish to breathe a word against * Level 
 Parsonage,' * Framley the Widower,' or any of
 
 82 THACKERAY. 
 
 the novels which have appeared in the Cornhill 
 Magazine, but I am sure ' Telemachus ' is as 
 good as new to English readers, and in point of 
 interest and morality /ar," etc., etc., etc. 
 
 There it is. I am stabbed through Johnson. 
 He has lent himself to this attack on me. He 
 is weak about women. Other strong men are. 
 He submits to the common lot, poor fellow. 
 In my reply I do not use a word of unkindness. 
 I write him back gently, that I fear " Telem- 
 achus " won't suit us. He can send the letter 
 on to his fair correspondent. But however soft 
 the answer, I question whether the wrath will 
 be turned away. Will there not be a coolness 
 between him and the lady ? and is it not pos- 
 sible that henceforth her fine eyes will look with 
 darkling glances upon the pretty orange color 
 of our magazine ? 
 
 Certain writers, they say, have a bad opinion 
 of women. Now I am very whimsical in sup- 
 posing that this disappointed candidate will be 
 hurt at her rejection, and angry or cast down 
 according to her nature ? " Angry, indeed ! " 
 says Juno, gathering up her purple robes and 
 royal raiment. *' Sorry, indeed ! " cries Minerva, 
 lacing on her corselet again, and scowling under 
 her helmet. (I imagine the well-known Apple 
 case has just been argued and decided.) Hurt,
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 83 
 
 forsooth ! Do you suppose ive care for the 
 opinion of that hobnailed lout of a Paris ? Do 
 you suppose that I, the Goddess of Wisdom, 
 can't make allowances for mortal ignorance, 
 and am so base as to bear malice against a poor 
 creature who knows no better ? You little 
 know the goddess nature when you dare to in- 
 sinuate that our divine minds are actuated by 
 motives so base. A love of justice influences 
 us. We are above mean revenge. We are too 
 magnanimous to be angry at the award of such 
 a judge in favor of such a creature." And 
 rustling out their skirts, the ladies walk away 
 together. This is all very well. You are 
 bound to believe them. They are actuated by 
 no hostility : not they. They bear no malice — 
 of course not. But when the Trojan war occurs 
 presently, which side will they take ? Many 
 brave souls will be sent to Hades. Hector will 
 perish. Poor old Priam's bald numskull will 
 be cracked, and Troy town wiW burn, because 
 Paris prefers golden-haired Venus to ox-eyed 
 Juno and gray-eyed Minerva. 
 
 The last Essay of this Roundabout Series, 
 describing the griefs and miseries of the edi- 
 torial chair, was written, as the kind reader 
 will acknowledge, in a mild and gentle, not in 
 a warlike or satirical spirit. I showed how
 
 84 THACKEKAY. 
 
 cudgels were applied ; but surely the meek 
 object of persecutiou hit no blows in return. 
 The beating did not hurt much, and the person 
 assaulted could afford to keep his good-humor ; 
 indeed, I admired that brave though illogical 
 little actress, of the T. R. D-bl-n, for her fiery 
 vindication of her profession's honor. I assure 
 her I had no intention to tell 1 — s — well, let 
 us say monosyllables — about my superiors : 
 and I wish her nothing but well, and when 
 Macmahon (or shall it be Mulligan ?) Roi 
 d^Irlande ascends his throne, I hope she may 
 be appointed professor of English to the prin- 
 cesses of the royal house. Nuper — in former 
 days — I too have militated ; sometimes, as I 
 now think, unjustly ; but always, I vow, with- 
 out personal rancor. Which of us has not idle 
 words to recall, flippant jokes to regret ? Have 
 you never committed an imprudence ? Have 
 you never had a dispute, and found out that 
 you were wrong? So much the worse for you. 
 Woe be to the man qui croit toujours avoir raison. 
 His anger is not a brief madness, but a perma- 
 nent mania. His rage is not a fever-fit, but a 
 black poison inflaming him, distorting his judg- 
 ment, disturbing his rest, embittering his cup, 
 gnawing at his pleasures, causing him more 
 cruel suffering than ever he can inflict on his
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 85 
 
 enemy. la belle morale ! As I write it, I 
 think about one or two little affairs of my own. 
 There is old Dr. Squaretoso (he certainly was 
 very rude to me, and that 's the fact) ; there is 
 Madame Pomposa (and certainly her ladyship's 
 behavior was about as cool as cool could be). 
 Never mind, old Squaretoso : never mind, 
 Madame Pomposa ! Here is a hand. Let us 
 be friends as we once were, and have no more 
 of this rancor. 
 
 I had hardly sent that last Roundabout Paper 
 to the printer (which, I submit, was written iu 
 a placable and not unchristian frame of mind), 
 when Saturday came, and with it, of course, my 
 Saturday Review. I remember at New York 
 coming down to breakfast at the hotel one 
 morning, after a criticism had appeared in the 
 New York Herald, in which an Irish writer had 
 given me a dressing for a certam lecture on 
 Swift. Ah ! my dear little enemy of the T. R. 
 D., what were the cudgels in your little hillet- 
 doux compared to those noble New York 
 shillelahs ? All through the Union, the literary 
 sons of Erin have marched aZjoeen-stock in 
 band, and in every city of the States they call 
 each other and everybody else the finest names. 
 Having come to breakfast, then, in the public 
 that the nine peo-
 
 86 THACKERAY, 
 
 pie opposite have all got New York Heralds 
 in their hands. One dear little lady, whom I 
 knew, and who sat opposite, gave a pretty blush, 
 and popped her paper under the tablecloth. I 
 told her I had had my whipping already in my 
 own private room, and begged her to continue 
 her reading. I may have undergone agonies, 
 you see, but every man who has been bred at 
 an English public school comes away from a 
 private interview with Dr. Birch with a calm, 
 even a smiling face. And this is not impossi- 
 ble, when you are prepared. You screw your 
 courage up — you go through the business. 
 You come back and take your seat on the form, 
 showing not the least symptom of uneasiness or 
 of previous unpleasantries. But to be caught 
 suddenly up, and whipped in the bosom of your 
 family — to sit down to breakfast, and cast 
 your innocent eye on a paper, and find, before 
 you are aware, that the Saturday Monitor or 
 Black Monday Instructor has hoisted you and is 
 lapng on — that is indeed a trial. Or perhaps 
 the family has looked at the dreadful paper be- 
 forehand, and weakly tries to hide it. " Where 
 is the Instructor or the Monitor?" say you. 
 " Where is that paper ? " says mamma to one 
 of the young ladies. Lucy hasn't it. Fanny 
 has n't seen it. Emily thinks that the govern-
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 87 
 
 ess has it. At last, out it is brought, that aw- 
 ful paper ! Papa is amazingly tickled with the 
 article ou Tliomsou ; thinks that show up of 
 Johnson is very lively ; and now — Heaven be 
 good to us ! — he has come to the critique on 
 himself : — "Of all rubbish which we have had 
 from Mr. Tomkins, we do protest and vow 
 that this last cartload is " etc. Ah, poor Tom- 
 kins ! — but most of all, ah ! poor Mrs. Tom- 
 kins, and poor Emily, and Fanny, and Lucy, 
 who have to sit by and see paterfamilias put to 
 the torture ! 
 
 Now, on this eventful Saturday, I did not 
 cry, because it was not so much the Editor as 
 the Publisher of the Cornhill Magazine who was 
 brought out for a dressing ; and it is wonderful 
 how gallantly one bears the misfortunes of one's 
 friends. That a writer should be taken to task 
 about his books, is fair, and he must abide the 
 praise or the censure. But that a publisher 
 should be criticised for his diimers, and for the 
 conversation which did not take place there, — 
 is this tolerable press practice, legitimate joking, 
 or honorable warfare ? I have not the honor 
 to know my next-door neighbor, but I make no 
 doubt that he receives his friends at dinner ; I 
 see his wife and children pass constantly ; I 
 even know the carriages of some of the people
 
 88 THACKERAY. 
 
 who call upon him, and could tell their names. 
 Now, suppose his servants were to tell mine 
 what the doings are next door, who comes to 
 dinner, what is eaten and said, and I were to 
 publish an account of these transactions in a 
 newspaper, I could assuredly get money for the 
 report ; but ought I to write it, and what would 
 you think of me for doing so ? 
 
 And suppose, Mr. .Saturday Reviewer — you 
 censor raorum, you who pique yourself (and 
 justly and honorably in the main) upon your 
 character of gentleman, as well as of writer, 
 suppose, not that you yourself invent and indite 
 absurd twaddle about gentlemen's private meet- 
 ings and transactions, but pick this wretched 
 garbage out of a New York street, and hold it 
 up for your reader's amusement — don't you 
 think, my friend, that you might have been 
 better employed ? Here, in my Saturday Re- 
 view, and in an American paper subsequently 
 sent to me, I light, astonished, on an account of 
 the dinners of my friend and publisher, which 
 are described as " tremendously heavy," of the 
 conversation (which does not take place), and 
 of the guests assembled at the table. I am in- 
 formed that the proprietor of the Cornhill, and 
 the host on these occasions, is "a very good 
 man, but totally unread;" and that on my
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 89 
 
 asking him whether Dr. Johnson was dining 
 behind the screen, he said, "God bless my soul, 
 my dear sir, there 's no person by the name of 
 Johnson here, nor any one behind the screen," 
 and that a roar of laughter cut him short. I 
 am informed by the same New York corre- 
 spondent that I have touched up a contributor's 
 article ; that I once said to a literary gentle- 
 man, who was proudly pointing to an anony- 
 mous article as his writing, " Ah ! I thought I 
 recognized your hoof in it." I am told by the 
 same authority that the Cornhill Magazine 
 " shows symptoms of being on the wane," and 
 having sold nearly a hundred thousand copies, 
 he (the correspondent) "should think forty 
 thousand was now about the mark." Then the 
 graceful writer passes on to the dinners, at 
 which it appears the Editor of the Magazine 
 " is the great gun, and comes out with all the 
 geniality in his power." 
 
 Now suppose this charming intelligence is 
 untrue ? Suppose the publisher (to recall the 
 noble words of my friend the Dublin actor of 
 last month) is a gentleman to the full as well 
 informed as those whom he invites to his table ? 
 Suppose he never made the remark, beginning 
 — " God bless my soul, my dear sir," etc., nor 
 anything resembling it ? Suppose nobody roared
 
 90 THACKERAY. 
 
 with laughing ? Supjjose the Editor of the 
 Cornhill Magazine never " touched up " one 
 single line of the contribution which bears 
 *' marks of his hand " ? Suppose he never said 
 to any literary gentleman, " I recognize your 
 hoof'^ in any periodical whatever? Suppose 
 the 40,000 subscribers, which the writer to New 
 York " considered to be about the mark," should 
 be between 90,000 and 100,000 (and as he will 
 have figures, there they are) ? Suppose this 
 back-door gossip should be utterly blundering 
 and untrue, would any one wonder ? Ah ! if 
 we had only enjoyed the happiness to number 
 this writer among the contributors to our Mag- 
 azine, what a cheerfulness and easy confidence 
 his presence would impart to our meetings ! 
 He would find that " poor Mr. Smith " had 
 heard that recondite anecdote of Dr. Johnson 
 behind the screen ; and as for " the great gun 
 of those banquets," with what geniality should 
 not I " come out " if I had an amiable com- 
 panion close by me dotting down my conver- 
 sation for the New York Times ! 
 
 Attack our books, Mr. Correspondent, and 
 welcome. They are fair subjects for just cen- 
 sure or praise. But woe be to you, if you allow 
 private rancors or animosities to influence you 
 in the discharge of your public duty. In the
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 91 
 
 little court where you are paid to sit as judge, 
 as critic, you owe it to your employers, to your 
 conscience, to the honor of your calling, to de- 
 liver just sentences ; and you shall have to 
 answer to Heaven for your dealings, as surely 
 as my Lord Chief Justice oa the Bench. The 
 dignity of letters, the honor of the literary call- 
 ing, the slights put by haughty and unthink- 
 ing people upon literary men, — don't we hear 
 outcries upon these subjects raised daily ? As 
 dear Sam Johnson sits behind the screen, too 
 proud to show his threadbare coat and patches 
 among the more prosperous brethren of his 
 trade, there is no want of dignity in Mm, in that 
 homely image of labor ill-rewarded, genius as 
 yet unrecognized, independence sturdy and un- 
 complaining. But Mr. Xameless, behind the 
 publisher's screen uninvited, peering at the 
 company and the meal, catching up scraps of 
 the jokes, and noting down the guests' beha- 
 vior and conversation, — what a figure his is ! 
 Allans y Mr. Nameless ! Put up your note- 
 book ; walk out of the hall ; and leave gentle- 
 men alone who would be private, and wish you 
 no harm.
 
 92 THACKERAY. 
 
 TUNBRIDGE TOYS. 
 
 I WONDER whether those little silver pencil- 
 cases with a movable almanac at the butt-end 
 are still favorite implements with boys, and 
 whether peddlers still hawk them about the 
 country ? Are there peddlers and hawkers still, 
 or are rustics and children grown too sharp to 
 deal with them ? Those pencil-cases, as far as 
 my memory serves me, were not of much use. 
 The screw, upon which the movable almanac 
 turned, was constantly getting loose. The 1 
 of the table would work from its moorings, 
 under Tuesday or Wednesday, as the case 
 might be, and you would find, on examination, 
 that Th. or W. was the 23^ of the month 
 (which was absurd on the face of the thing), 
 and in a word your cherished pencil-case an 
 utterly unreliable time-keeper. Nor was this a 
 matter of wonder. Consider the position of a 
 pencil-case in a boy's pocket. You had hard- 
 bake in it ; marbles, kept in your purse when 
 the money was all gone ; your mother's purse 
 knitted so fondly and supplied with a little bit 
 of gold, long since — prodigal little son ! — 
 scattered amongst the swane — I mean amongst 
 brandy-balls, open tarts, three-cornered puffs.
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. \)6 
 
 and similar abominations. You had a top and 
 string ; a knife ; a piece of cobbler's wax ; two 
 or three bullets ; a Little Warbler ; and I, for 
 my part, remember, for a considerable period, 
 a brass-barreled pocket-pistol (which would 
 fire beautifully, for with it I shot off a button 
 from Butt Major's jacket) ; — with all these 
 things, and ever so many more, clinking and 
 rattling in your pockets, and your hands, of 
 course, keeping them in perpetual movement, 
 how could you expect your movable almanac 
 not to be twisted out of its place now and again 
 — your pencil-case to be bent — your liquorice- 
 water not to leak out of your bottle over the 
 cobbler's wax, your bull's-eyes not to ram up 
 the lock and barrel of your pistol, and so forth ? 
 
 In the month of June, thirty-seven years ago, 
 I bought one of those pencil-cases from a boy 
 whom I shall call Hawker, and who was in my 
 form. Is he dead ? Is he a millionnaire ? Is 
 he a bankrupt now ? He was an immense 
 screw at school, and I believe to this day that 
 the value of the thing for which I owed and 
 eventually paid three - and - sixpence, was in 
 reality not one-and-nine. 
 
 I certainly enjoyed the case at first a good 
 deal, and amused myself with twiddling round 
 the movable Calendar. But this pleasure wore
 
 94 THACKERAY. 
 
 off. The jewel, as I said, was not paid for, and 
 Hawker, a large and violent boy, was exceed- 
 ingly unpleasant as a creditor. His constant 
 remark was, " When are you going to pay me 
 that three-and-sixpence ? What sneaks your 
 relations must be ! They come to see you. 
 You go out to them on Saturdays and Sundays, 
 and they never give you anything ! Don't 
 tell me, you little humbug ! " and so forth. The 
 truth is that my relations were respectable ; 
 but my parents were making a tour in Scot- 
 laud ; and my friends in London, whom I used 
 to go and see, were most kind to me, certainly, 
 but somehow never tipped me. That term, of 
 May to August, 1823, passed in agonies then, 
 in consequence of my debt to Hawker. What 
 was the pleasure of a calendar pencil-case in 
 comparison with the doubt and torture of mind 
 occasioned by the sense of the debt, and the 
 constant reproach of that fellow's scowling 
 eyes and gloomy, coarse reminders ? How was 
 I to pay off such a debt out of sixpence a week ? 
 ludicrous ! Why did not some one come to see 
 me, and tip me ? Ah, my dear sir, if you have 
 any little friends at school, go and see them, 
 and do the natural thing by them. You won't 
 miss the sovereign. You don't know what a 
 blessing it will be to them. Don't fancy they
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 95 
 
 are too old — try 'em. And they will remem- 
 ber you, and bless you in future days ; and 
 their gratitude shall accompany your dreary 
 after-life ; and they shall meet you kindly 
 when thanks for kindness are scant. O mercy ! 
 shall I ever forget that sovereign you gave me, 
 Captain Bob ? or the agonies of being in debt 
 to Hawker ? In that very term, a relation of 
 mine was going to India. I actually was 
 fetched from school in order to take leave of 
 him. I am afraid I told Hawker of this cir- 
 cumstance. I own I speculated upon my friend's 
 giving me a pound. A pound ? Pooh ! A re- 
 lation going to India, and deeply affected at 
 parting from his darling kinsman, might give 
 five pounds to the dear fellow ! . . . There 
 was Hawker when I came back — of course 
 there he was. As he looked in my scared face, 
 liis turned livid with rage. He muttered 
 curses, terrible from the lips of so young a boy. 
 My relation, about to cross the ocean to fill a 
 lucrative appointment, asked me with much in- 
 terest about my progress at school, heard me 
 construe a passage of Eutropius, the pleasing 
 Latin work on which I was then engaged ; gave 
 me a God bless you, and sent me back to 
 school ; upon my word of honor, without so 
 much as a half-crown ! It is all very well, my
 
 96 THACKERAY. 
 
 dear sir, to say that boys contract habits of 
 expecting tips froip their parents' friends, that 
 they became avaricious, and so forth. Avari- 
 cious ! fudge ! Boys contract habits of tart 
 and toffee-eating, which they do not carry into 
 after life. On the contrary, I wish I did like 
 'em. What raptures of pleasure one could 
 have now for five shillings, if one could but 
 pick it off the pastry-cook's tray ! No. If 
 you have any little friends at school, out with 
 your half-crowns, my friend, and impart to 
 those little ones the little fleeting joys of their 
 age. 
 
 Well, then. At the beginning of August, 
 1823, Bartlemy-tide holidays came, and I was 
 to go to my parents, who were at Tunbridge 
 Wells. My place in the coach was taken by 
 my tutor's servants — " Bolt^-in-Tun," Fleet 
 Street, seven o'clock in the morning, was the 
 
 word. My tutor, the Rev. Edward P , to 
 
 whom I hereby present my best compliments, 
 had a parting interview with me : gave me my 
 little account for my governor : the remaining 
 part of the coach-hire ; five shillings for my 
 own expenses ; and some five and twenty shil- 
 lings on an old account which had been over- 
 paid, and was to be restored to my family. 
 
 Away I ran and paid Hawker his three-and-
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 97 
 
 six. Ouf ! what a weight it was ofp my mind ! 
 (He was a Xorfolk boy, and used to go home 
 from Mrs. Nelson's "Bell Inn," Aldgate — but 
 that is not to the point). The next morning, 
 of course, we were an hour before the time. I 
 and another boy shared a hackney-coach ; two- 
 aud-six : porter for putting luggage on coach, 
 threepence. I had no more money of my own 
 left. Rasherwell, my companion, went into 
 the " Bolt-in-Tun " coffee-room, and had a good 
 breakfast. I could n't ; because, though I had 
 five-and-twenty shillings of my parents' money, 
 I had none of my own, you see. 
 
 I certainly intended to go without breakfast, 
 and still remember how strongly I had that 
 resolution in my mind. But there was that 
 hour to wait. A beautiful August morning — 
 I am very hungry. There is Rasherwell " tuck- 
 ing" away in the coffee-room. I pace the 
 street, as sadly almost as if I had been coming 
 to school, not going thence. I turn into a court 
 by mere chance — I vow it was by mere chance 
 — and there I see a coffee-shop with a placard 
 in the window. Coffee^ Twopence. Round of 
 buttered toast, Twopence. And here am I, himgry, 
 penniless, with five-and-twenty shillings of my 
 parents' money in my pocket. 
 
 What would you have done ? You see I
 
 98 THACKERAY. 
 
 had had my money, and spent it in that pencil- 
 case affair. The five-and-twenty shillings were 
 a trust — by me to be handed over. 
 
 But then would my parents wish their only 
 child to be actually without breakfast ? 
 Having this money, and being so hungry, so 
 very hungry, might n't I take ever so little ? 
 Might n't I at home eat as much as I chose ? 
 
 Well, I went into the coffee-shop, and spent 
 fourpence. I remember the taste of the coffee 
 and toast to this day — a pecviliar, muddy, not- 
 sweet-enough, most fragrant coffee — a rich, 
 rancid, yet not-buttered-enough, delicious toast. 
 The waiter had nothing. At any rate, four- 
 pence I know was the sum I spent. And the 
 hunger appeased, I got on the coach a guilty 
 being. 
 
 At the last stage, — what is its name ? I 
 have forgotten in seven-and-thirty years, — 
 there is an inn with a little green and trees 
 before it ; and by the trees there is an open 
 carriage. It is our carriage. Yes, there are 
 Prince and Blucher, the horses ; and my parents 
 in the carriage, ^h ! how I had been counting 
 the days until this one came ! Oh ! how happy 
 had I been to see them yesterday ! But there 
 was that fourpence. All the journey down the 
 toast had choked me, and the coffee poisoned 
 me.
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 99 
 
 I was in such a state of remorse about the 
 fourpence, that I forgot the maternal joy and 
 caresses, the tender paternal voice. I pull out 
 the twenty-four shillings and eightpence with 
 a trembling hand. 
 
 " Here's your money," I gasp out, " wliich 
 
 Mr. P owes you, all but fourpence. I 
 
 owed three-and-sixpence to Hawker out of my 
 money for a pencil-case, and I had none left, 
 and I took fourpence of yours, and had some 
 cofPee at a shop." 
 
 I suppose I must have been choking whilst 
 uttering this confession. 
 
 "My dear boy," ssljs the governor, "why 
 did n't you go and breakfast at the hotel ? " 
 
 " He must be starved," says my mother. 
 
 I had confessed ; I had been a prodigal ; I 
 had been taken back to my parents' arms again. 
 It was not a very great crime as yet, or a very 
 long career of prodigality ; but don't we know 
 that a boy who takes a pin which is not his own, 
 will take a thousand pounds when occasion 
 serves, bring his parents' gray heads with sorrow 
 to the grave, and carry his own to the gallows ? 
 Witness the career of Dick Idle, upon whom 
 our friend Mr. Sala has been discoursing. 
 Dick only began by playing pitch-and-toss on a 
 tombstone : playing fair, for what we know :
 
 100 THACKERAY. 
 
 and even for that sin he was promptly caned 
 by the beadle. The bamboo was ineffectual to 
 cane that reprobate's bad courses out of him. 
 From pitch-and-toss he proceeded to man- 
 slaughter if necessary : to highway robbery ; to 
 Tyburn and the rope there. Ah ! Heaven be 
 thanked, my parents' heads are still above the 
 grass, and mine still out of the noose. 
 
 As I look up from my desk, I see Tunbridge 
 Wells Common and the rocks, the strange 
 familiar place which I remember forty years 
 ago. Boys saunter over the green with stumps 
 and cricket-bats. Other boys gallop by on the 
 riding-master's hacks. I protest it is Cramp, 
 Riding Master, as it used to be in the reign of 
 George IV., and that Centaur Cramp must be 
 at least a hundred years old. Yonder comes 
 a footman with a bundle of novels from the 
 library. Are they as good as our novels ? Oh ! 
 how delightful they were ! Shades of Valan- 
 cour, awful ghost of Manfroni, how I shudder 
 at your appearance ! Sweet image of Thaddeus 
 of Warsaw, how often has this almost infantile 
 hand tried to depict you in a Polish cap and 
 richly embroidered tights ! And as for Corin- 
 thian Tom in light blue pantaloons and Hes- 
 sians, and Jerry Hawthorn from the country, 
 can all the fashion, can all the splendor of
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 101 
 
 real life which these eyes have subsequently 
 beheld, can all the wit I have heard or read in 
 later times, compare with your fashion, with 
 your brilliancy, with your delightful grace, and 
 sparkling vivacious rattle ? 
 
 Who knows ? They may have kept those 
 very books at the library still — at the well- 
 remembered library on the Pantiles, where they 
 sell that delightful, useful Tunbridge ware. I 
 will go and see. I went my way to the Pan- 
 tiles, the queer little old-world Pantiles, where, 
 a hundred years since, so much good company 
 came to take its pleasure. Is it possible that, 
 in the past century, gentlefolks of the first rank 
 (as I read lately in a lecture on George II. 
 in the Cornhill Magazine) assembled here and 
 entertained each other with gaming, dancing, 
 fiddling, and tea ? There are fiddlers, harpers, 
 and trumpeters performing at this moment in a 
 weak little old balcony, but where is the fine 
 company ? Where are the earls, duchesses, 
 bishops, and magnificent embroidered game- 
 sters ? A half dozen of children and their 
 nurses are listening to the musicians ; an old 
 lady or two in a poke-bonnet passes, and for 
 the rest, I see but an uninteresting population 
 of native tradesmen. As for the library, its 
 window is full of pictures of burly theologians,
 
 102 THACKERAY. 
 
 and their works, sermons, apologues, and so 
 forth. Can I go in and ask the young ladies at 
 the counters for " Manfroni, or the One-Handed 
 Monk," and " Life in London, or the Adventures 
 of Corinthian Tom, Jeremiah Hawthorn, Esq., 
 and their friend Bob Logic?" — absurd. I 
 turn away abashed from the casement — from 
 the Pantiles — no longer Pantiles, but Parade. 
 I stroll over the Common and survey the beau- 
 tiful purple hills around, twinkling with a thou- 
 sand bright villas, which have sprung up over 
 this charming ground since first I saw it. What 
 an admirable scene of peace and plenty ! What 
 a delicious air breathes over the heath, blows 
 the cloud shadows across it, and murmurs 
 through the full - clad trees ! Can the world 
 show a land fairer, richer, more cheerful ? I 
 see a portion of it when I look up from the 
 window at which I write. But fair scene, green 
 woods, bright terraces gleaming in sunshine, 
 and purple clouds swollen with summer rain — 
 nay, the very pages over which my head bends 
 — disappear from before my eyes. They are 
 looking backwards, back into forty years off, 
 into a dark room, into a little house hard by on 
 the Common here, in the Bartlemy-tide holi- 
 days. The parents have gone to town for two 
 days : the house is all his own, his own and a
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 103 
 
 grim old raaid-servant's, and a little boy is 
 seated at night in the lonely drawing-room, 
 poring over " Manfroni, or the One-Handed 
 Monk," so frightened that he scarcely dares to 
 turn round. 
 
 DE JUVENTUTE. 
 
 Our last paper of this veracious and round- 
 about series related to a period which can only 
 be historical to a great number of readers of 
 this Magazine. Four I saw at the station to- 
 day with orange-covered books in their hands, 
 who can but have known George IV. by books, 
 and statues, and pictures. Elderly gentlemen 
 were in their prime, old men in their middle 
 age, when he reigned over us. His image re- 
 mains on coins ; on a picture or two hanging 
 here and there in a Club or old-fashioned dining- 
 room ; on horseback, as at Trafalgar Square, 
 for example, where I defy any monarch to look 
 more uncomfortable. He turns up in sundry 
 memoirs and histories which may have been 
 published in Mr. Massey's " History ; " in the 
 " Buckingham and Grenville Correspondence ; " 
 and gentlemen who have accused a certain wri- 
 ter of disloyalty are referred to those volumes 
 to see whether the picture drawn of George is
 
 104 THACKERAY. 
 
 overcharged. Charon has paddled him off ; he 
 has mingled with the crowded republic of the 
 dead. His effigy smiles from a canvas or two. 
 Breechless he bestrides his steed in Trafalgar 
 Square. I believe he still wears his robes at 
 Madame Tussaud's (Madame herself having 
 quitted Baker Street and life, and found him 
 she modeled t' other side the Stygian stream). 
 On the head of a five -shilling piece we still 
 occasionally come upon him, with St. George, 
 the dragon-slayer, on the other side of the coin. 
 Ah me ! did this George slay many dragons ? 
 Was he a brave, heroic champion, and rescuer 
 of virgins ? Well ! well ! have you and I over- 
 come all the dragons that assail us f come alive 
 and victorious out of all the caverns which we 
 have entered in life, and succored, at risk of 
 life and limb, all poor distressed persons in 
 whose naked limbs the dragon Poverty is about 
 to fasten his fangs, whom the dragon Crime is 
 poisoning with his horrible breath, and about to 
 crunch up and devour ? O my royal liege ! O 
 my gracious prince and warrior ! You a cham- 
 pion to fight that monster ? Your feeble spear 
 ever pierce that slimy paunch or plated back ? 
 See how the flames come gurgling out of his 
 red-hot brazen throat ! What a roar ! Nearer 
 and nearer he trails, with eyes flaming like the
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 105 
 
 lamps of a railroad engine. How he squeals, 
 rushinof out throug-h the darkness of his tunnel ! 
 Now he is near. Xow he is here. And now — 
 what ? — lance, shield, knight, feathers, horse 
 and all ? O horror, horror ! Next day, round 
 the monster's cave, there lie a few bones more. 
 You, who wish to keep yours in your skins, be 
 thankful that you are not called upon to go out 
 and fight dragons. Be grateful that they don't 
 sally out and swallow you. Keep a wise dis- 
 tance from their caves, lest you pay too dearly 
 for approaching them. Remember that years 
 passed, and whole districts were ravaged, be- 
 fore the warrior came who was able to cope 
 with the devouring monster. When that knight 
 does make his appearance, with all my heart let 
 us go out and welcome him with our best songs, 
 huzzas, and laurel wreaths, and eagerly recog- 
 nize his valor and victory. But he comes only 
 seldom. Countless knights were slain before 
 St. George won the battle. In the battle of life 
 are we all going to try for the honors of cham- 
 pionship ? If we can do our duty, if we can 
 keep our place pretty honorably through the 
 combat, let us say Laus Deo ! at the end of it, 
 as the firing ceases, and the night falls over the 
 field. 
 
 The old were middle-aged, the elderly were
 
 106 THACKERAY. 
 
 in their prime, then, thirty years since, when 
 yon royal George was still fighting the dragon. 
 As for you, my pretty lass, with your saucy hat 
 and golden tresses tumbled in your net, and 
 you, my spruce young gentleman in your man- 
 darin's cap (the young folks at the country- 
 place where I am staying are so attired), your 
 parents were unknown to each other, and wore 
 short frocks and short jackets, at the date of 
 this five-shilling piece. Only to-day I met a 
 dog - cart crammed with children — children 
 with moustaches and mandarin caps — children 
 with saucy hats and hair-nets — children in 
 short frocks and knickerbockers (surely the 
 prettiest boy's dress that has appeared these 
 hundred years) — children from twenty years 
 of age to six ; and father, with mother by his 
 side, driving in front — and on father's counte- 
 nance I saw that very laugh which I remember 
 perfectly in the time when this crown - piece 
 was coined — in his time, in King George's time, 
 when we were school-boys seated on the same 
 form. The smile was just as broad, as bright, 
 as jolly, as I remember it in the past — unfor- 
 gotten, though not seen or thought of, for how 
 many decades of years, and quite and instantly 
 familiar, though so long out of sight. 
 
 Any contemporary of that coin who takes it up
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 107 
 
 and reads the inscription round the laureled 
 head, " Georgius IV. Britanniarum Rex. Fid. 
 Def. 1823," if he will but look steadily enough 
 at the round, and utter the proper incantation, 
 I dare say may conjure back his life there. 
 Look well, my elderly friend, and tell me what 
 you see ? First, I see a Sultan, with hair, 
 beautiful hair, and a crown of laurels round 
 his head, and his name is Georgius Rex. Fid. 
 Def., and so on. Now the Sultan has disap- 
 peared ; and what is it that I see ? A boy, — 
 a boy in a jacket. He is at a desk ; he has 
 great books before him, Latin and Greek books 
 and dictionaries. Yes, but behind the great 
 books, which he pretends to read, is a little one, 
 with pictures, which he is really reading. It 
 is — yes, I can read now — it is the "Heart of 
 Mid Lothian," by the author of " Waverley " 
 — or, no, it is " Life in London, or the Adven- 
 tures of Corinthian Tom, Jeremiah Hawthorn, 
 and their friend Bob Logic," by Pierce Egan ; 
 and it has pictures — oh ! such funny pictures ! 
 As he reads, there comes behind the boy, a 
 man, a dervish, in a black gown, like a woman, 
 and a black square cap, and. he has a book in 
 each hand, and he seizes the boy who is reading 
 the picture-book, and lays his head upon one of 
 his books, and smacks it with the other. The
 
 108 THACKERAY. 
 
 boy makes faces, and so that picture disap- 
 pears. 
 
 Now the boy has grown bigger. He has got 
 on a black gown and cap, something like the 
 dervish. He is at a table, with ever so many 
 bottles on it, and fruit, and tobacco ; and other 
 young dervishes come in. They seem as if they 
 were singing. To them enters an old mooUah, 
 he takes down their names, and orders them all 
 to go to bed. What is this ? a carriage, with 
 four beautiful horses all galloping — a man in 
 red is blowing a trumpet. Many young men 
 are on the carriage — one of them is driving 
 the horses. Surely they won't drive into that ? 
 — ah ! they have all disappeared. And now I 
 see one of the young men alone. He is walking 
 in a street — a dark street — presently a light 
 comes to a window. There is the shadow of a 
 lady who passes. He stands there till the light 
 goes out. Now he is in a room scribbling on a 
 piece of paper, and kissing a miniature every 
 now and then. There seem to be lines each 
 pretty much of a length. I can read hearty 
 smart, dart ; Mary, fairy ; Cupid, stupid ; true, 
 you; and never mind what more. Bah! it is 
 bosh. Now see, he has got a gown on again, 
 and a wig of white hair on his head, and he is 
 sitting with other dervishes in a great room full
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 109 
 
 of them, and on a throne in the middle is an 
 old Sultan in scarlet, sitting before a desk, and 
 he wears a wig too — and the young man gets 
 up and speaks to him. And now what is here ? 
 He is in a room with ever so many children, 
 and the miniature hanging up. Can it be a 
 likeness of that woman who is sitting before 
 that copper urn with a silver vase in her hand, 
 from which she is pouring hot liquor into cups ? 
 Was she ever a fairy ? She is as fat as a hip- 
 popotamus now. He is sitting on a divan by 
 the fire. He has a paper on his knees. Read 
 the name. It is the Superfine Revieic. It in- 
 clines to think that Mr. Dickens is not a true 
 gentleman, that Mr. Thackeray is not a true 
 gentleman, and that when the one is pert and 
 the other arcli, we, the gentlemen of the Super- 
 fine Review, think, and think rightly, that we 
 have some cause to be indignant. The great 
 cause why modern humor and modern seuti- 
 mentalism repels us, is that they are unwar- 
 rantably familiar. Now, Mr. Sterne, the Su- 
 perfine Reviewer thinks, " was a true sentimen- 
 talist, because he was above all things a true 
 gentleman." The flattering inference is obvi- 
 ous ; let us be thankful for an elegant moralist 
 watching over us, and learn, if not too old, to 
 imitate his high-bred politeness and catch his
 
 110 THACKERAY. 
 
 unobtrusive grace. If we are unwarrantably 
 familiar, we know who is not. If we repel by 
 pertuess, we know who never does. If our lan- 
 guage offends, we know who is always modest. 
 O pity ! The vision has disappeared off the 
 silver, the images of youth and the past are 
 vanishing away ! We who have lived before 
 railways were made belong to another world. 
 In how many hours could the Prince of Wales 
 drive from Brighton to London, with a light 
 carriage built expressly, and relays of horses 
 longing to gallop the next stage ? Do you 
 remember Sir Somebody, the coachman of the 
 Age, who took our half-crown so affably ? It 
 was only yesterday ; but what a gulf between 
 now and then ! Then was the old world. Stage- 
 coaches, more or less swift, riding-horses, pack- 
 horses, highwaymen, knights in armor, Norman 
 invaders, Roman legions, Druids, Ancient 
 Britons painted blue, and so forth — all these 
 belong to the old period. I will concede a halt 
 in the midst of it, and allow that gunpowder 
 and printing tended to modernize the world. 
 But your railroad starts the new era, and we of 
 a certain age belong to the new time and the 
 old one. We are of the time of chivalry as 
 well as the Black Prince or Sir Walter Manny. 
 We are of the age of steam. We have stepped
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. Ill 
 
 out ot the old world on to "Brunei's" vast 
 deck, and across the waters ingens patet tellus. 
 Towards what new continent are we wending ? 
 to what new laws, new manners, new politics, 
 vast new expanses of liberties unknown as yet, 
 or only surmised ? I used to know a man who 
 had invented a flying-machine. " Sir," he would 
 say, " give me but five hundred pounds, and I 
 will make it. It is so simple of construction 
 that I tremble daily lest some other person 
 should light upon and patent my discovery." 
 Perhaps faith was wanting ; perhaps the five 
 hundred pounds. He is dead, and somebody 
 else must make the flying-machine. But that 
 will only be a step forward on the journey 
 already begun since we quitted the old world. 
 There it lies on the other side of yonder em- 
 bankments. You young folks have never seen 
 it ; and Waterloo is to you no more than Agin- 
 court, and George IV. than Sardanapalus. We 
 elderly people have lived in that pre-railroad 
 world, which has passed into limbo and van- 
 ished from under us. I tell you it was firm un- 
 der our feet once, and not long ago. They have 
 raised those railroad embankments up, and shut 
 off the old world that w^as behiud them. Climb 
 up that bank on which the irons are laid, and 
 look to the other side — it is gone. There is
 
 112 THACKERAY. 
 
 no other side. Try and catch yesterday. Where 
 is it ? Here is a Times newspaper, dated Mon- 
 day 26th, and this is Tuesday 27th. Suppose 
 you deny there was such a day as yesterday. 
 
 We who lived before railways, and survive 
 out of the ancient world, are like Father Noah 
 and his family out of the Ark. The children 
 will gather round and say to us patriarchs, 
 "Tell us, grandpapa, about the old world." 
 And we shall mumble our old stories ; and we 
 shall drop off one by one ; and there will be 
 fewer and fewer of us, and these very old and 
 feeble. There will be but ten pre-railroadites 
 left ; then three -— then two — then one — then 
 ! If the hippopotamus had the least sensi- 
 bility (of which I cannot trace any signs either 
 in his hide or his face), I think he would go 
 down to the bottom of his tank, and never come 
 up again. Does he not see that he belongs to 
 bygone ages, and that his great hulking barrel 
 of a body is out of place in these times ? What 
 has he in common with the brisk young life 
 surrounding him ? In the watches of the night, 
 when the keepers are asleep, when the birds 
 are on one leg, when even the little armadillo 
 is quiet, and the monkeys have ceased their 
 chatter, — he, I mean the hippopotamus, and 
 the elephant, and the long-necked giraffe, per-
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 113 
 
 « 
 haps may lay their heads together and have a 
 colloquy about the great silent antedilu\aan 
 workl which they remember, where mighty 
 monsters floundered through the ooze, croco- 
 diles basked on the banks, and dragons darted 
 out of the caves and waters before men were 
 made to slay them. We who lived before rail- 
 ways are antediluvians — we must pass away. 
 We are growing scarcer every day ; and old — 
 old — very old relicts of the times when George 
 was still fighting the Dragon. 
 
 Not long since, a company of horse-riders 
 paid a visit to our watering-place. We went 
 to see them, and I bethought me that young 
 Walter Juvenis, who was in the place, might 
 like also to witness the performance. A pan- 
 tomime is not always amusing to persons who 
 have attained a certain age ; but a boy at a 
 pantomime is always amused and amusing, and 
 to see his pleasure is good for most hypochon- 
 driacs. 
 
 We sent to Walter's mother, requesting that 
 he might join us, and the kind lady replied that 
 the boy had already been at the morning per- 
 formance of the equestrians, but was most eager 
 to go in the evening likewise. And go he did ; 
 and laughed at all Mr. Merryman's remarks, 
 though he remembered them with remarkable
 
 114 THACKERAY. 
 
 « 
 
 accuracy, and insisted upon waiting to the very 
 end of the fun, and was only induced to retire 
 just before its conclusion by representations 
 that the ladies of the party would be incom- 
 moded if they were to wait and undergo the 
 rush and trample of the crowd round about. 
 When this fact was pointed out to him, he 
 yielded at once, though with a heavy heart, his 
 eyes looking longingly towards the ring as we 
 retreated out of the booth. We were scarcely 
 clear of the place, when we heard " God save 
 the queen," played by the equestrian band, the 
 signal that all was over. Our companion en- 
 tertained us with scraps of the dialogue on our 
 way home — precious crumbs of wit which he 
 had brought away from that feast. He laughed 
 over them again as we walked under the stars. 
 He has them now, and takes them out of the 
 pocket of his memory, and crunches a bit, and 
 relishes it with sentimental tenderness, too, for 
 he is, no doubt, back at school by this time ; the 
 holidays are over ; and Doctor Birch's young 
 friends have reassembled. 
 
 Queer jokes, which caused a thousand simple 
 mouths to grin ! As the jaded Merryman ut- 
 tered them to the old gentleman with the whip, 
 some of the old folks in the audience, I dare 
 say, indulged in reflections of their own. There
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 115 
 
 was one joke — I utterly forget it — but it 
 began with Merryman saying what he had for 
 dinner. He had mutton for dinner, at one 
 o'clock, after which " he had to come to business." 
 And then came the point. Walter Juveuis, 
 Esq., Rev. Doctor Birch's, Market Rodborough, 
 if you read this will you please send me a line, 
 and let me know what was the joke Mr. Merry- 
 man told about having his dinner ? You re- 
 member well enough. But do I want to know ? 
 Suppose a boy takes a favorite long cherished 
 lump of cake out of his pocket, and offers you 
 a bite ? Merci ! The fact is, I don't care 
 much about knowing that joke of Mr. Merry- 
 man's. 
 
 But whilst he was talking about his dinner, 
 and his mutton, and his landlord, and his busi- 
 ness, I felt a great interest about Mr. M. in 
 private life — about his wife, lodgings, earn- 
 ings, and general history, and I dare say was 
 forming a picture of those in my mind : — wife 
 cooking the mutton : children waiting for it ! 
 Merryman in his plain clothes, and so forth ; 
 during which contemplation the joke was ut- 
 tered and laughed at, and Mr. M., resuming his 
 professional duties, was tumbling over head 
 and heels. Do not suppose I am going, sicut 
 est mos, to indulge in moralities about buffoons,
 
 116 THACKERAY. 
 
 paint, motley, and mountebanking. Nay, Prime 
 Ministers rehearse their jokes ; Opposition 
 leaders prepare and polish them ; Tabernacle 
 preachers must arrange them in their minds 
 before they utter them. All I mean is, that I 
 would like to know any one of these perform- 
 ers thoroughly, and out of his uniform : that 
 preacher, and why in his travels this and that 
 point struck him ; wherein lies his power of 
 pathos, humor, eloquence ; — that Minister of 
 State, and what moves him, and how his private 
 heart is working ; — I would only say that at a 
 certain time of life certain things cease to in- 
 terest ; but about some things when we cease 
 to care, what will be the use of life, sight, hear- 
 ing ? Poems are written, and we cease to ad- 
 mire. Lady Jones invites us, and we yawn ; she 
 ceases to invite us, and we are resigned. The 
 last time I saw a ballet at the opera — oh ! it 
 is many years ago — I fell asleep in the stalls 
 wagging my head in insane dreams, and I hope 
 affording amusement to the company, while the 
 feet of five hundred nymphs were cutting flic- 
 flacs on the stage at a few paces' distance. Ah ! 
 I remember a different state of things ! Credite 
 posteri. To see those nymphs — gracious powers, 
 how beautiful they were ! That leering, painted, 
 shriveled, thin-armed, thick-ankled old thing,
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 117 
 
 cutting dreary capers, coming thumping down 
 on her board out of time — that an opera-dan- 
 cer ? Pooh ! My dear Walter, the great dif- 
 ference between my time and yours, who will 
 enter life some two or three years hence, is 
 that, now, the dancmg women and singing 
 women are ludicrously old, out of time, and out 
 of tune ; the paint is so visible, and the dinge 
 and wrinkles of their wretched old cotton 
 stockings, that I am surprised how anybody 
 can like to look at them. And as for laughing 
 at me for falling asleep, I can't understand a 
 man of sense doing otherwise. In my time, a 
 la bonne heure. In the reign of George IV., I 
 give you my honor, all the dancers at the opera 
 were as beautiful as houries. Even in William 
 lY.'s time, when I think of Duvernay prancing 
 in as the Bayadere, — I say it was a vision of 
 loveliness such as mortal eyes can't see nowa- 
 days. How well I remember the tune to which 
 she used to appear ! Kaled used to say to the 
 Sultan, " My lord, a troop of those dancing and 
 singing gurls called Bayaderes approaches," 
 and, to the clash of cymbals, and the thumping 
 of my heart, in she used to dance ! There has 
 never been anything like it — never. There 
 never will be — I laugh to scorn old people 
 who tell me about your Xoblet, your Montessu,
 
 118 THACKERAY. 
 
 your Vestris, your Parisot — pshaw, the senile 
 twaddlers ! And the impudence of the young 
 men with their music and their dances of to- 
 day ! I tell you the women are dreary old 
 creatures. I tell you one air in an opera is 
 just like another, and they send all rational 
 creatures to sleep. Ah, Ronzi de Begnis, thou 
 lovely one ! Ah, Caradori, thou smiling angel ! 
 Ah, Malibran ! Nay, I will come to modern 
 times, and acknowledge that Lablache was a 
 very good singer thirty years ago (though Porto 
 was the boy for me) : and then we had Ambro- 
 getti, and Curioni, and Donzelli, a rising young 
 singer. 
 
 But what is most certain and lamentable is 
 the decay of stage beauty since the days of 
 George IV. Think of Sontag ! I remember 
 her in Otello and the Donna del Lago in '28. 
 I remember being behind the scenes at the 
 opera (where numbers of us young fellows of 
 fashion used to go), and seeing Sontag let her 
 hair fall down over her shoulders previous to 
 her murder by Donzelli. Young fellows have 
 never seen beauty like ihaty heard such a voice, 
 seen such hair, such eyes. Don't tell me I A 
 man who has been about town since the reign 
 of George IV., ought he not to know better 
 than you young lads who have seen nothing ?
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 119 
 
 The deterioratiou of women is lamentable ; and 
 the conceit of the young fellows more lamenta- 
 ble still, that they won't see this fact, but per- 
 sist in thinking their time as good as ours. 
 
 Bless me ! when I was a lad, the stage was 
 covered with angels, who sang, acted, and 
 danced. When I remember the Adelphi, and 
 the actresses there ; when I think of Miss 
 Chester, and Miss Love, and Mrs. Serle at 
 Sadler's Wells, and her forty glorious pupils — 
 of the Opera and Noblet, and the exquisite 
 young Taglioni, and Pauline Leroux, and a host 
 more ! One much-admired being of those days 
 I confess I never cared for, and that was the 
 chief male dancer — a very important person- 
 age then, with a bare neck, bare arms, a tunic, 
 and a hat and feathers, who used to divide the 
 applause vsdth the ladies, and who has now sunk 
 down a trap-door forever. And this frank ad- 
 mission ought to show that I am not your mere 
 twaddling laudator temporis acti — your old fogy 
 who can see no good except in his own time. 
 
 They say that claret is better nowadays, and 
 cookery much improved since the time of my 
 monarch — of George IV. Pastry Cookery is 
 certainly not so good. I have often eaten half 
 a crown's worth (including, I trust, ginger- 
 beer) at our school pastry-cook's, and that is a
 
 120 THACKERAY. 
 
 proof that the pastry must have been very good, 
 for could I do as much uow ? I passed by the 
 pastry-cook's shop lately, having occasion to 
 visit my old school. It looked a very dingy 
 old baker's ; misfortunes may have come over 
 him — - those penny tarts certainly did not look 
 so nice as I remember them : but he may have 
 grown careless as he has grown old (I should 
 judge him to be now about ninety-six years of 
 age), and his hand may have lost its cunning. 
 
 Not that we were not great epicures. I re- 
 member how we constantly grumbled at the 
 quantity of the food in our master's house — 
 which on my conscience I believe was excellent 
 and plentiful — and how we tried once or twice 
 to eat him out of house and home. At the 
 pastry-cook's we may have over -eaten our- 
 selves (I have admitted half a crown's worth 
 for my own part, but I don't like to mention 
 the real figure for fear of perverting the pres- 
 ent generation of boys by my monstrous con- 
 fession) — we may have eaten too much, I say. 
 We did ; but what then ? The school apothe- 
 cary was sent for : a couple of small globules 
 at night, a trifling preparation of senna in the 
 morning, and we had not to go to school, so 
 that the draught was an actual pleasure. 
 
 For our amusements, besides the games in
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 121 
 
 vogue, which were pretty much in old times as 
 they are now (except cricket, par exemple — 
 and I wish the present youth joy of their 
 bowling, and suppose Armstrong and Whitworth 
 will bowl at them with light field-pieces next), 
 there were novels — ah ! I trouble you to find 
 such novels in the present day ! O Scottish 
 Chiefs, didn't we weep over you ! O Mysteries 
 of Udolpho, did n't I and Briggs JVIinor draw 
 pictures out of you, as I have said ? Efforts, 
 feeble indeed, but still giving pleasure to us 
 and our friends. " I say, old boy, draw us 
 Vivaldi tortured in the Inquisition," or " Draw 
 us Don Quixote and the windmills, you know," 
 amateurs woidd say, to boys who had a love of 
 drawing. " Peregrine Pickle " we liked, our 
 fathers admiring it, and telling us (the sly old 
 boys) it was capital fun ; but I think I was 
 rather bewildered by it, though " Roderick 
 Random " was and remains delightful. I don't 
 remember having Sterne in the school library, 
 no doubt because the works of that divine were 
 not considered decent for young people. Ah ! 
 not against thy genius, O father of Uncle Toby 
 and Trim, would I say a word in disrespect. 
 But I am thankful to live in times when men 
 no longer have the temptation to write so as 
 to call blushes on women's cheeks, and would
 
 122 THACKERAY. 
 
 shame to whisper wicked allusions to honest 
 boys. Then, above all, we had Walter Scott, 
 the kindly, the generous, the pure — the com- 
 panion of what countless delightful hours ; the 
 purveyor of how much happiness ; the friend 
 whom we recall as the constant benefactor of 
 our youth ! How well I remember the type 
 and the brownish paper of the old duodecimo 
 " Tales of my Landlord " ! I have never dared 
 to read the " Pirate," and the " Bride of Lam- 
 mermoor," or " Kenilworth," from that day to 
 this because the finale is unhappy, and people 
 die, and are murdered at the end. But " Ivan- 
 hoe," and " Quentin Durward " ! Oh ! for a 
 half-holiday, and a quiet corner, and one of 
 those books again ! Those books, and perhaps 
 those eyes with which we read them ; and it 
 may be, the brains behind the eyes ! It may 
 be the tart was good ; but how fresh the ap- 
 petite was ! If the gods would give me the 
 desire of my heart, I should be able to write a 
 story which boys would relish for the next few 
 dozen of centuries. The boy-critic loves the 
 story : grown up, he loves the author who wrote 
 the story. Hence the kindly tie is established 
 between writer and reader, and lasts pretty 
 nearly for life. I meet people now who don't 
 care for Walter Scott, or the " Arabian Niglits ; "
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 123 
 
 1 am sorry for them, unless they iu their time 
 have fomid their romiincer — their charming 
 Scheherazade. By the way, Walter, when you 
 are writing, tell me who is the favorite novelist 
 in the fourth form now ? Have you got any- 
 thing so good and kindly as dear Miss Edge- 
 worth's Frank 1 It used to belong to a fellow's 
 sisters generally ; but though he pretended to 
 despise it, and said " Oh, stuif for girls ! " he 
 read it ; and I think there were one or two 
 passages which would try my eyes now, were I 
 to meet with the little book. 
 
 As for Thomas and Jeremiah (it is only my 
 witty way of calling Tom and Jerry), I went 
 to the British Museum the other day on purpose 
 to get it ; but somehow, if you will press the 
 question so closely, on reperusal, Tom and 
 Jerry is not so brilliant as I had supposed it to 
 be. The pictures are just as fine as ever ; and 
 I shook hands with broad-backed Jerry Haw- 
 thorn and Corinthian Tom with delight, after 
 many years' absence. But the style of the 
 writing, I own, was not pleasing to me ; I even 
 thought it a little vulgar — well ! well ! other 
 writers have been considered vulgar — and as a 
 description of the sports and amusements of 
 London in the ancient times, more curious than 
 amusing.
 
 124 THACKERAY. 
 
 But the pictures ! — oh ! the pictures are 
 noble still ! First, there is Jerry arriving from 
 the country, in a green coat and leather gaiters, 
 and being measured for a fashionable suit at 
 Corinthian House, by Corinthian Tom's tailor. 
 Then away for the career of pleasure and 
 fashion. The park ! delicious excitement 1 
 The theatre ! the saloon ! ! the green room ! ! ! 
 Rapturous bliss — the opera itself ! and then 
 perhaps to Temple Bar, to knock down a Charley 
 there ! There are Jerry and Tom, with their 
 tights and little cocked hats, coming from the 
 opera — very much as gentlemen in waiting on 
 royalty are habited now. There they are at 
 Almack's itself, amidst a crowd of high-bred 
 personages, with the Duke of Clarence himself 
 looking at them dancing. Now, strange change, 
 they are in Tom Cribb's parlor, where they 
 don't seem to be a whit less at home than in 
 fashion's gilded halls : and now they are at 
 Newgate, seeing the irons knocked off the 
 malefactor's legs previous to execution. What 
 hardened ferocity in the countenance of the 
 desperado in yellow breeches ! What com- 
 punction in the face of the gentleman in black 
 (who, I suppose, had been forging), and who 
 clasps his hands, and listens to the chaplain ! 
 Now we haste away to merrier scenes : to
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 125 
 
 Tattersall's (ah gracious powers ! what a funny 
 fellow that actor was who performed Dicky 
 Green in that scene at the play !) ; and now we 
 are at a private party, at which Corinthian Tom 
 is waltzing (and very gracefully, too, as you 
 must confess) with Corinthian Kate, whilst Bob 
 Logic, the Oxonian, is playing on the piano ! 
 
 " After," the text says, " the Oxonian had 
 played several pieces of lively music, he re- 
 quested as a favor that Kate and his friend 
 Tom would perform a waltz. Kate without 
 any hesitation immediately stood up. Tom 
 offered his hand to his fascinating partner, and 
 the dance took place. The plate conveys a 
 correct representation of the ' gay scene ' at 
 that precise moment. The anxiety of the Oxo- 
 nian to witness the attitudes of the elegant 
 pair had nearly put a stop to their movements. 
 On turning round from the pianoforte and pre- 
 senting his comical mug, Kate could scarcely 
 suppress a laugh." 
 
 And no wonder ; just look at it now (as I 
 have copied it to the best of my humble ability), 
 and compare Master Logic's countenance and 
 attitude with the splendid elegance of Tom ! 
 Now every London man is weary and hlase\ 
 There is an enjoyment of life in these young 
 bucks of 1823 which contrasts strangely with
 
 126 THACKERAY. 
 
 our feelings of 1860. Here, for instance, is a 
 specimen of their talk and walk. "'If,' says 
 Logic — * if enjoyment is your mntto, you may 
 make the most of an evening at Vauxhall, more 
 than at any other place in the metropolis. It 
 is all free and easy. Stay as long as you like, 
 and depart when you think proper.' — ' Your 
 description is so flattering,' replied Jerry, * that 
 I do not care how soon the time arrives for us 
 to start.' Logic proposed a ' hit of a stroll ' in 
 order to get rid of an hour or two, which was 
 immediately accepted by Tom and Jerry. A 
 turn or two in Bond Street, a stroll through Pic- 
 cadilly, a look in at Tattersall's, a ramble 
 through Pall Mall, and a strut on the Corinthian 
 path, fully occupied the time of our heroes 
 until the hour for dinner arrived, when a few 
 glasses of Tom's rich wines soon put them on 
 the qui vice. Vauxhall was then the object 
 in view, and the Trio started, bent upon en- 
 joying the pleasures which this place so amply 
 affords." 
 
 How nobly those inverted commas, those 
 italics, those capitals, bring out the writer's wit 
 and relieve the eye ! They are as good as 
 jokes, though you mayn't quite perceive the 
 point. Mark the varieties of lounge in which 
 the young men indulge — now a stroll, then a
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 127 
 
 look in, then a ramble, aiid presently a strut. 
 When George, Prince of Wales, was twenty, I 
 have read in an old Magazine, " the Prince's 
 lounge " was a peculiar manner of walking 
 which the young bucks imitated. At Windsor 
 George III. had a cat's path — a sly early walk 
 which the good old king took in the gray morn- 
 ing before his household was astir. What w^as 
 the Corinthian path here recorded ? Does any 
 antiquary know ? And what were the rich 
 wines which our friends took, and which ena- 
 bled them to enjoy Vauxhall ? Vauxhall is 
 gone, but the wines which could occasion such 
 a delightful perversion of the intellect as to 
 enable it to enjoy ample pleasures there, what 
 were they ? 
 
 So the game of life proceeds, until Jerry 
 Hawthorn, the rustic, is fairly knocked up by 
 all this excitement and is forced to go home, 
 and the last picture represents him getting into 
 the coach at the " White Horse Cellar," he 
 being one of six inside, whilst his friends shake 
 him by the hand ; whilst the sailor mounts on 
 the roof ; whilst the Jews hang round with 
 oranges, knives, and sealing-wax : whilst the 
 guard is closing the door. Where are they 
 now, those sealing-wax venders ? where are 
 the guards ? where are the jolly teams ? where
 
 -• 28 THACKERAY. 
 
 are the coaches ? and where the youth that 
 climbed inside and out of them ; that heard the 
 merry horn which sounds no more ; that saw 
 the sun rise over Stonehenge ; that rubbed 
 away the bitter tears at night after parting as 
 the coach sped on the journey to school and 
 London ; that looked out with beating heart as 
 the milestones flew by, for the welcome corner 
 where began home and holidays ? 
 
 It is night now : and here is home. Gathered 
 under the quiet roof elders and children lie 
 alike at rest. In the midst of a great peace 
 and calm, the stars look out from the heavens. 
 The silence is peopled with the past ; sorrowful 
 remorses for sins and shortcomings — memories 
 of passionate joys and griefs rise out of their 
 graves, both now alike calm and sad. Eyes, as 
 I shut mine, look at me, that have long ceased 
 to shine. The town and the fair landscapes 
 sleep under the starlight, wreathed in the 
 autumn mists. Twinkling among the houses a 
 light keeps watch here and there, in what may 
 be a sick -chamber or two. The clock tolls 
 sweetly in the silent air. Here is night and 
 rest. An awful sense of thanks makes the 
 heart swell, and the head bow, as I pass to my 
 room through the sleeping house, and feel as 
 though a hushed blessing were upon it.
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 129 
 
 ROUND ABOUT THE CHRISTMAS- 
 TREE. 
 
 The kindly Christmas-tree, from wMch I 
 trust every gentle reader has pulled a bonbon 
 or two, is yet all aflame whilst I am writing, 
 and sparkles with the sweet fruits of its season. 
 You young ladies, may you have plucked pretty 
 giftlings from it; and out of the cracker sugar- 
 plum which you have split with the captain or 
 the sweet young curate may you have read one 
 of those delicious conundrums which the con- 
 fectioners introduce into the sweetmeats, and 
 which apply to the cunning passion of love. 
 Those riddles are to be read at your age, when 
 I dare say they are amusing. As for Dolly, 
 Merry, and Bell, who are standing at the tree, 
 they don't care about the love-riddle part, but 
 understand the sweet-almond portion very well. 
 They are four, five, six years old. Patience, 
 little people ! A dozen merry Christmases 
 more, and you will be reading those wonderful 
 love-conundrums, too. As for us elderly folks, 
 we watch the babies at their sport, and the 
 young people pulling at the branches : and 
 instead of finding bonbons or sweeties in the 
 packets which we pluck off the boughs, we find
 
 130 THACKERAY. 
 
 enclosed Mr. Carnifex's review of the quarter's 
 meat ; Mr. Sartor's compliments, and little 
 statement for self and the young gentlemen ; 
 and Madame de Sainte-Crinoline's respects to 
 the young ladies, who encloses her account, and 
 will send on Saturday, please ; or we stretch 
 our hand out to the educational branch of the 
 Christmas - tree,* and there find a lively and 
 amusing article from the Rev. Henry Holy- 
 shade, containing our dear Tommy's exceed- 
 ingly moderate account for the last term's 
 school expenses. 
 
 The tree yet sparkles, I say. I am writing 
 on the day before Twelfth Day, if you must 
 know ; but already ever so many of the fruits 
 have been pulled, and the Christmas lights have 
 gone out. Bobby Miseltow, who has been stay- 
 ing with us for a week (and who has been sleep- 
 ing mysteriously in the bathroom), comes to 
 say he is going away to spend the rest of the 
 holidays with his grandmother — and I brush 
 away the manly tears of regret as I part with 
 the dear child. " Well, Bob, good-by, since you 
 will go. Compliments to grandmamma. Thank 
 her for the turkey. Here 's " — (A slight pe- 
 cuniary transaction takes place at this juncture, 
 and Bob nods and loinks, and puts his hand in his 
 waistcoat pocket.) " You have had a pleasant 
 week?"
 
 ROUND A BOUT PAPERS. 131 
 
 Bob, — "Haven't I!" (And exit, anxious 
 to knov) the amount of coin which has Just changed 
 hands.} 
 
 He is gone, and as the clear boy vanishes 
 through the door (behind which I see him per- 
 fectly), I too cast up a little account of our 
 past Christmas week. When Bob's holidays are 
 over, and the printer has sent me back this 
 manuscript, I know Christmas will be an old 
 story. All the fruit will be ofE the Christmas- 
 tree then ; the crackers will have cracked off ; 
 the almonds will have been crunched ; and the 
 sweet-bitter riddles will have been read ; the 
 lights will have perished ofE the dark green 
 boughs ; the toys growing on them will have 
 been distributed, fought for-, cherished, neg- 
 lected, broken. Ferdinand and Fidelia will 
 each keep out of it (be still, my gushing heart!) 
 the remembrance of a riddle read together, of 
 a double-almond munched together, and the 
 moiety of an exploded cracker. . . , The 
 maids, I say, will have taken down all that 
 holly stuff and nonsense about the clocks, 
 lamps, and looking-glasses, the dear boys will 
 be back at school, fondly thinking of the pan- 
 tomime-fairies whom they have seen ; whose 
 gaudy gossamer wings are battered by this 
 time ; and whose pink cotton (or silk is it ?)
 
 132 THACKERAY. 
 
 lower extremities are all dingy and dusty. Yet 
 but a few days, Bob, and flakes of paint will 
 have cracked off the fairy flower-bowers, and 
 the revolving temples of adamantine lustre will 
 be as shabb}^ as the city of Pekin. When you 
 read this, will Clown still be going on lolling 
 his tongue out of his mouth, and saying, " How 
 are you to-morrow ? " To-morrow, indeed ! 
 He must be almost ashamed of himself (if that 
 cheek is still capable of the blush of shame) for 
 asking the absurd question. To-morrow, in- 
 deed ! To-morrow the diffugient snows will 
 give place to Spring ; the snowdrops will lift 
 their heads ; Ladyday may be expected, and 
 the pecuniary duties peculiar to that feast ; in 
 place of bonbons, trees will have an eruption of 
 light green knobs ; the white bait season will 
 bloom ... as if one need go on describing 
 these vernal phenomena, when Christmas is still 
 here, though ending, and the subject of my dis- 
 course ! 
 
 We have all admired the illustrated papers, 
 and noted how boisterously jolly they become 
 at Christmas time. What wassail-bowls, robin- 
 redbreasts, waits, snow landscapes, bursts of 
 Christmas song ! And then to think that these 
 festivities are prepared months before — that 
 these Christmas pieces are prophetic ! How
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 133 
 
 kind of artists and poets to devise the festivities 
 beforehand, and serve them pat at the proper 
 time ! We ought to be grateful to them, as to 
 the cook who gets up at midnight and sets the 
 pudding a-boiiiug, which is to feast us at six 
 o'clock. I often think with gratitude of the 
 famous Mr. Xelson Lee — the author of I don't 
 know how many hundred glorious pantomimes 
 — walking by the summer wave at Margate, or 
 Brighton perhaps, revolving in his mind the 
 idea of some new gorgeous spectacle of faery, 
 which the winter shall see complete. He is 
 like the cook at midnight (si parva licet). He 
 watches and thinks. He pounds the sparkling 
 sugar of benevolence, the plums of fancy, the 
 sweetmeats of fun, the figs of — well, the figs 
 of fairy fiction, let us say, and pops the whole 
 in the seething caldron of imagination, and at 
 due season serves up the Pantomime. 
 
 Very few men in the course of nature can 
 expect to see all the pantomimes in one season, 
 but I hope to the end of my life I shall never 
 forego reading about them in that delicious 
 sheet of The Times which appears on the morn- 
 ing after Boxing-day. Perhaps reading is even 
 better than seeing. The best way, I think, is 
 to say you are ill, lie in bed, and have the 
 paper for two hours, reading all the way down
 
 134 THACKERAY. 
 
 from Drury Lane to the Britannia at Hoxton. 
 Bob and I went to two pantomimes. One was 
 at the Theatre of Fancy, and the other at the 
 Fairy Opera, and I don't know which we liked 
 the best. 
 
 At the Fancy, we saw " Harlequin Hamlet, 
 or Daddy's Ghost and Nunky's Pison," which 
 is all very well — but, gentlemen, if you don't 
 respect Shakespeare, to whom will you be civil ? 
 The palace and ramparts of Elsiuore by moon 
 and snowlight is one of Loutherbourg's finest 
 efforts. The banqueting hall of the palace is 
 illuminated : the peaks and gables glitter with 
 the snow : the sentinels march blowing their 
 fingers with the cold — the freezing of the nose 
 of one of them is very neatly and dexterously 
 arranged : the snow storm rises : the winds 
 howl awfully along the battlements : the waves 
 come curling, leaping, foaming to shore. Ham- 
 let's umbrella is whirled away in the storm. 
 He and his two friends stamp on each other's 
 toes to keep them warm. The storm-spirits 
 rise in the air, and are whirled howling round 
 the palace and the rocks. My eyes ! what tiles 
 and chimney-pots fly hurtling through the air ! 
 As the storm reaches its height (here the wind 
 instruments come in with prodigious effect, and 
 I compliment Mr. Brumby and the violoncellos)
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 135 
 
 — as the snow-storm rises (queek, queek, queek, 
 go the fiddles, and then thrumpty thrump comes 
 a pizzicato movement in Bob Major, which sends 
 a shiver into your very boot soles) the thmi- 
 der-clouds deepen (bong, bong, bong, from the 
 violoncellos). The forked lightning quivers 
 through the clouds in a zigzag scream of vio- 
 lins — and look, look, look ! as the frothing, 
 roaring waves come rushing up the battlements, 
 and over the reeling parapet, each hissing wave 
 becomes a ghost, sends the gun-carriages rolling 
 over the platform, and plunges howling into the 
 water again. 
 
 Hamlet's mother comes on to the battle- 
 ments to look for her son. The storm whips 
 her umbrella out of her hands, and she retires 
 screaming in pattens. 
 
 The cabs on the stand in the great market- 
 place at Elsinore are seen to drive off, and 
 several people are drowned. The gas-lamps 
 along the street are wrenched from their foun- 
 dations, and shoot through the troubled air. 
 Whist, rush, hish ! how the rain roars and 
 pours ! The darkness becomes awful, always 
 deepened by the power of the music — and see 
 — in the midst of a rush, and whirl, and scream 
 of spirits of air and wave — what is that ghastly 
 figure moving hither ? It becomes bigger, big-
 
 136 THACKERAY. 
 
 ger, as it advances down the platform — more 
 ghastly, more horrible, enormous ! It is as tall 
 as the whole stage. It seems to be advancing 
 on the stalls and pit, and the whole house 
 screams with terror, as the Ghost of the late 
 Hamlet comes in, and begins to speak. Several 
 people faint, and the light-fingered gentry pick 
 pockets furiously in the darkness. 
 
 In the pitchy darkness, this awful figure 
 throwing his eyes about, the gas in the boxes 
 shuddering out of sight, and the wind-instru- 
 ments bugling the most horrible wails, the bold- 
 est spectator must have felt friglitened. But 
 hark ! what is that silver shimmer of the 
 fiddles ! Is it — can it be — the gray dawn 
 peeping in the stormy east ? The ghost's eyes 
 look blankly towards it, and roll a ghastly 
 agony. Quicker, quicker ply the violins of 
 Phcebus Apollo. Redder, redder grow the 
 orient clouds. Cockadoodledoo ! crows that 
 great cock which has just come out on the roof 
 of the palace. And now the round sun himself 
 pops up from behind the waves of night. 
 Where is the ghost ? He is gone ! Purple 
 shadows of morn " slant o'er the snowy sward,' ' 
 the city wakes up in life and sunshine, and we 
 confess we are very much relieved at the dis- 
 appearance of the ghost. We don't like those 
 dark scenes in panto^^imes.
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 137 
 
 After the usual business, that Ophelia should 
 be turned into Columbine was to be expected ; 
 but I confess I was a little shocked wlien Ham- 
 let's mother became Pantaloon, and was in- 
 stantly knocked down by Clown Claudius. 
 Grimaldi is getting a little old now, but for 
 real humor there are few clowns like him. 
 Mr. Shuter, as the grave-digger, was chaste and 
 comic, as he always is, and the scene-painters 
 surpassed themselves. 
 
 " Harlequin Conqueror and the field of 
 Hastings," at the other house, is very pleasant 
 too. The irascible William is acted with great 
 vigor by Snoxall, and the battle of Hastings is 
 a good piece of burlesque. Some trifling liber- 
 ties are taken with history, but what liberties 
 will not the merry genius of pantomime permit 
 himself ? At the battle of Hastings, William 
 is on the point of being defeated by the Sussex 
 volunteers, very elegantly led by the always 
 pretty Miss Waddy (as Haco Sharpshooter), 
 when a shot from the Xormans kills Harold. 
 The fairy Edith hereupon comes forward, and 
 finds his body, which straightway leaps up a 
 live harlequin, whilst the Conqueror makes an 
 excellent clown, and the Archbishop of Bayeux 
 a diverting pantaloon, etc., etc., etc. 
 
 Perhaps these are not the pantomimes we
 
 138 THACKERAY. 
 
 really saw ; but one description will do as well 
 as another. The plots, you see, are a little in- 
 tricate and difficult to understand in panto- 
 mimes ; and I may have mixed up one with 
 another. That I was at the theatre on Boxing- 
 night is certain — but the pit was so full that I 
 could only see fairy legs glittering in the dis- 
 tance, as I stood at the door. And if I was 
 badly ofip, I think there was a young gentleman 
 behind me worse off still. I own that he has 
 good reason (though others have not) to speak 
 ill of me behind my back, and hereby beg his 
 pardon. 
 
 Likewise to the gentleman who picked up a 
 party in Piccadilly, who had slipped and fallen 
 in the snow, and was there on his back, uttering 
 energetic expressions ; that party begs to offer 
 thanks, and compliments of the season. 
 
 Bob's behavior on New Year's day, I can 
 assure Dr. Holyshade, was highly creditable to 
 the boy. He had expressed a determination to 
 partake of every dish which was put on the 
 table ; but after soup, fish, roast-beef, and roast- 
 goose, he retired from active business until the 
 pudding and mince-pies made their appearance, 
 of which he partook liberally, but not too freely. 
 And he greatly advanced in my good opinion 
 by praising the punch, which was of my own
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 139 
 
 manufacture, and which some gentlemen pre- 
 sent (Mr. O'M — g — n, amongst others) pro- 
 nounced to be too weak. Too weak ! A bottle 
 of rum, a bottle of Madeira, half a bottle of 
 brandy, and two bottles and a half of water — 
 can this mixture be said to be too weak for any 
 mortal ? Our young friend amused the com- 
 pany during the evening by exhibiting a two- 
 shilling magic-lantern, which he had purchased, 
 and likewise by singing " Sally, come up ! " a 
 quaint, but rather monotonous melody, which 
 I am told is sung by the poor negro on the 
 banks of the broad Mississippi. 
 
 What other enjoyments did we proffer for 
 the child's amusement during the Christmas 
 week ? A great philosopher was giving a lec- 
 ture to young folks at the British Institution. 
 But when this diversion was proposed to our 
 young friend Bob, he said, " Lecture ? no, thank 
 you. Not as I knows on," and made sarcastic 
 signals on his nose. Perhaps he is of Dr. John- 
 sou's opinion about lectures : " Lectures, sir ! 
 what man would go to hear that imperfectly at 
 a lecture, which he can read at leisure in a 
 book ? " / never went, of my own choice, to a 
 lecture ; that I can vow. As for sermons, they 
 are different ; I delight in them, and they can- 
 not, of course, be too long.
 
 140 THACKERAY. 
 
 Well, we partook of yet other Christmas 
 delights besides pantomime, pudding, and pie. 
 One glorious, one delightful, one most unlucky 
 and pleasant day, we drove in a brougham, with 
 a famous horse, which carried us more quickly 
 and briskly than any of your vulgar railways, 
 over Battersea Bridge, on which the horse's 
 hoofs rung as if it had been iron ; through sub- 
 urban villages, plum-caked with snow ; under 
 a leaden sky, in which the sun hung like a red- 
 hot warming-pan ; by pond after pond, where 
 not only men and boys, but scores after scores 
 of women and girls, were sliding, and roaring, 
 and clapping their lean old sides with laughter, 
 as they tumbled down, and their hobnailed 
 shoes flew up in the air ; the air frosty with a 
 lilac haze, through which villas, and commons, 
 and churches, and plantations glimmered. We 
 drive up the hill, Bob and I ; we make the last 
 two miles in eleven minutes ; we pass that poor, 
 armless man who sits there in the cold, follow- 
 ing you with his eyes. I don't give anything, 
 and Bob looks disappointed. We are set down 
 neatly at the gate, and a horse-holder opens the 
 brougham door. I don't give anything ; again 
 disappointment on Bob's part. I pay a shil- 
 ling apiece, and we enter into the glorious 
 building, which is decorated for Christmas, and
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 141 
 
 straightway forgetfulness on Bob's part of 
 everything but that magnificent scene. The 
 enormous edifice is all decorated for Bob and 
 Christmas. The stalls, the columns, the foun- 
 tains, courts, statues, splendors, are all crowned 
 for Christmas. The delicious negro is singing 
 his Alabama choruses for Christmas and Bob. 
 He has scarcely done, when, Tootarootatoo ! 
 Mr. Punch is performing his surprising actions, 
 and hanging the beadle. The stalls are deco- 
 rated. The refreshment-tables are piled with 
 good things ; at many fountains " Mulled 
 Claret " is written up in appetizmg capitals, 
 " Mulled Claret — oh, jolly ! How cold it is ! " 
 says Bob ; I pass on. " It's only three o'clock," 
 says Bob. " No, only three," I say meekly. 
 "We dine at seven," sighs Bob, " and it 's so-o-o 
 coo-old." I still would take no hints. Xo 
 claret, no refreshment, no sandwiches, no sau- 
 sage rolls for Bob. At last I am obliged to 
 tell him all. Just before we left home, a little 
 Christmas bill popped in at the door and 
 emptied my purse at the threshold. I forgot 
 all about the transaction, and had to borrow 
 half a crown from John Coachman to pay for 
 our entrance into the palace of delight. Now 
 you see, Bob, why I could not treat you on that 
 second of January when we drove to the pal-
 
 142 THACKERAY. 
 
 ace together ; when the girls and boys were 
 slidmg on the ponds at Dulwich ; when the 
 darklmg river was full of floating ice, and 
 the sun was like a warming-pan in the leaden 
 sky. 
 
 Qne more Christmas sight we had, of course ; 
 and that sight I think I like as well as Bob 
 himself at Christmas, and at all seasons. We 
 went to a certain garden of delight where, 
 whatever your cares are, I think you can man- 
 age to forget some of them, and muse, and be 
 not unhappy ; to a garden beginning with a Z, 
 which is as lively as Noah's ark ; where the 
 fox has brought his brush, and the cock has 
 brought his comb, and the elephant has brought 
 his trunk, and the kangaroo has brought his 
 bag, and the condor his old white wig and black 
 satin hood. On this day it was so cold that 
 the white bears winked their pink eyes, as they 
 plapped up and down by their pool, and seemed 
 to say, " Aha, this weather reminds us of our 
 dear home ! " " Cold ! bah ! I have got such 
 a warm coat," says brother Bruin, "I don't 
 mind ; " and he laughs on his pole, and clucks 
 down a bun. The squealing hysenas gnashed 
 their teeth and laughed at us quite refreshingly 
 at their window ; and, cold as it was. Tiger, 
 Tiger, burning bright, glared at us red-hot
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 143 
 
 through his bars, aiid snorted blasts of hell. 
 The woolly camel leered at us quite kindly as 
 he paced round his rings on his silent pads. 
 We went to our favorite places. Our dear 
 wombat came up, and had himself scratched 
 very affably. Our fellow - creatures in the 
 monkey-room held out their little black hands, 
 and piteously asked us for Christmas alms. 
 Those darling alligators on their rock winked 
 at us in the most friendly way. The solemn 
 eagles sat alone, and scowled at us from their 
 peaks ; whilst little Tom Ratel tumbled over 
 head and heels for us in his usual diverting 
 manner. If I have cares in my mind, I come 
 to the Zoo, and fancy they don't pass the gate. 
 I recognize my friends, my enemies, in count- 
 less cages. I entertained the eagle, the vulture, 
 the old billy-goat, and the black-pated, crimson- 
 necked, blear-eyed, baggy, hook -beaked old 
 marabou stork yesterday at dinner ; and when 
 Bob's aunt came to tea in the evening, and 
 asked him what he had seen, he stepped up to 
 her gravely, and said — 
 
 " First I saw the white bear, then I saw the black. 
 Then I saw the camel with a hump upon his back. 
 
 Chorus of Children. 
 
 " Then I saw the camel with a hump upon his back ! 
 Then I saw the gray wolf, witli mutton in lus maw ;
 
 144 THACKERAY. 
 
 Then I saw the wombat waddle in the straw ; 
 Then I saw the elephant with his waving trunk, 
 Then I saw the monkeys — mercy, how unpleasantly they 
 smelt ! " 
 
 There. No one can beat that piece of wit, can 
 he. Bob ? And so it is all over ; but we had 
 a jolly time, whilst you were with us, had n't 
 we ? Present my respects to the doctor ; and 
 I hope, my boy, we may spend another merry 
 Christmas next year. 
 
 ON BEING FOUND OUT. 
 
 At the close (let us say) of Queen Anne's 
 reign, when I was a boy at a private and pre- 
 paratory school for young gentlemen, I re- 
 member the wiseacre of a master ordering us 
 all, one night, to march into a little garden at 
 the back of the house, and thence to proceed 
 one by one into a tool or hen house (I was 
 but a tender little thing just put into short 
 clothes, and can't exactly say whether the house 
 was for tools or hens), and in that house to 
 put our hands into a sack which stood on a 
 bench, a candle burning beside it. I put my 
 hand into the sack. My hand came out quite 
 black. I went and joined the other boys in
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 145 
 
 the school - room ; and all their hands were 
 black too. 
 
 B}^ reason of my tender age (and there are 
 some critics who, 1 hope, will be satisfied by 
 my acknowledging that I am a hundred and 
 fifty-six next birthday) I could not understand 
 what was the meaning of this night excursion 
 — this candle, this tool-house, this bag of soot. 
 I think we little boys were taken out of our 
 sleep to be brought to the ordeal. We came, 
 then, and showed our little hands to the mas- 
 ter ; washed them or not — most probably, I 
 should say, not — and so went bewildered back 
 to bed. 
 
 Something had been stolen in the school that 
 day ; and Mr. Wiseacre having read in a book 
 of an ingenious method of finding out a thief 
 by making him put his hand into a sack (which, 
 if guilty, the rogue would shirk from doing), 
 all we boys were subjected to the trial. Good- 
 ness knows what the lost object was, or who 
 stole it. We all had black hands to show the 
 master. And the thief, whoever he was, was 
 not Found Out that time. 
 
 I wonder if the rascal is alive — an elderly 
 scoundrel he must be by this time ; and a hoary 
 old hypocrite, to whom an old school - fellow 
 presents his kindest regards — parenthetically
 
 146 THACKEKAY. 
 
 remarking what a dreadful place that private 
 school was ; cold, chilblains, bad dinners, not 
 enough victuals, and caning awful ! — Are you 
 alive still, I say, you nameless villain, who es- 
 caped discovery on that day of crime ? I hope 
 you have escaped often since, old sinner. Ah, 
 what a lucky thing it is, for you and me, my 
 man, that we are not found out in all our pec- 
 cadilloes ; and that our backs can slip away 
 from the master and the cane ! 
 
 Just consider what life would be, if every 
 rogue was found out, and flogged coram populo ! 
 What a butchery, what an indecency, what an 
 endless swishing of the rod ! Don't cry out 
 about my misanthropy. My good friend 
 Mealymouth, I will trouble you to tell me, do 
 you go to church ? When there, do you say, 
 or do you not, that you are a miserable sinner, 
 and saying so do you believe or disbelieve it ? 
 If you are a M. S., don't you deserve cor- 
 rection, and are n't you grateful if you are to 
 be let off ? I say again what a blessed thing it 
 is that we are not all found out ! 
 
 Just picture to yourself everybody who does 
 wrong being found out, and punished accord- 
 ingly. Fancy all the boys in all the school 
 being whipped ; and then the assistants, and 
 then the head master (Dr. Badford let us call
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 147 
 
 him). Fancy the provost-marshal being tied 
 up, having previously superintended the cor- 
 rection of the whole army. After the young 
 gentlemen have had their turn for the faulty 
 exercises, fancy Dr. Lincolnsinn being taken up 
 for certain faults in his Essay and Review. 
 After the clergyman has cried his peccavi, 
 suppose we hoist up a bishop, and give him 
 a couple of dozen ! (I see my Lord Bishop of 
 Double - Gloucester sitting in a very uneasy 
 posture on his right reverend bench.) After 
 we have cast off the bishop, what are we to say 
 to the Minister who appointed him ? My Lord 
 Cinqwarden, it is painful to have to use per- 
 sonal correction to a boy of your age ; but 
 really . . . Siste tandem, carnif ex ! The butch- 
 ery is too horrible. The hand drops power- 
 less, appalled at the quantity of birch which 
 it must cut and brandish. I am glad we are 
 not all found out, I say again ; and protest, 
 my dear brethren, against our having our de- 
 serts. 
 
 To fancy all men found out and punished is 
 bad enough ; but imagine all the women found 
 out in the distinguished social circle in which 
 you and I have the honor to move. Is it not a 
 mercy that a many of these fair criminals re- 
 main unpunished and undiscovered ! There is
 
 148 THACKERAY. 
 
 Mrs. Longbow, who is forever practicing, and 
 who shoots poisoned arrows, too ; when you 
 meet her you don't call her liar, and charge 
 her with the wickedness she has done and is 
 doing. There is Mrs. Painter, who passes for 
 a most respectable woman, and a model in so- 
 ciety. There is no use in saying what you 
 really know regarding her and her goings on. 
 There is Diana Hunter — what a little haughty 
 prude it is ; and yet we know stories about her 
 which are not altogether edifying. I say it is 
 best for the sake of the good, that the bad 
 should not all be found out. You don't want 
 your children to know the history of that lady 
 in the next box, who is so handsome, and whom 
 they admire so. Ah me, what would life be if 
 we were all found out and punished for all 
 our faults ? Jack Ketch would be in perma- 
 nence ; and then who would hang Jack Ketch ? 
 They talk of murderers being pretty cer- 
 tainly found out. Psha ! I have heard an 
 authority awfully competent vow and declare 
 that scores and hundreds of murders are com- 
 mitted, and nobody is the wiser. That terrible 
 man mentioned one or two ways of committing 
 murder, which he maintained were quite com- 
 mon, and were scarcely ever found out. A 
 man, for instance, comes home to his wife, and
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 149 
 
 . . . but I pause — I know that this Magazine 
 has a very large circulation. Hundreds and 
 hundreds of thousands — why not say a million 
 of people at once ? — well, say a million, read 
 it. And amongst these countless readers, I 
 might be teaching some monster how to make 
 away with his wife without being found out, 
 some fiend of a woman how to destroy her dear 
 husband. I will not then tell this easy and sim- 
 ple way of murder, as communicated to me 
 by a most respectable party in the confidence 
 of private intercourse. Suppose some gentle 
 reader were to try this most simple and easy 
 receipt — it seems to me almost infallible — 
 and come to grief in consequence, and be found 
 out and hanged ? Should I ever pardon myself 
 for liaving been the means of doing injury to a 
 single one of our esteemed subscribers ? The 
 prescription whereof I speak — that is to say, 
 whereof I don't speak — shall be buried in this 
 bosom. Xo, I am a humane man. I am not 
 one of your Bluebeards to go and say to my 
 wife, "My dear ! I am going away for a few 
 days to Brighton. Here are all the keys of the 
 house. You may open every door and closet, 
 except the one at the end of the oak-room op- 
 posite the fireplace, with the little bronze Shake- 
 speare on the mantelpiece (or what not)." I
 
 150 THACKERAY. 
 
 don't say this to a woman — unless, to be sure, 
 I want to get rid of her — because, after such a 
 caution, I know she '11 peep into the closet. I 
 say nothing about the closet at all. I keep the 
 key in my pocket, and a being whom I love, 
 but who, as I know, has many weaknesses, out 
 of harm's way. You toss up your head, dear 
 angel, drub on the ground with your lovely lit- 
 tle feet, on the table with your sweet rosy 
 fingers, and cry, " Oh, sneerer ! You don't 
 know the depth of woman's feeling, the lofty 
 scorn of all deceit, the entire absence of mean 
 curiosity in the sex, or never, never would you 
 libel us so! " Ah, Delia ! dear, dear Delia! It 
 is because I fancy I do know something about 
 you (not all, mind — no, no ; no man knows 
 that). Ah, my bride, my ringdove, my rose, 
 my poppet, — choose, in fact, whatever name 
 you like, — bulbul of my grove, fountain of my 
 desert, sunshine of my darkling life, and joy of 
 my dungeoned existence, it is because I do know 
 a little about you that I conclude to say noth- 
 ing of that private closet, and keep my key in 
 my pocket. You take away that closet - key 
 then, and the house-key. You lock Delia in. 
 You keep her out of harm's way and gadding, 
 and so she never can be found out. 
 
 And yet by little strange accidents and coin-
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 151 
 
 cidents how we are being found out every day. 
 You remember that old story of the Abbd 
 Kakatoes, who told the company at supper one 
 night how the first confession he ever received 
 was — from a murderer, let us say. Presently 
 enters to sapper the Marquis de Croquemitaine. 
 " Palsambleu, abbd ! " says the brilliant mar- 
 quis, taking a pinch of snuff, "are you here? 
 Gentlemen and ladies ! I was the abba's first 
 penitent, and I made him a confession, which I 
 promise you astonished him." 
 
 To be sure how queerly things are found 
 out ! Here is an instance : Only the other day 
 I was writing in these Roundabout Papers about 
 a certain man, whom I facetiously called Baggs, 
 and who had abused me to my friends, who of 
 course told me. Shortly after that paper was 
 published another friend — Sacks let us call him 
 — scowls fiercely at me as I am sitting in per- 
 fect good-humor at the club, and passes on 
 without speaking. A cut. A quarrel. Sacks 
 thinks it is about him that I was writing : 
 whereas, upon my honor and conscience, I 
 never had him once in my mind, and was point- 
 ing my moral from quite another man. But 
 don't you see, by this wrath of the guilty-con- 
 scienced Sacks, that he had been abusing me 
 too ? He has owned himself guilty, never hav-
 
 152 THACKERAY. 
 
 ing been accused. He has winced when nobody 
 thought of hitting him. I did but put the cap 
 out, and madly butting and chafing, behold my 
 friend rushes out to put his head into it! Xever 
 mind, Sacks, you are found out; but I bear you 
 no malice, my man. 
 
 And yet to be found out, I know from my 
 own experience, must be painful and odious, 
 and cruelly mortifying to the inward vanity. 
 Suppose I am a poltroon, let us say. With 
 fierce moustache, loud talk, plentiful oaths, and 
 an immense stick, I keep up, nevertheless, a 
 character for courage. I swear fearfully at 
 cabmen and women ; brandish my bludgeon, 
 and perhaps knock down a little man or two 
 with it : brag of the images which I break at 
 the shooting - gallery, and pass amongst my 
 friends for a whiskery fire-eater, afraid of nei- 
 ther man nor dragon. Ah me ! Suppose some 
 brisk little chap steps up and gives me a caning 
 in St. James's Street, with all the heads of my 
 friends looking out of all the club windows. 
 My reputation is gone. I frighten no man 
 more. My nose is pulled by whipper-snappers^ 
 who jump up on a chair to reach it. I am 
 found out. And in the days of my triumphs, 
 when people were yet afraid of me, and were 
 taken in by my swagger, I always knew that I
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 153 
 
 was a lilj-liver, and expected that I should be 
 found out some day. 
 
 That certamty of being found out must haunt 
 and depress many a bold braggadocio spirit. 
 Let us say it is a clergyman, who can pump 
 copious floods of tears out of his own eyes and 
 those of his audience. He thinks to himself, 
 " I am but a poor swindling, chattering rogue. 
 My bills are unpaid. I have jilted several 
 women whom I have promised to marry. I 
 don't know whether I believe what I preach, 
 and I know I have stolen the very sermon over 
 which I have been sniveling. Have they found 
 me out ? " says he, as his head drops down on 
 the cushion. 
 
 Then your writer, poet, historian, novelist, or 
 what not ? The Beacon says that " Jones's 
 work is one of the first order." The Lamp de- 
 clares that " Jones's tragedy surpasses every 
 work since the days of Him of Avon." The 
 Comet asserts that " J.'s ' Life of Goody Two- 
 shoes ' is a KTTifia is ae\, a noble and enduring 
 monument to the fame of that admirable Eng- 
 lishwoman," and so forth. But then Jones 
 knows that he has lent the critic of the Beacon 
 five pounds ; that his publisher has a half-share 
 in the Lamp; and that the Comet comes re- 
 peatedly to dine with him. It is all very well.
 
 154 THACKERAY. 
 
 Jones is immortal until he is found out ; and 
 then down comes the extinguisher, and the im- 
 mortal is dead and buried. The idea (dies 
 irce /) of discovery must haunt many a man, 
 and make him uneasy, as the trumpets are puf- 
 fing in his triumph. Brown, who has a higher 
 place than he deserves, cowers before Smith, 
 who has found him out. What is the chorus 
 of critics shouting " Bravo " ? — a public clap- 
 ping hands and flinging garlands ? Brown 
 knows that Smith has found him out. Puff, 
 trumpets ! AVave, banners! Huzza, boys, for 
 the immortal Brown ! " This is all very well," 
 B, thinks (bowing the while, smiling, laying his 
 hand to his heart); "but there stands Smith 
 at the window: he has measured me; and some 
 day the others will find me out too." It is a 
 very curious sensation to sit by a man who has 
 found you out, and who, as you know, has found 
 you out; or, vice versa, to sit with a man whom 
 you have found out. His talent ? Bah ! His 
 virtue ? We know a little story or two about 
 his virtue, and he knows we know it. We are 
 thinking over friend Robinson's antecedents, as 
 we grin, bow, and talk; and we are both hum- 
 bugs together. Robinson a good fellow, is he ? 
 You know how he behaved to Hicks ? A good- 
 natured man, is he ? Pray do you remember
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 155 
 
 that little story of Mrs. Robinson's black eye ? 
 How men have to work, to talk, to smile, to go 
 to bed, and try and sleep, with this dread of 
 being found out on their consciences ! Bar- 
 dolph, who has robbed a church, and Nyra, 
 who has taken a purse, go to their usual haunts, 
 and smoke their pipes with their companions. 
 Mr. Detective Bullseye appears, and says, " Oh, 
 Bardolph ! I want you about that there pyx 
 business ! " Mr. Bardolph knocks the ashes 
 out of his pipe, puts out his hands to the little 
 steel cuffs, and walks away quite meekly. He 
 is found out. He must go. " Good-by, Doll 
 Tearsheet ! Good-by, Mrs. Quickly, ma'am ! " 
 The other gentlemen and ladies de la societe 
 look on and exchange mute adieux with the 
 departing friends. And an assured time will 
 come when the other gentlemen and ladies will 
 be found out too. 
 
 What a wonderful and beautiful provision of 
 nature it has been that, for the most part, our 
 womankind are not endowed with the faculty 
 of finding us out ! They don't doubt, and 
 probe, and weigh, and take your measure. Lay 
 down this paper, my benevolent friend and 
 reader, go into your drawing-room now, and 
 utter a joke ever so old, and I wager sixpence 
 the ladies there will all begin to laugh. Go to
 
 156 THACKERAY. 
 
 Brown's house, and tell Mrs. Brown and the 
 young ladies what you thmk of him, and see 
 what a welcome you will get ! In like manner, 
 let him come to your house, and tell your good 
 lady his candid opinion of you, and fancy how 
 she will receive him ! Would you have your 
 wife and children know you exactly for what 
 you are, and esteem you precisely at your 
 worth? If so, my friend, you will live in a 
 dreary house, and you will have but a chilly 
 fireside. Do you suppose the people round it 
 don't see your homely face as under a glamour, 
 and, as it were, \vith a halo of love round it ? 
 You don't fancy you are as you seem to them ? 
 No such thing, my man. Put away that mon- 
 strous conceit, and be thankful that they have 
 not found you out. 
 
 OGRES. 
 
 I DARE say the reader has remarked that 
 the upright and independent vowel, which 
 stands in the vowel-list between E and O, has 
 formed the subject of the main part of these 
 essays. How does that vowel feel this morn- 
 ing? — fresh, good-humored, and lively ? The 
 Roundabout lines, which fall from this pen, axe
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 157 
 
 correspondingly brisk and cheerful. Has any- 
 thing, on the contrary, disagreed with the 
 vowel ? Has its rest been disturbed, or was 
 yesterday's dinner too good, or yesterday's wine 
 not good enough ? Under such circumstances, 
 a darkling, misanthropic tinge, no doubt, is 
 cast upon the paper. The jokes, if attempted, 
 are elaborate and dreary. The bitter temper 
 breaks out. That sneering manner is adopted, 
 which you know, and which exhibits itself so 
 especially when the writer is speaking about 
 women. A moody carelessness comes over 
 him. He sees no good in anybody or thing : 
 and treats gentlemen, ladies, history, and things 
 in general, with a like gloomy flippancy. Agreed. 
 When the vowel in question is in that mood, if 
 you like airy gayety and tender gushing benev- 
 olence, if you want to be satisfied with your- 
 self and the rest of your fellow - beings, I 
 recommend you, my dear creature, to go to 
 some other shop in Cornhill, or turn to some 
 other article. There are moods in the mind of 
 the vowel of which we are speaking, when it is 
 ill-conditioned and captious. Who always 
 keeps good health, and good humor ? Do not 
 philosophers grumble ? Are not sages some- 
 times out of temper ? and do not angel-women 
 go off in tantrums ? To-day my mood is dark. 
 I scowl as I dip my pen in the inkstand.
 
 158 THACKERAY. 
 
 Here is the day come rouud — for every- 
 thing here is done with the utmost regularity ; 
 — intellectual labor, sixteen hours ; meals, 
 thirty-two minutes ; exercise, a hundred and 
 forty-eight minutes ; conversation with the 
 family, chiefly literary, and about the house- 
 keeping, one hour and four minutes ; sleep, 
 three hours and fifteen minutes (at the end of 
 the month, when the Magazine is complete, I 
 own I take eight minutes more) ; and the rest 
 for the toilet and the world. Well, I say, the 
 Roundabout Paper Day being come, and the 
 subject long since settled in my mind, an ex- 
 cellent subject, — a most telling, lively, and 
 popular subject, — I go to breakfast determined 
 to finish that meal in 9| minutes, as usual, and 
 then retire to my desk and work, when — oh, 
 provoking ! — here in the paper is the very 
 subject treated, on which I was going to write ! 
 Yesterday another paper, which I saw, treated 
 it — and of course, as I need not tell you, 
 spoiled it. Last Saturday, another paper had 
 an article on the subject ; perhaps you may 
 guess what it was — but I won't tell you. 
 Only this is true, my favorite subject, which 
 was about to make the best paper we have had 
 for a long time : my bird, my game, that I was 
 going to shoot and serve up with such a delicate
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 159 
 
 sauce, has been found by other sportsmen ; and 
 pop, pop, pop, a half dozen of guns have banged 
 at it, mangled it, and brought it down. 
 
 " And can't you take some other text ? " say 
 you. All this is mighty well. But if you have 
 set your heart on a certain dish for dinner, be 
 it cold boiled veal, or what you will, and they 
 bring you turtle and venison, don't you feel 
 disappointed ? During your walk you have 
 been making up your mind that that cold meat, 
 with moderation and a pickle, will be a very 
 sufficient dinner : you have accustomed your 
 thoughts to it ; and here, in place of it, is a 
 turkey, surrounded by coarse sausages, or a 
 reeking pigeon-pie, or a fulsome roast-pig. I 
 have known many a good and kind man made 
 furiously angry by such a contretemps. I have 
 known him lose his temper, call his wife and 
 servants names, and a whole household made 
 miserable. If, then, as is notoriously the case, 
 it is too dangerous to balk a man about his 
 dinner, how much more about his article ? I 
 came to my meal with an ogre-like appetite 
 and g;isto. Fee, faw, fum ! Wife, where is 
 that tender little Princekin ? Have you trussed 
 him, and did you stuff him nicely, and have 
 you taken care to baste him and do him, not 
 too brown, as I told you ? Quick ! I am
 
 160 THACKERAY. 
 
 hungry ! I begin to whet my knife, to roll my 
 eyes about, and roar and clap my huge chest 
 like a gorilla ; and then my poor Ogriua has to 
 tell that the little princes have all run away, 
 whilst she was in the kitchen, making the paste 
 to bake them in ! I pause in the description. 
 I won't condescend to report the bad language, 
 which you know must ensue, when an ogre, 
 whose mind is ill-regulated, and whose habits 
 of self-indulgence are notorious, finds himself 
 disappointed of his greedy hopes. What treat- 
 ment of his wife, what abuse and brutal be- 
 havior to his children, who, though ogrillons, 
 are children ! My dears, you may fancy, and 
 need not ask my delicate pen to describe, the 
 language and behavior of a vulgar, coarse, 
 greedy, large man with an immense mouth and 
 teeth, which are too frequently employed in the 
 gobbling and crunching of raw man's meat. 
 
 And in this circuitous way, you see I have 
 reached my present subject, which is, Ogres. 
 You fancy they are dead or only ficti- 
 tious characters — mythical representatives of 
 strength, cruelty, stupidity, and lust for blood ? 
 Though they had seven-leagued boots, you re- 
 member all sorts of little whipping-snapping 
 Tom Thumbs used to elude and outrun them. 
 They were so stupid that they gave into the
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 161 
 
 most shallow ambuscades and artifices : witness 
 that well-known ogre, who, because Jack cut 
 open the hasty-pudding, instantly ripped open 
 his own stupid waistcoat and interior. They 
 were cruel, brutal, disgusting, with their sharp- 
 ened teeth, immense knives, and roaring voices ! 
 but they always ended by being overcome by 
 little Tom Thumbkins, or some other smart 
 little champion. 
 
 Yes : they were conquered in the end there 
 is no doubt. They plunged headlong (and ut- 
 tering the most frightful bad language) into 
 some pit where Jack came with his smart 
 couteau de chasse and whipped their brutal heads 
 off. They would be going to devour maidens, 
 
 " But ever when it seemed 
 
 Their need was at the sorest, 
 A knight, in armor bright, 
 
 Came riding through the forest." 
 
 And down, after a combat, would go the brutal 
 persecutor, with a lance through his midriff. 
 Yes, I say, this is very true and well. But 
 you remember that round the ogre's cave the 
 ground was covered, for hundreds and hundreds 
 of yards, with the hones of the victims whom he 
 had lured into the castle. Many knights and 
 maids came to him and perished under his 
 knife and teeth. Were dragons the same as
 
 162 THACKERAY. 
 
 ogres? monsters dwelling in caverns, whence 
 they rushed, attired in plate armor, wielding 
 pikes and torches, and destroying stray pas- 
 sengers who passed by their lair ? Monsters, 
 brutes, rapacious tyrants, ruffians as they were, 
 doubtless they ended by being overcome. But 
 before they were destroyed, they did a deal of 
 mischief. The bones round their caves were 
 countless. They had sent many brave souls to 
 Hades, before their own fled, howling out of 
 their rascal carcasses, to the same place of 
 gloom. 
 
 There is no greater mistake than to suppose 
 that fairies, champions, distressed damsels, and, 
 by consequence, ogres, have ceased to exist. It 
 may not be ogreahle to them (pardon the hor- 
 rible pleasantry, but as I am writing in the 
 solitude of my chamber, I am grinding my 
 teeth — yelling, roaring, and cursing — bran- 
 dishing my scissors and paper cutter, and, as it 
 were, have become an ogre). I say there is no 
 greater mistake than to suppose that ogres have 
 ceased to exist. We all knoio ogres. Their 
 caverns are round us, and about us. There are 
 the castles of several ogres within a mile of 
 the spot where I write. I think some of them 
 suspect I am an ogre myself. I am not : but 
 I know they are. I visit them. I don't mean
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 163 
 
 to say that they take a cold roast prince out of 
 the cupboard, and have a cannibal feast before 
 me. But I see the bones lying about the roads 
 to their houses, and in the areas and gardens. 
 Politeness, of course, prevents me from making 
 any remarks ; but I know them well enough. 
 One of the ways to know 'em is to watch the 
 scared looks of the ogres' wives and children. 
 They lead an awful life. They are present at 
 dreadful cruelties. In their excesses those 
 ogres wdll stab about, and kill not only strangers 
 who happen to call in and ask a night's lodg- 
 ings, but they will outrage, murder, and chop 
 up their own kin. We all know ogres, I say, 
 and have been in their dens often. It is not 
 necessary that ogres who ask you to dine should 
 offer their guests the peculiar dish which they 
 like. They cannot always get a Tom Thumb 
 family. They eat mutton and beef too ; and I 
 dare say even go out to tea, and invite you to 
 drink it. But I tell you there are numbers of 
 them going about in the world. And now you 
 have my word for it, and this little hint, it is 
 quite curious what an interest society may be 
 made to have for you, by your determining to 
 find out the ogres you meet there. 
 
 What does the man mean? says Mrs. Down- 
 right, to whom a joke is a very grave thing. I
 
 164 THACKERAY. 
 
 mean, madam, that in the company assembled 
 in your genteel drawing-room, who bow here 
 and there and smirk in white neck-cloths, you 
 receive men who elbow through life successfully 
 enough, but who are ogres in private : men 
 wicked, false, rapacious, flattering ; cruel hec- 
 tors at home, smiling courtiers abroad ; causing 
 wives, children, servants, parents, to tremble 
 before them, and smiling and bowing as they 
 bid strangers welcome into their castles. I say, 
 there are men who have crunched the bones of 
 victim after victim ; in whose closets lie skel- 
 etons picked frightfully clean. When these 
 ogres come out into the world, you don't sup- 
 pose they show their knives, and their great 
 teeth ? A neat simple white neck - cloth, a 
 merry rather obsequious manner, a cadaver- 
 ous look, perhaps, now and again, and a rather 
 dreadful grin : but I know ogres very consid- 
 erably respected : and when you hint to such 
 and such a man, "My dear sir, Mr. Sharpus, 
 whom you appear to like, is, I assure you, a 
 most dreadful cannibal," the gentleman cries, 
 " Oh, psha, nonsense ! Dare say not so black 
 as he is painted. Dare say not worse than his 
 neighbors." We condone everything in this 
 country — private treason, falsehood, flattery, 
 cruelty at home, roguery, and double-dealing.
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 165 
 
 What ! Do you mean to say in your acquain- 
 tance you don't know ogres guilty of countless 
 crimes of fraud and force, and that knowing 
 them you don't shake hands with them ; dine 
 with them at your table ; and meet them at 
 their own ? Depend upon it, in the time when 
 there were real live ogres in real caverns or 
 castles, gobbling up real knights and virgins, 
 when they went into the world — the neighbor- 
 ing market-town, let us say, or earl's castle — 
 though their nature and reputation were pretty 
 well known, their notorious foibles were never 
 alluded to. You would say, " What, Blunder- 
 bore, ray boy ! How do you do ? How well 
 and fresh you look ! What 's the receipt you 
 have for keeping so young and rosy ? " And 
 your wife would softly ask after Mrs. Blunder- 
 bore and the dear children. Or it would be, 
 " My dear Humguffin ! try that pork. It is 
 home-bred, home -fed, and, I promise you, 
 tender. Tell me if you think it is as good as 
 yours ? John, a glass of Burgundy to Colonel 
 Humguffin ! ' ' You don't suppose there would 
 be any unpleasant allusions to disagreeable 
 home-reports regarding Humguffin's manner 
 of furnishing his larder ? I say we all of us 
 know ogres. We shake hands and dine with 
 ogres. And if inconvenient moralists tell us
 
 166 THACKERAY. 
 
 we are cowards for our pains, we turn round 
 with a tu quoque, or say that we don't meddle 
 witli other folks' affairs ; that people are much 
 less black than they are painted, and so on. 
 What ! Won't half the country go to Ogreham 
 Castle ? Won't some of the clergy say grace 
 at dinner ? Won't the mothers bring their 
 daughters to dance with the young Rawheads ? 
 And if Lady Ogreham happens to die — I won't 
 say to go the way of all flesh, that is too re- 
 volting — I say if Ogreham is a widower, do 
 you aver, on your conscience and honor, that 
 mothers will not be found to offer their young 
 girls to supply the lamented lady's place ? 
 How stale this misanthropy is ! Something 
 must have disagreed with this cynic. Yes, my 
 good woman. I dare say you would like to 
 call another subject. Yes, my fine fellow ; ogre 
 at home, supple as a dancing-master abroad, 
 and shaking in thy pumps, and wearing a hor- 
 rible grin of sham gayety to conceal thy terror, 
 lest I should point thee out : — thou art pros- 
 perous and honored, art thou ? I say thou 
 hast been a tyrant and a robber. Thou hast 
 plundered the poor. Thou hast bullied the 
 weak. Thou hast laid violent hands on the 
 goods of the innocent and confiding. Thou 
 hast made a prey of the meek and gentle who
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 167 
 
 asked for thy protection. Thou hast been hard 
 to thy kinsfolk, and cruel to thy family. Go, 
 monster ! Ah, when shall little Jack come 
 and drill daylight through thy wicked cannibal 
 carcass ? I see the ogre pass on, bowing right 
 and left to the company ; and he gives a dread- 
 ful sidelong glance of suspicion as he is talking 
 to my lord bishop in the corner there. 
 
 Ogres in our days need not be giants at all. 
 In former times, and in children's books, where 
 it is necessary to paint your moral in such large 
 letters that there can be no mistake about it, 
 ogres are made with that enormous mouth and 
 ralelier which you know of, and with which they 
 can swallow down a baby, almost without using 
 that great knife which they always carry. 
 They are too cunning nowadays. They go 
 about in society, slim, small, quietly dressed, 
 and showing no especially great appetite. In 
 my own young days there used to be play ogres 
 — men who would devour a young fellow in 
 one sitting, and leave him without a bit of flesh 
 on his bones. They were quiet, gentleman- 
 like-looking people. They got the young fellow 
 into their cave. Champagne, pdte-de-foie-graSy 
 and numberless good things were handed about ; 
 and then, having eaten, the young man was de- 
 voured in his turn. I believe these card and
 
 168 THACKERAY. 
 
 dice ogres have died away almost as entirely as 
 the hasty-pudding giants whom Tom Thumb 
 overcame. Now, there are ogres in City courts 
 who lure you into their dens. About our 
 Cornish mines I am told there are many most 
 plausible ogros, who tempt you into their cav- 
 erns and pick your bones there. In a certain 
 newspaper there used to be lately a whole col- 
 umn of advertisements from ogres who would 
 put on the most plausible, nay, piteous appear- 
 ance, in order to inveigle their victims. You 
 would read, " A tradesman, established for 
 seventy years in the City, and known, and much 
 respected by Messrs. N. M. Rothschild and 
 Baring Brothers, has pressing need for three 
 pounds until next Saturday. He can give 
 security for half a million, and forty thousand 
 pounds will be given for the use of the loan," 
 and so on ; or, " An influential body of capital- 
 ists are about to establish a company, of which 
 the business will be enormous and the profits 
 proportionately prodigious. They will require 
 a SECRETARY, of good address and appearance, 
 at a salary of two thousand pounds per annum. 
 He need not be able to write, but address and 
 manners are absolutely necessary. As a mark 
 of confidence in the company, he will have to 
 deposit," etc. ; or, "A young widow (of pleas-
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 169 
 
 iug' manners and appearance) who has a pressing 
 necessity for four pounds ten for three weeks, 
 offers her Erard's grand piano, valued at three 
 hundred guineas ; a diamond cross of eight 
 hundred pounds ; and board and lodging in her 
 elegant villa near Banbury Cross, with the best 
 references and society, in return for the loan." 
 I suspect these people are ogres. There are 
 ogres and ogres. Polyphemus was a great, 
 tall, one-eyed, notorious ogre, fetching his vic- 
 tims out of a hole, and gobbling them one after 
 another. There could be no mistake about 
 him. But so were the Sirens ogres — pretty 
 blue-eyed things, peeping at you coaxingly from 
 out of the water, and singing their melodious 
 wheedles. And the bones round their caves 
 were more numerous than the ribs, skulls, and 
 thigh-bones round the cavern of hulking Poly- 
 pheme. 
 
 To the castle-gates of some of these monsters 
 up rides the dapper champion of the pen; puffs 
 boldly upon the horn which hangs by the chain; 
 enters the hall resolutely, and challenges the 
 big tyrant sulking within. We defy him to 
 combat, the enormous roaring ruffian ! We 
 gave him a meeting on the green plain before 
 his castle. Green ? No wonder it should be 
 green : it is manured with human bones. After
 
 170 THACKERAY. 
 
 a few graceful wheels and curvets, we take our 
 ground. We stoop over our saddle. 'T is but 
 to kiss the locket of our ladj -love's hair. And 
 now the visor is up : the lance is in rest (Gil- 
 lott's iron is the point for me). A touch of the 
 spur in the gallant sides of Pegasus, and we 
 gallop at the great brute. 
 
 " Cut off his ugly head, Flibbertygibbet, my 
 squire ! " And who are these who pour out of 
 the castle ? the imprisoned maidens, the mal- 
 treated widows, the poor old hoary grandfathers, 
 who have been locked up in the dungeons these 
 scores and scores of years, writhing under the 
 tyranny of that ruffian! Ah, ye knights of the 
 pen ! May honor be your shield, and truth tip 
 your lances ! Be gentle to all gentle people. 
 Be modest to women. Be tender to children. 
 And as for the Ogre Humbug, out sword, and 
 have at him. 
 
 NIL NISI BONUM. 
 
 Almost the last words which Sir Walter 
 spoke to Lockhart, his biographer, were, " Be a 
 good man, my dear ! " and with the last flicker 
 of breath on his dying lips, he sighed a fare- 
 well to his family, and passed away blessing 
 them.
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 171 
 
 Two men, famous, admired, beloved, have 
 just left us, the Goldsmith and the Gibbon of 
 our time.i Ere a few weeks are over, many a 
 critic's pen will be at work, reviewing their 
 lives, and passing judgment on their works. 
 This is no review, or history, or criticism : only 
 a word in testimony of respect and regard from 
 a man of letters, who owes to his own profes- 
 sional labor the honor of becoming acquainted 
 with these two eminent literary men. One was 
 the first ambassador whom the New World of 
 Letters sent to the Old. He was born almost 
 with the republic ; the pater patricB had laid his 
 hand on the child's head. He bore Washing- 
 ton's name : he came amongst us bringing the 
 kindest sympathy, the most artless, smiling 
 good-will. His new country (which some peo- 
 ple here might be disposed to regard rather 
 superciliously) could send us, as he showed in 
 his own person, a gentleman, who, though him- 
 self born in no very high sphere, was most fin- 
 ished, polished, easy, witty, quiet ; and socially, 
 the equal of the most refined Europeans. If 
 Irving's welcome in England was a kind one, 
 was it not also gratefully remembered ? If 
 he ate our salt, did he not pay us with a tliank- 
 
 1 Washington Irving died, November 28, 1859 ; Lord Ma- 
 caulay died, December 28, 1859.
 
 172 THACKERAY. 
 
 fill heart ? Who can calculate the amount of 
 friendliness and good feeling for our country 
 which this writer's generous and untiring regard 
 for us disseminated in his own ? His books 
 are read by millions ^ of his countrymen, whom 
 he has taught to love England, and why to love 
 her. It would have been easy to speak other- 
 wise than he did : to inflame national rancors, 
 which, at the time when he first became known 
 as a public writer, war had just renewed : to 
 cry down the old civilization at the expense of 
 the new : to point out our faults, arrogance, 
 short-comings, and give the republic to infer 
 how much she was the parent state's superior. 
 There are writers enough in the United States, 
 honest and otherwise, who preach that kind of 
 doctrine. But the good Irving, the peaceful, 
 the friendly, had no place for bitterness in his 
 heart, and no scheme but kindness. Received 
 in England with extraordinary tenderness and 
 friendship (Scott, Southey, Byron, a hundred 
 others have borne witness to their liking for 
 him), he was a messenger of good -will and 
 peace between his country and ours. " See, 
 friends ! " he seems to say, " these English are 
 not so wicked, rapacious, callous, proud, as you 
 
 1 See his Life in the most remarkable Dictionary of Au- 
 thors, published lately at Philadelphia, by Mr. Allibone.
 
 ROUNDABOUT TAPERS. 173 
 
 have been taught to believe them. I went 
 amongst them a humble man ; won my way by 
 my pen ; and, when known, found every hand 
 held out to me with kindliness and welcome. 
 Scott is a great man, you acknowledge. Did 
 not Scott's King of England give a gold medal 
 to him, and another to me, your countryman, 
 and a stranger ? " 
 
 Tradition in the United States still fondly re- 
 tains the history of the feasts and rejoicings 
 which awaited Irving on his return to his native 
 country from Europe. He had a national wel- 
 come; he stammered in his speeches, hid him- 
 self in confusion, and the people loved him all 
 the better. He had worthily represented Amer- 
 ica in Europe. In that young community a 
 man who brings home with him abundant Eu- 
 ropean testimonials is still treated with respect 
 (I have found American writers, of world-wide 
 reputation, strangely solicitous about the opin- 
 ions of quite obscure British critics, and elated 
 or depressed by their judgments); and Irving 
 went home medaled by the King, diplomatized 
 by the University, crowned and honored and 
 admired. He had not in any way intrigued for 
 his honors, he had fairly won them ; and, in 
 Irving's instance, as in others, the old country 
 was glad and eager to pay them.
 
 174 THACKERAY. 
 
 In America the love and regard for Irving 
 was a national sentiment. Party wars are per- 
 petually raging there, and are carried on by 
 the press with a rancor and fierceness against 
 individuals which exceed British, almost Irish, 
 virulence. It seemed to me, during a year's 
 travel in the country, as if no one ever aimed a 
 blow at Irving. All men held their hand from 
 that harmless, friendly peacemaker. I had the 
 good fortune to see him at New York, Phila- 
 delphia, Baltimore, and Washington,^ and re- 
 marked how in every place he was honored and 
 welcome. Every large city has its " Irving 
 House." The country takes pride in the fame 
 of its men of letters. The gate of his own 
 charming little domain on the beautiful Hud- 
 son River was forever swinging before visitors 
 who came to liim. He shut out no one.^ I had 
 
 1 At Washington, Mr. Irving came to a lecture given by 
 the writer, which Mr. Filmore and General Pierce, the Pres- 
 ident and President Elect, were also kind enough to attend 
 together. " Two Kings of Brentford smelling at one rose," 
 says Irving, looking up with his good-humored smile. 
 
 - Mr. Irving described to me, with that humor and good- 
 humor which he always kept, how, amongst other visitors, a 
 member of the British press who had carried his distin- 
 guished pen to America (where he employed it in vilifying 
 his ov^Ti country) came to Sunnyside, introduced himself to 
 Irving, partook of liis wine and luncheon, and in two days 
 described Mr. Irving, his house, his nieces, his meal, and his
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 175 
 
 seen many pictures of his house, and read de- 
 scriptions of it, in both of which it was treated 
 with a not unusual American exaggeration. It 
 was but a pretty little cabin of a place ; the 
 gentleman of the press who took notes of the 
 place, whilst his kind old host was sleeping, 
 might have visited the whole house in a couple 
 of minutes. 
 
 And how came it that this house was so 
 small, when Mr. Irving's books were sold by 
 hundreds of thousands, nay, millions, when his 
 profits were known to be large, and the habits 
 of life of the good old bachelor were notoriously 
 modest and simple ? He had loved once in his 
 life. The lady he loved died ; and he, whom 
 all the world loved, never sought to replace 
 her. I can't say how much the thought of that 
 fidelity has touched me. Does not the very 
 cheerfulness of his after life add to the pathos 
 of that untold story ? To grieve always was 
 not in his nature ; or, when he had his sorrow, 
 to bring all the world in to condole with him 
 and bemoan it. Deep and quiet he lays the 
 love of his heart, and buries it ; and grass and 
 
 manner of dozing afterwards, in a New York paper. On an- 
 other occasion, Irving said, laughing, " Two persons came to 
 me, and one held me in conversation whilst the other mis- 
 creant took my portrait ! "
 
 176 THACKERAY. 
 
 flowers grow over the scarred ground in due 
 time. 
 
 Irving had such a small house and such nar- 
 row rooms, because there was a great number 
 of people to occupy them. He could only 
 afford to keep one old horse (which, lazy and 
 aged as it was, managed once or twice to run 
 away with that careless old horseman). He 
 could only afford to give plain sherry to that 
 amiable British paragraph-monger from New 
 York, who saw the patriarch asleep over his 
 modest, blameless cup, and fetched the public 
 into his private chamber to look at him. Irving 
 could only live very modestly, because the wife- 
 less, childless man had a number of children to 
 whom he was as a father. He had as many as 
 nine nieces, I am told — I saw two of these 
 ladies at his house — with all of whom the dear 
 old man had shared the produce of his labor 
 and genius. 
 
 "jBe a good man, my dear.^^ One can't but 
 think of these last words of the veteran Chief 
 of Letters, who had tasted and tested the value 
 of worldly success, admiration, prosperity. 
 Was Irving not good, and, of his works, was 
 not his life the best part ? In his family, 
 gentle, generous, good-humored, affectionate, 
 self-denying : in society, a delightful example
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 177 
 
 of complete gentlemanhood ; quite unspoiled 
 by prosperity ; never obsequious to the great 
 (or, worse still, to the base and mean, as some 
 public men are forced to be in his and other 
 countries) ; eager to acknowledge every con- 
 temporary's merit ; always kind and affable to 
 the young members of his calling ; in his pro- 
 fessional bargains and mercantile dealings del- 
 icately honest and grateful ; one of the most 
 charming masters of our lighter language ; the 
 constant friend to us and our nation ; to men of 
 letters doubly dear, not for his wit and genius 
 merely, but as an exemplar of goodness, probity, 
 and pure life : I don't know what sort of tes- 
 timonial will be raised to him in his own coun- 
 try, where generous and enthusiastic acknow- 
 ledgment of American merit is never wanting ; 
 but Irving was in our service as well as theirs ; 
 and as they have placed a stone at Greenwich 
 yonder in memory of that gallant young Bellot, 
 who shared the perils and fate of some of our 
 Arctic seamen, I would like to hear of some 
 memorial raised by English writers and friends 
 of letters in affectionate remembrance of the 
 dear and good Washington Irving. 
 
 As for the other writer, whose departure 
 many friends, some few most dearly-loved 
 relatives, and multitudes of admiring readers
 
 178 THACKERAY. 
 
 deplore, our republic has already decreed his 
 statue, and he must have known that he had 
 earned this posthumous honor. He is not a 
 poet and man of letters merely, but citizen, 
 statesman, a great British worthy. Almost 
 from the first moment when he appears, amongst 
 boys, amongst college students, amongst men, 
 he is marked, and takes rank as a great English- 
 man. All sorts of successes are easy to him : 
 as a lad he goes down into the arena with others, 
 and wdns all the prizes to which he has a mind. 
 A place in the senate is straightway offered to 
 the young man. He takes his seat there ; he 
 speaks, when so minded, without party anger 
 or intrigue, but not without party faith and a 
 sort of heroic enthusiasm for his cause. Still 
 he is poet and philosopher even more than 
 orator. That he may have leisure and means 
 to pursue his darling studies, he absents him- 
 self for a while, and accepts a richly-remunera- 
 tive post in the East. As learned a man may 
 live in a cottage or a college common-room ; 
 but it always seemed to me that ample means 
 and recognized rank were Macaulay's as of 
 right. Years ago there was a wretched out- 
 cry raised because ISir. Macaulay dated a let- 
 ter from Windsor Castle, where he was staying. 
 Immortal gods ! Was this man not a fit guest
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 179 
 
 for any palace in the world, or a fit companion 
 for any man or woman in it ? I dare say, after 
 Austerlitz, the old K. K. court officials and 
 footmen sneered at Napoleon for dating from 
 Schonbrunn. But that miserable " Windsor 
 Castle " outcry is an echo out of fast-retreating 
 old-world remembrances. The place of such a 
 natural chief was amongst the first of the laud ; 
 and that country is best, according to our British 
 notion at least, where the man of eminence has 
 the best chance of investing his genius and in- 
 tellect. 
 
 If a company of giants were got together, 
 very likely one or two of the mere six-feet-six 
 people might be angry at the incontestable su- 
 periority of the very tallest of the party ; and 
 so I ^ave heard some London wits, rather pee- 
 vish at Macaulay's superiority, complain that 
 he occupied too much of the talk, and so forth. 
 Now that wonderful tongue is to speak no more, 
 will not many a man grieve that he no longer 
 has the chance to listen ? To remember the 
 talk is to wonder : to think not only of the 
 treasures he had in his memory, but of the 
 trifles he had stored there, and could produce 
 with equal readiness. Almost on the last day 
 I had the fortune to see him, a conversation 
 happened suddenly to spring up about senior
 
 180 THACKERAY. 
 
 wranglers, and what they had done in after 
 life. To the almost terror of the persons pres- 
 ent, Macaulay began with the senior wrangler 
 of 1801-2-3-4, and so on, giving the name of 
 each, and relating his subsequent career and 
 rise. Every man who has known him has his 
 story regarding that astonishing memory. It 
 may be that he was not ill pleased that you 
 should recognize it ; but to those prodigious 
 intellectual feats, which were so easy to him, 
 who would grudge his tribute of homage ? His 
 talk was, in a word, admirable, and we admired 
 it. 
 
 Of the notices which have appeared regarding 
 Lord Macaulay, up to the day when the present 
 lines are written (the 9th of January), the 
 reader should not deny himself the pleasiire of 
 looking especially at two. It is a good sign of 
 the times when such articles as these (I mean 
 the articles in The Times and Saturday Review) 
 appear in our public prints about our public 
 men. They educate us, as it were, to admire 
 rightly. An uniustructed person in a museum 
 or at a concert may pass by without recognizing 
 a picture or a passage of music, which the con- 
 noisseur by his side may show him is a master- 
 piece of harmony, or a wonder of artistic skill. 
 After reading these papers you like and respect
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 181 
 
 more the person you have admired so much 
 already. And so with regard to Maeaulay's 
 style there may be faults of course — what 
 critic can't point them out ? But for the nonce 
 we are not talking about faults : we want to 
 say nil nisi bonum. Well — take at hazard any 
 three pages of the " Essays " or '• History ; " — 
 and, glimmering below the stream of tLe nar- 
 rative, as it were, you, an average reader, see 
 one, two, three, a half-score of allusions to other 
 historic facts, characters, literature, poetry, 
 with which you are acquainted. Why is this 
 epithet used ? Whence is that simile drawn ? 
 How does he manage, in two or three words, to 
 paint an individual, or to indicate a landscape ? 
 Your neighbor, who has his reading, and his 
 little stock of literature stowed away in his 
 mind, shall detect more points, allusions, happy 
 touches, indicating not only the prodigious 
 memory and vast learning of this master, but 
 the wonderful industry, the honest, humble 
 previous toil of this great scholar. He reads 
 twenty books to write a sentence ; he travels a 
 hundred miles to make a line of description. 
 
 Many Londoners — not all — have seen the 
 British Museum Library. I speak a cceur ouvert 
 and pray the kindly reader to bear with me. I 
 have seen all sorts of domes of Peters and
 
 IS 2 THACKERAY. 
 
 Pauls, Sophia, Pantheon, — what not ? — and 
 have been struck by none of them so much as 
 by that catholic dome in Bloomsbury, under 
 which our million volumes are housed. What 
 peace, what love, what truth, what beauty, what 
 happiness for all, what generous kindness for 
 you and me, are here spread out ! It seems to 
 me one cannot sit down in that place without a 
 heart full of grateful reverence. I own to have 
 said my grace at the table, and to have thanked 
 Heaven for this my English birthright, freely to 
 partake of these bountiful books, and to speak 
 the truth I find there. Under the dome which 
 held Macaulay's brain, and from which his 
 solemn eyes looked out on the world but a 
 fortnight since, what a vast, brilliant, and 
 wonderful store of learning was ranged ! what 
 strange lore would he not fetch for you at your 
 bidding ! A volume of law, or history, a book 
 of poetry familiar or forgotten (except by him- 
 self who forgot nothing), a novel ever so old, 
 and he had it at hand. I spoke to him once 
 about " Clarissa." " Not read ' Clarissa ! '" he 
 cried out. "If you have once thoroughly en- 
 tered on ' Clarissa ' and are infected by it, you 
 can't leave it. When I was in India I passed 
 one hot season at the hills, and there were the 
 Governor-General, and the Secretary of Gov-
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 183 
 
 ernment, and the Commander-in-Chief, and 
 their wives. I had ' Clarissa ' with me : and, as 
 soon as they began to read, the whole station 
 was in a passion of excitement about Miss Har- 
 lowe and her misfortunes, and her scoundrelly 
 Lovelace ! The Governor's wife seized the 
 book, and the Secretary waited for it, and the 
 Chief Justice could not read it for tears ! " He 
 acted the whole scene : he paced up and down 
 the " Athenseum " library : I dare say he could 
 have spoken pages of the book — of that book, 
 and of what countless piles of others ! 
 
 In this little paper let us keep to the text of 
 nil nisi honum. One paper I have read regard- 
 ing Lord Macaulay says " he had no heart." 
 Why, a man's books may not always speak the 
 truth, but they speak his mind in spite of him- 
 self : and it seems to me this man's heart is 
 beating through every page he penned. He is 
 always in a storm of revolt and indignation 
 against wrong, craft, tyranny. How he cheers 
 heroic resistance ; how he backs and applauds 
 freedom struggling for its own ; how he hates 
 scoundrels, ever so victorious and successful ; 
 how he recognizes genius, though selfish villains 
 possess it ! The critic who says Macaulay had 
 no heart might say that Johnson had none : 
 and two men more generous, and more loving,
 
 184 THACKERAT. 
 
 and more hating, and more partial, and more 
 noble, do not live in our history. Those who 
 knew Lord Macaulay knew how admirably ten- 
 der and generous,^ and affectionate he was. It 
 was not his business to bring his family before 
 the theatre foot-lights, and call for bouquets 
 from the gallery as he wept over them. 
 
 If any young man of letters reads this little 
 sermon — and to him, indeed, it is addressed — 
 I would say to him, "Bear Scott's words in 
 your mind, and ' he good, my dear.'' " Here are 
 two literary men gone to their account, and , laus 
 Deo, as far as we know, it is fair, and open, and 
 clean. Here is no need of apologies for short- 
 comings, or explanations of vices which would 
 have been virtues but for unavoidable, etc. 
 Here are two examples of men most differently 
 gifted : each pursuing his calling ; each speak- 
 ing his truth as God bade him ; each honest in 
 his life ; just and irreproachable in his dealings ; 
 dear to his friends ; honored by his country ; 
 beloved at his fireside. It has been the fortu- 
 nate lot of both to give incalculable happiness 
 and delight to the world, which thanks them in 
 return with an immense kindliness, respect, af- 
 
 1 Since the above was written, I have been informed that 
 it has been found, on examining Lord Macaulay's papers, 
 that he was in the habit of giving away more than a fourth 
 part of his annual income.
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 185 
 
 fection. It may not be our chance, brother 
 scribe, to be endowed with such merit, or re- 
 warded with such fame. But the rewards of 
 these men are rewards paid to our service. We 
 may not win the hdtoyi or epaulets ; but God 
 give us strength to guard the honor of the flag ! 
 
 DE FINIBUS. 
 
 When Swift was in love with Stella, and de- 
 spatching her a letter from London thrice a 
 month by the Irish packet, you remember how 
 he would begin letter No. xxiii., we will say, 
 on the very day when xxii. had been sent away, 
 stealing out of the coffee-house or the assembly 
 so as to be able to prattle with his dear ; " never 
 letting go her kind hand, as it were," as some 
 commentator or other has said in speaking of 
 the Dean and his amour. When Mr. Johnson, 
 w^alking to Dodsley's and touching the posts in 
 Pall Mall as he walked, forgot to pat the head 
 of one of them, he went back and imposed his 
 hands on it, — impelled I know not by what 
 superstition. I have this I hope not dangerous 
 mania too. As soon as a piece of work is out 
 of hand, and before going to sleep, I like to 
 begin another : it may be to write only half a
 
 186 THACKERAY. 
 
 dozen lines ! but that is something towards 
 Number the Next. The printer's boy has not 
 yet reached Green Arbor Court with the copy. 
 Those people who were alive half an hour since, 
 Pendennis, Clive Newcome, and (what do you 
 call him ? what was the name of the last hero ? 
 I remember now !) Philip Firmin, have hardly 
 drunk their glass of wine, and the mammas 
 have only this minute got the children's cloaks 
 on, and have been bowed out of my premises 
 — and here I come back to the study again : 
 tamen usque recurro. How lonely it looks now 
 all these people are gone ! My dear good 
 friends, some folks are utterly tired of you, and 
 say, " What a poverty of friends the man has ! 
 He is always asking us to meet those Penden- 
 nises, Newcomes, and so forth. Why does he 
 not introduce us to some new characters,? 
 Why is he not thrilling like Twostars, learned 
 and profound like Threestars, exquisitely hu- 
 morous and human like Fourstars ? Why, 
 finally, is he not somebody else ? " My good 
 people, it is not only impossible to please you 
 all, but it is absurd to try it. The dish which 
 one man devours, another dislikes. Is the din- 
 ner of to-day not to your taste ? Let us hope 
 to-morrow's entertainment will be more agree- 
 able. ... I resume my original subject. What
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 187 
 
 an odd, pleasant, humorous, melancholy feeling 
 it is to sit in the study, alone and quiet, now all 
 these people are gone who have been boarding 
 and lodging with me for twenty months ! They 
 have interrupted my rest : they have plagued 
 me at all sorts of minutes : they have thrust 
 themselves upon me when I was ill, or wished 
 to be idle, and 1 have growled out a " Be 
 hanged to you, can't you leave me alone now?" 
 Once or twice they have prevented my going 
 out to dinner. Many and many a time they 
 have 'prevented my coming home, because I 
 knew they were there waiting in the study, and 
 a plague take them ! and I have left home and 
 family, and gone to dine at the Club, and told 
 nobody where I went. They have bored me, 
 those people. They have plagued me at all 
 sorts of uncomfortable hours. They have made 
 such a disturbance in my mind and house, that 
 sometimes I have hardly known what was going 
 on in my family, and scarcely have heard what 
 my neighbor said to me. They are gone at 
 last ; and you would expect me to be at ease ? 
 Far from it. I should almost be glad if Wool- 
 comb would walk in and talk to me ; or Twys- 
 den reappear, take his place in that chair oppo- 
 site me, and begin one of his tremendous stories. 
 Madmen, you know, see visions, hold conver-
 
 188 THACKERAY. 
 
 sations with, even draw the likeness of people 
 invisible to you and me. Is this making of 
 people out of fancy madness ? and are novel- 
 writers at all entitled to strait-waistcoats ? I 
 often forget people's names in life ; and in my 
 own stories contritely own that I make dread- 
 ful blunders regarding them ; but I declare, 
 my dear sir, with respect to the personages in- 
 troduced into your humble servant's fables, I 
 know the people utterly — I know the sound of 
 their voices, A gentleman came in to see me 
 the other day, who was so like the picture of 
 Philip Firm in in Mr. Walker's charming draw- 
 ings in the Cornhill Magazine that he was 
 quite a curiosity to me. The same eyes, beard^ 
 shoulders, just as you have seen them from 
 month to month. Well, he is not like the 
 Philip Firmin in my mind. Asleep, asleep in 
 the grave, lies the bold, the generous, the reck- 
 less, the tender-hearted creature whom I have 
 made to pass through those adventures which 
 have just been brought to an end. It is years 
 since I heard the laughter ringing, or saw the 
 bright blue eyes. When I knew him both were 
 young. I become young as I think of him. 
 And this morning he was alive again in this 
 room, ready to laugh, to fight, to weep. As I 
 write, do you know, it is the gray of evening;
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 189 
 
 the house is quiet ; everybody is out ; the room 
 is getting a little dark, and I look rather wist- 
 fully up from the paper with perhaps ever so 
 much little fancy that HE MAY COME IN. 
 — No ? No movement. No gray shade, grow- 
 ing more palpable, out of which at last look the 
 well-known eyes. No, the printer came and 
 took him away with the last page of the proofs. 
 And with the printer's boy did the whole cor- 
 tege of ghosts flit away, invisible ? Ha ! stay ! 
 what is this ? Angels and ministers of grace ! 
 The door opens, and a dark form — enters, bear- 
 ing a black — a black suit of clothes. It is 
 John. He says it is time to dress for dinner. 
 
 Every man who has had his German tutor, 
 and has been coached through the famous 
 " Faust " of Goethe (thou wert my instructor, 
 good old Weissenborn, and these eyes beheld 
 the great master himself in dear little Weimar 
 town !) has read those charming verses which 
 are prefixed to the drama, in which the poet 
 reverts to the time when his work was first 
 composed, and recalls the friends now departed, 
 who once listened to his song. The dear 
 shadows rise up around him, he says ; he lives 
 in the past again. It is to-day which appears 
 vague and visionary. We humbler writers can-
 
 190 THACKERAY. 
 
 not create Fausts, or raise up monumental 
 works that shall endure for all ages ; but our 
 books are diaries, in which our own feelings 
 must of necessity be set down. As we look to 
 the page written last month, or ten years ago, 
 we remember the day and its events ; the child 
 ill, mayhap, in the adjoining room, and the 
 doubts and fears which racked the brain as it 
 still pursued its work ; the dear old friend who 
 read the commencement of the tale, and whose 
 gentle hand shall be laid m ours no more. I 
 own for my part that, in reading pages which 
 this hand penned formerly, I often lose sight of 
 the text under my eyes. It is not the words I 
 see, but that past day ; that by-gone page of 
 life's history ; that tragedy, comedy it may be, 
 which our little home company was enacting ; 
 that merry - making which we shared ; that 
 funeral which we followed ; that bitter, bitter 
 grief which we buried. 
 
 And, such being the state of my mind, I pray 
 gentle readers to deal kindly with their humble 
 servant's manifold shortcomings, blunders, and 
 slips of memory. As sure as I read a page of 
 my own composition, I find a fault or two, half 
 a dozen. Jones is called Brown. Brown, who 
 is dead, is brought to life. Aghast, and months 
 after the number was printed, I saw that I had
 
 KOUND ABOUT PAPERS. 191 
 
 called Philip Firmiu, Clive Newcome. Now 
 Clive Newcome is the hero of another story by 
 the reader's most obedient writer. The two 
 men are as different, in my mind's eye, as — as 
 Lord Palmerston and Mr. Disraeli, let us say. 
 But there is that blunder at page 990, line 76, 
 volume 84: of the Comhill Magazine, and it is 
 past mending ; and I wish in my life I had 
 made no worse blunders or errors than that 
 which is hereby acknowledged. 
 
 Another Finis written. Another mile-stone 
 passed on this journey from birth to the next 
 world ! Sure it is a subject for solemn cogita- 
 tion. Shall we continue this story-telling busi- 
 ness and be voluble to the end of our age ? 
 Will it not be presently time, O prattler, to 
 hold your tongue, and let younger people 
 speak ? I have a friend, a painter, who, like 
 other persons who shall be nameless, is growing 
 old. He has never painted with such laborious 
 finish as his works now show. This master is 
 still the most humble and diligent of scholars. 
 Of Art, his mistress, he is always an eager, 
 reverent pupil. In his calling, in yours, in 
 mine, industry and humility w411 help and com- 
 fort us. A word with you. In a pretty large 
 experience I have not found the men who write 
 books superior in wit or learning to those who
 
 192 THACKERAY. 
 
 don't write at all. In regard of mere informa- 
 tion, non-writers must often be superior to 
 writers. You don't expect a lawyer in full 
 practice to be conversant with all kinds of lit- 
 erature ; he is too busy with his law ; and so a 
 writer is commonly too busy with his own books 
 to be able to bestow attention on the works of 
 other people. After a day's work (in which I 
 have been depicting, let us say, the agonies of 
 Louisa on parting with the Captain, or the 
 atrocious behavior of the wicked Marquis to 
 Lady Emily) 1 march to the Club, proposing to 
 improve my mind and keep myself " posted 
 up," as the Americans phrase it, with the liter- 
 ature of the day. And what happens ? Given 
 a walk after luncheon, a pleasing book, and a 
 most comfortable arm-chair by the fire, and 
 you know the rest. A doze ensues. Pleasing 
 book drops suddenly, is picked up once with an 
 air of some confusion, is laid presently softly 
 in lap : head falls on comfortable arm-chair 
 cushion : eyes close : soft nasal music is heard. 
 Am I telling Club secrets ? Of afternoons, 
 after lunch, I say, scores of sensible fogies have 
 a doze. Perhaps I have fallen asleep over 
 that very book to which "Finis" has just been 
 written. " And if the writer sleeps, what hap- 
 pens to the readers ? " says Jones, coming down
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 193 
 
 upon me with his lightning wit. What ? You 
 did sleep over it ? And a very good thing too. 
 These eyes have more than once seen a friend 
 dozing over pages which this hand has written. 
 There is a vignette somewhere in one of my 
 books of a friend so caught napping with " Pen- 
 dennis," or the ''Newcomes," in his lap ; and 
 if a writer can give you a sweet soothing, harm- 
 less sleep, has he not done you a kindness ? So 
 is the author who excites and interests you 
 worthy of your thanks and benedictions. I am 
 troubled with fever and ague, that seizes me 
 at odd intervals and prostrates me for a day. 
 There is cold fit, for which, I am thankf al to 
 say, hot brandy-and-water is prescribed, and 
 this induces hot fit, and so on. In one or two 
 of these fits I have read novels with the most 
 fearful contentment of mind. Once, on the 
 Mississippi, it was my dearly beloved " Jacob 
 Faithful : " once at Frankfort O. M., the de- 
 lightful " Vingt Ans Apres " of Monsieur 
 Dumas : once at Tunbridge Wells, the thrill- 
 ing " Woman in White : " and these books gave 
 me amusement from morning till sunset. I 
 remember those ague fits with a great deal of 
 pleasure and gratitude. Think of a whole day 
 in bed, and a good novel for a companion ! No 
 cares : no remorse about idleness : no visitors ;
 
 194 THACKERAY. 
 
 and the Woman in White or the Chevalier 
 d'Artagnan to tell me stories from dawn to 
 night ! " Please, ma'am, my master's compli- 
 ments, and can he have the third volume ? " 
 (This message was sent to an astonished friend 
 and neighbor who lent me, volume by volume, 
 the W. in W.) How do you like your novels ? 
 I like mine strong, " hot with," and no mistake : 
 no love-making : no observations about society : 
 little dialogue, except where the characters are 
 bullying each other : plenty of fighting : and a 
 villain in the cupboard, who is to sufPer tor- 
 tures just before Finis. I don't like your mel- 
 ancholy Finis. I never read the history of a 
 consumptive heroine twice. If I might give a 
 short hint to an impartial writer (as the Exam- 
 iner used to say in old days), it would be to act, 
 not d la mode le pays de Pole (I think that was 
 the phraseology), but always to give quarter. 
 In the story of Philip, just come to an end, I 
 have the permission of the author to state that 
 he was going to drown the two villains of the 
 
 piece — a certain Doctor F and a certain 
 
 Mr. T. H on board the "President," or 
 
 some other tragic ship — but you see I relented. 
 I pictured to myself Firmin's ghastly face amid 
 the crowd of shuddering people on that reeling 
 deck in the lonely ocean, and thought, " Thou
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 195 
 
 ghastly lying wretch, thou shalt not be drowned : 
 thou shalt have a fever only ; a knowledge of 
 thy danger ; and a chance — ever so small a 
 chance — of repentance." I wonder whether 
 he did repent when he found himself in the 
 yellow-fever, in Virginia ? The probability is, 
 he fancied that his son had injured him very 
 much, and forgave him on his death-bed. Do 
 you imagine there is a great deal of genuine 
 right-down remorse in the world ? Don't peo- 
 ple rather find excuses which make their minds 
 easy ; endeavor to prove to themselves that 
 they have been lamentably belied and misun- 
 derstood ; and try and forgive the persecutors 
 who tvill present that bill when it is due ; and 
 not bear malice against the cruel ruffian who 
 takes them to the police-office for stealing the 
 spoons ? Years ago I had a quarrel with a 
 certain well-known person (I believed a state- 
 ment regarding him which his friends imparted 
 to me, and which turned out to be quite incor- 
 rect). To his dying day that quarrel was never 
 quite made up. I said to his brother, " Why is 
 your brother's soul still dark against me ? It 
 is I who ought to be angry and unforgiving : 
 for I was in the wrong." In the region which 
 they now inhabit (for Finis has been set to the 
 volumes of the lives of both here below) if they
 
 196 THACKERAY. 
 
 take any cognizance of our squabbles, and tittle- 
 tattles, and gossips on earth here, I hope they 
 admit that my little error was not of a nature 
 unpardonable. If you have never committed 
 a worse, my good sir, surely the score against 
 you will not be heavy. Ha, dilectissimi fratres ! 
 It is in regard of sins not found out that we 
 may say or sing (in an undertone, in a most 
 penitent and lugubrious minor key) Miserere 
 nobis miseris peccatoribus. 
 
 Among the sins of commission which novel- 
 writers not seldom perpetrate, is the sin of 
 grandiloquence, or tall-talking, against which, 
 for my part, I will offer up a special libera me. 
 This is the sin of schoolmasters, governesses, 
 critics, sermoners, and instructors of young or 
 old people. Nay (for I am making a clean 
 breast, and liberating my soul), perhaps of all 
 the novel - spinners now extant, the present 
 speaker is the most addicted to preaching. 
 Does he not stop perpetually in his story and 
 begin to preach to you ? When he ought to 
 be engaged with business, is he not forever 
 taking the Muse by the sleeve, and plaguing 
 her with some of his cynical sermons ? I cry 
 peccavi loudly and heartily. I tell you I would 
 like to be able to write a story which should 
 show no egotism whatever — in which there
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 197 
 
 should be no reflections, no cynicism, no vulgarity 
 (and so forth), but an incident in every other 
 page, a villain, a battle, a mystery in every 
 chapter. I should like to be able to feed a 
 reader so spicily as to leave him hungering and 
 thirsting for more at the end of every monthly 
 meal. 
 
 Alexandre Dumas describes himself, when 
 inventing the plan of a work, as lying silent on 
 his back for two whole days on the deck of a 
 yacht in a Mediterranean port. At the end of 
 the two days he arose and called for dinner. 
 In those two days he had built his plot. He 
 had moulded a mighty clay, to be cast presently 
 in perennial brass. The chapters, the char- 
 acters, the incidents, the combinations were all 
 arranged in the artist's brain ere he set a pen 
 to paper. My Pegasus won't fly, so as to let 
 me survey the field below me. He has no 
 wings, he is blind of one eye certainly, he is 
 restive, stubborn, slow ; crops a hedge when he 
 ought to be galloping, or gallops when he ought 
 to be quiet. He never will show off when I 
 want him. Sometimes he goes at a pace which 
 surprises me. Sometimes, when I most wish 
 him to make the running, the brute turns 
 restive, and I am obliged to let him take his 
 own time. I wonder do other novel-writers
 
 198 THACKERAY. 
 
 experience this fatalism? They must go a 
 certain way, in spite of themselves. I have 
 been surprised at the observations made by 
 some of my characters. It seems as if an 
 occult Power was moving the pen. The per- 
 sonage does or says something, and I ask, how 
 the dickens did he come to think of that ? 
 Every man has remarked in dreams, the vast 
 dramatic power which is sometimes evinced ; I 
 won't say the surprising power, for nothing does 
 surprise you in dreams. But those strange 
 characters you meet make instant observations 
 of which you never can have thought previously. 
 In like manner, the imagination foretells things. 
 We spake anon of the inflated style of some 
 writers. What also if there is an affiated style, 
 — when a writer is like a Pythoness on her 
 oracle tripod, and mighty words, words which 
 he cannot help, come blowing, and bellowing, 
 and whistling, and moaning through the speak- 
 ing pipes of his bodily organ ? I have told you 
 it was a very queer shock to me the other day 
 wlien, with a letter of introduction in his hand, 
 the artist's (not my) Philip Firmin walked into 
 this room, and sat down in the chair opposite. 
 In the novel of " Pendennis," written ten years 
 ago, there is an account of a certain Costigan, 
 whom I had invented (as I suppose authors in-
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 199 
 
 vent their personages out of scraps, heel-taps, 
 odds and ends of characters). I was smoking 
 in a tavern parlor one night — and this Costigan 
 came into the room alive — the very man : — 
 the most remarkable resemblance of the printed 
 sketches of the man, of the rude drawings in 
 which I had depicted him. He had the same 
 little coat, the same batteped hat, cocked on 
 one eye, the same twinkle in that eye. " Sir," 
 said I, knowing him to be an old friend whom 
 I had met in unknown regions, "sir," I said, 
 " may I offer you a glass of brandy-and-water ? " 
 " Bedad, ye may,^^ says he, " and 1 HI sing ye a 
 song tu." Of course he spoke with an Irish 
 brogue. Of course he had been in the army. 
 In ten minutes he pulled out an Army Agent's 
 account, whereon his name was written. A few 
 months after we read of him in a police court. 
 How had I come to know him, to divme him ? 
 Nothing shall convince me that I have not seen 
 that man in the world of spirits. In the world 
 of spirits and water I know I did : but that is 
 a mere quibble of words. I was not surprised 
 when he spoke in an Irish brogue. I had had 
 cognizance of him before somehow. Who has 
 not felt that little shock which arises when a 
 person, a place, some words in a book (there is 
 always a collocation) present themselves to you.
 
 200 THACKERAY. 
 
 and you know that you have before met the 
 same person, words, scene, and so forth ? 
 
 They used to call the good Sir Walter the 
 " Wizard of the North." What if some writer 
 should appear who can write so enchantingly 
 that he shall be able to call into actual life the 
 people whom he invents ? What if Mignon, 
 and Margaret, and Goetz von Berlichingen are 
 alive now (though I don't say they are visible), 
 and Dugald Dalgetty and Ivanhoe were to step 
 in at that open window by the little garden 
 yonder ? Suppose Uncas and our noble old 
 Leather Stocking were to glide silent in ? 
 Suppose Athos, Porthos, and Aramis should 
 enter with a noiseless swagger, curling their 
 moustaches ? And dearest Amelia Booth, on 
 Uncle Toby's arm ; and Tittlebat Titmouse, 
 with his hair dyed green ; and all the Crummies 
 company of comedians, with the Gil Bias troop ; 
 and Sir Roger de Coverley ; and the great- 
 est of all crazy gentlemen, the Knight of La 
 Mancha, with his blessed squire ? I say to 
 you, I look rather wistfully towards the window, 
 musing upon these people. Were any of them 
 to enter, I think I should not be very much 
 frightened. Dear old friends, what pleasant 
 hours I have had with them ! We do not see 
 each other very often, but when we do, we are
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 201 
 
 ever happy to meet. I had a capital half-hour 
 with Jacob Faithful last night ; when the last 
 sheet was corrected, when " Finis " had been 
 written, and the printer's boy, with the copy, 
 was safe in Green Arbor Court. 
 
 So you are gone, little printer's boy, with 
 the last scratches and corrections on the proof, 
 and a fine flourish by way of Finis at the story's 
 end. The last corrections ? I say those last 
 corrections seem never to be finished. A plague 
 upon the weeds ! Every day, when I walk in 
 my own little literary garden-plot, I spy some, 
 and should like to have a spud, and root them 
 out. Those idle words, neighbor, are past rem- 
 edy. That turning back to the old pages pro- 
 duces anything but elation of mind. Would 
 you not pay a pretty fine to be able to cancel 
 some of them ? Oh, the sad old pages, the dull 
 old pages ! Oh, the cares, the ennui, the 
 squabbles, the repetitions, the old conversations 
 over and over again ! But now and again a 
 kind thought is recalled, and now and again a 
 dear memory. Yet a few chapters more, and 
 then the last : after which, behold Finis itself 
 come to an end, and the Infinite begun.
 
 202 THACKERAY. 
 
 AUTOUR DE MON CHAPEAU. 
 
 Never have I seen a more noble tragic face. 
 In the centre of the forehead there was a great 
 furrow of care, towards which the brows rose 
 piteously. What a deep solemn grief in t^e 
 eyes ! They looked blankly at the object be- 
 fore them, but through it, as it were, and into 
 the grief beyond. In moments of pain, have 
 you not looked at some indifferent object so ? 
 It mingles dumbly with your grief, and remains 
 afterwards connected with it in your mind. It 
 may be some indifferent thing — a book you 
 were reading at the time when you received her 
 farewell letter (how well you remember the 
 paragraph afterwards — the shape of the words, 
 and their position on the page) ; the words you 
 were writing when your mother came in, and 
 said it was all over — she was married — 
 Emily married — to that insignificant little 
 rival at whom you have laughed a hundred 
 times in her company. Well, well ; my friend 
 and reader, whoe'er you be — old man or 
 young, wife or maiden — you have had your 
 grief-pang. Boy, you have lain awake the first 
 night at school, and thought of home. Worse 
 still, man, you have parted from the dear ones
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 203 
 
 with bursting heart : and, lonely boy, recall the 
 bolstering an unfeeling comrade gave you ; and, 
 lonely man just torn from your children — their 
 little tokens of affection yet in your pocket — 
 pacing the deck at evening in the midst of the 
 roaring ocean, you can remember how you were 
 told that supper was ready, and how you went 
 down to the cabin and had brandy-and- water 
 and biscuit. You remember the taste of them. 
 Yes ; forever. You took them whilst you and 
 your Grief were sitting together, and your Grief 
 clutched you round the soul. Serpent, how you 
 have writhed round me, and bitten me. Re- 
 morse, Remembrance, etc., come in the night 
 season, and I feel you gnawing, gnawing ! . . . 
 I tell you that man's face was like Laocobn's 
 (which, by the way, I always think over-rated. 
 The real head is at Brussels, at the Duke 
 Daremberg's, not at Rome). 
 
 That man ! What man ? That man of 
 whom I said that his magnificent countenance 
 exhibited the noblest tragic woe. He was not 
 of European blood. He was handsome, but not 
 of European beauty. His face white — not of 
 a northern whiteness ; his eyes protruding some- 
 what and rolling in their grief. Those eyes 
 had seen the Orient sun, and his beak was the 
 le's. His lips were full. The beard, curl-
 
 204 THACKERAY. 
 
 ing round them, was unkempt and tawny. The 
 locks were of a deep, deep coppery red. The 
 hands, swart and powerful, accustomed to the 
 rough grasp of the wares in which he dealt, 
 seemed unused to the flimsy artifices of the 
 bath. He came from the Wilderness, and its 
 sands were on his robe, his cheek, his tattered 
 sandal, and the hardy foot it covered. 
 
 And his grief — whence came his sorrow ? I 
 will tell you. He bore it in his hand. He had 
 evidently just concluded the compact by which 
 it became his. His business was that of a pur- 
 chaser of domestic raiment. At early dawn — 
 nay, at what hour when the city is alive — do 
 we not all hear the nasal cry of " Clo " ? In 
 Paris, Habits Galons, Marchand d'habits, is the 
 twanging signal with which the wandering mer- 
 chant makes his presence known. It was in 
 Paris I saw this man. Where else have I not 
 seen him ? In the Roman Ghetto — at the 
 Gate of David, in his fathers' once imperial 
 city. The man I mean was an itmerant vender 
 and purchaser of wardrobes — what you call an 
 . . . Enough ! You know his name. 
 
 On his left shoulder hung his bag ; and he 
 held in that hand a white hat, which I am sure 
 he had just purchased and which was the cause 
 of the grief which smote liis noble features. Of
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 205 
 
 course I cannot particularize the sum, but he 
 had given too much for that hat. He felt he 
 might have got the thing for less money. It 
 was not the amount, I am sure ; it was the 
 principle involved. He had given fourpence 
 (let us say) for that which threepence would 
 have purchased. He had been done : and a 
 manly shame was upon him, that he, whose 
 energy, acuteness, experience, point of honor, 
 should have made him the victor in any mer- 
 cantile duel in which he should engage, had 
 been overcome by a porter's wife, who very 
 likely sold him the old hat, or by a student 
 who was tired of it. I can understand his 
 grief. Do I seem to be speaking of it in a dis- 
 respectful or flippant way ? Then you mistake 
 me. He had been outwitted. He had desired, 
 coaxed, schemed, haggled, got what he wanted, 
 and now found he had paid too much for his 
 bargain. You don't suppose I would ask you 
 to laugh at that man's grief ? It is you, 
 clumsy cynic, who are disposed to sneer, whilst 
 it may be tears of genuine sympathy are trick- 
 ling down this nose of mine. What do you 
 mean by laughing ? If you saw a wounded 
 soldier on the field of battle, would you laugh ? 
 If you saw a ewe robbed of her lamb, would 
 you laugh, you brute ? It is you who are the
 
 206 THACKERAY. 
 
 cynic, and have no feeling : and you sneer 
 because that grief is unintelligible to you 
 which touches my finer sensibility. The Old- 
 Clothes-Man had been defeated in one of the 
 daily battles of his most interesting, checkered^, 
 adventurous life. 
 
 Have you ever figured to yourself what such 
 a life must be ? The pursuit and conquest of 
 twopence must be the most eager and fascinat- 
 ing of occupations. We might all engage in 
 that business if we would. Do not whist-play- 
 ers, for example, toil, and think, and lose their 
 temper over sixpenny points ? They bring 
 study, natural genius, long forethought, mem- 
 ory, and careful historical experience to bear 
 upon their favorite labor. Don't tell me that 
 it is the sixpenny points, and five shillings the 
 rub, which keeps them for hours over their 
 painted pasteboard. It is the desire to con- 
 quer. Hours pass by. Night glooms. Dawn, 
 it may be, rises unheeded ; and they sit calling 
 for fresh cards at the " Portland," or the 
 " Union," while waning caudles splutter in the 
 sockets, and languid waiters snooze, in the ante- 
 room. Sol rises. Jones has lost four pounds : 
 Brown has won two ; Robinson lurks away to 
 his family house and (mayhap indignant) Mrs. 
 R. Hours of evening, night, morning, have
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 207 
 
 passed away whilst they have been waging this 
 sixpenny battle. What is the loss of four 
 pounds to Jones, the gain of two to Brown ? 
 B. is, perhaps, so rich that two pounds more or 
 less are as naught to him ; J. is so hopelessly 
 involved that to win four pounds cannot benefit 
 his creditors, or alter his condition ; but they 
 play for that stake : they put forward their 
 best energies : they ruff, finesse (what are the 
 technical words, and how do I know?). It is 
 but a sixpenny game if you like ; but they want 
 to win it. So as regards my friend yonder 
 with the hat. He stakes his money : he wishes 
 to win the game, not the hat merely. I am not 
 prepared to say that he is not inspired by a 
 noble ambition. Caesar wished to be first in a 
 village. If first of a hundred yokels, why not 
 first of two ? And my friend the old-clothes- 
 man wishes to win his game, as well as to turn 
 his little sixpence. 
 
 Suppose in the game of life — and it is but a 
 twopenny game after all — you are equally 
 eager of winning. Shall you be ashamed of 
 your ambition, or glory in it ? There are 
 games, too, which are becoming to particular 
 periods of life. I remember in the days of our 
 youth, when my friend Arthur Bowler was an 
 eminent cricketer. Slim, swift, strong, well-
 
 208 THACKERAY. 
 
 built, he presented a goodly appearance on the 
 ground in his flannel uniform. Militdsti non 
 sine gloria, Bowler my boy ! Hush ! We tell 
 no tales. Mum is the word. Yonder comes 
 Charley his son. Now Charley his son has 
 taken the field and is famous among the eleven 
 of his school. Bowler senior, with his capacious 
 waistcoat, etc., waddling after a ball, would 
 present an absurd object, whereas it does the 
 eyes good to see Bowler junior scouring the 
 plain — a young exemplar of joyful health, 
 vigor, activity. The old boy wisely contents 
 himself with amusements more becoming his 
 age and waist ; takes his sober ride ; visits his 
 farm soberly — busies himself about his pigs, 
 his ploughing, his peaches, or what not ? Very 
 small routinier amusements interest hini ; and 
 (thank goodness !) nature provides very kindly 
 for kindly-disposed fogies. We relish those 
 things which we scorned in our lusty youth. I 
 see the young folks of an evening kindling and 
 glowing over their delicious novels. I look up 
 and watch the eager eye flashing down the 
 page, being, for my part, perfectly contented 
 with my twaddling old volume of HoweVs 
 Letters, or the Gentleman' s Magazine. I am 
 actually arrived at such a calm frame of mind 
 that I like batter-pudding. I never should
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 209 
 
 have believed it possible ; but it is so. Yet a 
 little while, and I may relish water-gruel. It 
 will be the age of mon lait de poule et mon bon- 
 net de nuit. And then — the cotton extinguisher 
 is pulled over the old noddle, and the little 
 flame of life is popped out. 
 
 Don't you know elderly people who make 
 learned notes in Army Lists, Peerages, and the 
 like ? This is the batter-pudding, water-gruel 
 of old age. The worn-out old digestion does 
 not care for stronger food. Formerly it could 
 swallow twelve hours' tough reading, and digest 
 an encyclopaedia. 
 
 If I had children to educate, I would, at ten 
 or twelve years of age, have a professor, or pro- 
 fessoress, of whist for them, and cause them 
 to be well grounded in that great and useful 
 game. You camiot learn it well when you are 
 old, any more than you can learn dancing or 
 billiards. In our house at home we youngsters 
 did not play whist because we were dear obedi- 
 ent children, and the elders said playing at cards 
 was " a waste of time." A waste of time, my 
 good people ! Allans ! What do elderly home- 
 keeping people do of a night after dinner ? 
 Darby gets his newspaper ; my dear Joan her 
 Missionary Magazine or her volume of Cum- 
 ming's Sermons — and don't you know what
 
 210 THACKERAY. 
 
 ensues ? Over the arm of Darby's arm-chair 
 the paper flutters to the ground unheeded, and 
 he performs the trumpet obligato que vous savez 
 on his old nose. My dear old Joan's head nods 
 over her sermon (awakening though the doc- 
 trine may be). Ding, ding, ding : can that be 
 ten o'clock ? It is time to send the servants to 
 bed, my dear — and to bed master and mistress 
 go too. But they have not wasted their time 
 playing at cards. Oh, no ! I belong to a Club 
 where there is whist of a night ; and not a 
 little amusing is it to hear Brown speak of 
 Thompson's play, and vice versa. But there is 
 one man — Greatorex let us call him — who is 
 the acknowledged captain and primus of all the 
 whist-players. We all secretly admire him. 
 I, for my part, watch him in private life, 
 hearken to what he says, note what he orders 
 for dinner, and have that feeling of awe for him 
 that I used to have as a boy for the cock of the 
 school. Not play at whist ? " Quelle triste 
 vieillesse vous vous preparez ! " were the words 
 of the great and good Bishop of Autun. I 
 can't. It is too late now. Too late ! too late ! 
 Ah ! humiliating confession ! That joy might 
 have been clutched, but the life -stream has 
 swept us by it — the swift life-stream rushing 
 to the nearing sea. Too late ! too late !
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 211 
 
 Twentystone my boy ! when you read in the 
 papers " Valse a deux temps, ^* and all the fash- 
 ionable dances taught to adults by " Miss Light- 
 foots," don't you feel that you would like to go 
 in and learn ? Ah, it is too late ! You have 
 passed the choreas^ Master Twentystone, and 
 the young people are dancing without you. 
 
 I don't believe much of what my Lord Byron 
 the poet says ; but when he wrote , " So for a 
 good old gentlemanly vice, I think I shall put 
 up with avarice," I think his lordship meant 
 what he wrote, and if he practiced what he 
 preached, shall not quarrel with him. As an 
 occupation in declining years, I declare I think 
 saving is useful, amusing, and not unbecoming. 
 It must be a perpetual amusement. It is a 
 game that can be played by day, by night, at 
 home and abroad, and at which you must win 
 in the long run. I am tired and want a cab. 
 The fare to my house, say, is two shillings. 
 The cabman will naturally want half a crown. 
 I pull out my book. I show him the distance 
 is exactly three miles and fifteen hundred and 
 ninety yards. I offer him my card — my win- 
 ning card. As he retires with the two shillings, 
 blaspheming inwardly, every curse is a compli- 
 ment to my skill. I have played him and beat 
 him ; and a sixpence is my spoil and just reward.
 
 212 THACKERAY. 
 
 This is a game, by the way, which women play 
 far more cleverly than we do. But what an 
 interest it imparts to life ! During the whole 
 drive home I know I shall have my game at 
 the journey's end ; am sure of my hand, and 
 shall beat my adversary. Or I can play in an- 
 other way. I won't have a cab at all, I will 
 wait for the omnibus : I will be one of the damp 
 fourteen in that steaming vehicle. I will wait 
 about in the rain for an hour, and 'bus after 
 'bus shall pass, but I will not be beat. I will 
 have a place, and get it at length, with my 
 boots wet through, and an umbrella dripping 
 between my legs. I have a rheumatism, a cold, 
 a sore throat, a sulky evening, — a doctor's bill 
 to-morrow, perhaps ? Yes, but I have won my 
 game, and am gainer of a shilling on this 
 rubber. 
 
 If you play this game all through life it is 
 wonderful what daily interest it has, and amus- 
 ing occupation. For instance, my wife goes 
 to sleep after dinner over her volume of ser- 
 mons. As soon as the dear soul is sound asleep, 
 I advance softly and puff out her candle. Her 
 pure dreams will be all the happier without 
 that light ; and, say she sleeps an hour, there 
 is a penny gained. 
 
 As for clothes, parhleu ! there is not much
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 213 
 
 money to be saved in clothes, for the fact is, as 
 a man advances in life — as he becomes an 
 Ancient Briton (mark the pleasantry) — he goes 
 without clothes. When my tailor proposes 
 sometliiug in the way of a change of raiment, 
 I laugh in his face. My blue coat and brass 
 buttons will last these ten years. It is seedy ? 
 What then ? I don't want to charm anybody 
 in particular. You say that my clothes are 
 shabby ? What do I care ? When I wished 
 to look well in somebody's eyes, the matter 
 may have been different. But now, when I 
 receive my bill of 101. (let us say) at the year's 
 end, and contrast it with old tailors' reckonings, 
 I feel that I have played the game with master 
 tailor, and beat him ; and my old clothes are 
 a token of the victory. 
 
 I do not like to give servants board-wages, 
 though they are cheaper than household bills : 
 but I know they save out of board-wages, and 
 so beat me. This shows that it is not the money 
 but the game which interests me. So about 
 wine. I have it good and dear. I will trouble 
 you to tell me where to get it good and cheap. 
 You may as well give me the address of a shop 
 where I can buy meat for fourpence a pound, 
 or sovereigns for fifteen shillings apiece. At 
 the game of auctions, docks, shy wine-merchants,
 
 214 THACKERAY. 
 
 depend on it there is no winning ; and I would 
 as soon think of buying jewelry at an auction 
 in Fleet Street as of purchasing wine from one 
 of your dreadful needy wine-agents such as 
 infest every man's door. Grudge myself good 
 wine ? As soon grudge my horse corn. Merci I 
 that would be a very losing game indeed, and 
 your humble servant has no relish for such. 
 
 But in the very pursuit of saving there must 
 be a hundred harmless delights and pleasures 
 which we who are careless necessarily forego. 
 What do you know about the natural history of 
 your household ? Upon your honor and con- 
 science, do you know the price of a pound of 
 butter ? Can you say what sugar costs, and 
 how much your family consumes and ought to 
 consume ? How much lard do you use in your 
 house ? As I think on these subjects I own I 
 hang down the head of shame. I suppose for 
 a moment that you, who are reading this, are 
 a middle-aged gentleman, and paterfamilias. 
 Can you answer the above questions ? You 
 know, sir, you cannot. Now turn round, lay 
 down the book, and suddenly ask Mrs. Jones 
 and your daughters if they can answer ? They 
 cannot. They look at one another. They pre- 
 tend they can answer. They can tell you the 
 plot and principal characters of the last novel.
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 215 
 
 Some of them know something about history, 
 geology, and so forth. But of the natural his- 
 tory of home — NichtSf and for shame on you 
 all ! Honnis soyez ! For shame on you ! for 
 shame on us ! 
 
 In the early morning I hear a sort of call or 
 jodel under my window : and know 't is the 
 matutinal milkman leaving his can at my gate. 
 O household gods ! have I lived all these years 
 and don't know the price or the quantity of the 
 milk which is delivered in that can ? Why 
 don't I know ? As I live, if I live till to-mor- 
 row morning, as soon as I hear the call of 
 Lactantius, I will dash out upon him. How 
 many cows ? How much milk, on an average, 
 all the year round ? What rent ? What cost 
 of food and dairy servants ? What loss of ani- 
 mals, and average cost of purchase ? If I in- 
 terested myself properly about my pint (or 
 hogshead, whatever it be) of milk, all this 
 knowledge would ensue ; all this additional in- 
 terest in life. What is this talk of my friend, 
 Mr. Lewes, about objects at the seaside, and so 
 forth ? 1 Objects at the seaside ? Objects at 
 the area-bell : objects before my nose : objects 
 which the butcher brings me in his tray : which 
 the cook dresses and puts down before me, and 
 1 Seaside Studies. By G. H. Lewes.
 
 216 THACKERAY. 
 
 over which I say grace ! My daily life is sur- 
 rounded with objects which ought to interest 
 me. The pudding 1 eat (or refuse, that is nei- 
 ther here nor there ; and, between ourselves, 
 what I have said about batter-pudding may be 
 taken cum grano — we are not come to that yet, 
 except for the sake of argument or illustration) 
 — the pudding, I say, on my plate, the eggs 
 that made it, the fire that cooked it, the table- 
 cloth on which it is laid, and so forth — are 
 each and all of these objects a knowledge of 
 which I may acquire — a knowledge of the 
 cost and production of which I might advan- 
 tageously learn. To the man who does know 
 these things, I say the interest of life is pro- 
 digiously increased. The milkman becomes a 
 study to him ; the baker a being he curiously 
 and tenderly examines. Go, Lewes, and clap a 
 hideous sea-anemone into a glass : I will put a 
 cabman under mine, and make a vivisection of 
 a butcher. O Lares, Penates, and gentle house- 
 hold gods, teach me to sympathize with all that 
 comes within my doors ! Give me an interest 
 in the butcher's book. Let us look forward to 
 the ensuing number of the grocer's account with 
 eagerness. It seems ungrateful to my kitchen- 
 chimney not to know the cost of sweeping it ; 
 and I trust that many a man who reads this,
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 217 
 
 and muses on it, will feel, like the writer, 
 ashamed of himself, and hang down his head 
 humbly. 
 
 Now, if to this household game you could 
 add a little money interest, the amusement 
 would be increased far beyond the mere money 
 value, as a game at cards for sixpence is better 
 than a rubber for nothing. If you can interest 
 yourseK about sixpence, all life is invested with 
 a new excitement. From sunrise to sleeping 
 you can always be playing that game — with 
 butcher, baker, coal-merchant, cabman, omni- 
 bus man — nay, diamond merchant and stock- 
 broker. You can bargain for a guinea over the 
 price of a diamond necklace, or for a sixteenth 
 per cent, in a transaction at the Stock Ex- 
 change. We all know men who have this 
 faculty who are not ungenerous with their 
 money. They give it on great occasions. They 
 are more able to help than you and I who spend 
 ours, and say to poor Prodigal who comes to us 
 out at elbow, "My dear fellow, I should have 
 been delighted ; but I have already anticipated 
 my quarter, and am going to ask Sere why if 
 he can do anything for me." 
 
 In this delightful, wholesome, ever-novel 
 twopenny game, there is a danger of excess, as 
 there is in every other pastime or occupation
 
 218 " THACKERAY. 
 
 of life. If you grow too eager for your two- 
 pence, the acquisition or the loss of it may 
 affect your peace of mind, and peace of mind 
 is better than any amount of twopences. My 
 friend, the old-clothes'-man, whose agonies over 
 the hat have led to this rambling disquisition, 
 has, I very much fear, by a too eager pursuit 
 of small profits, disturbed the equanimity of a 
 mind that ought to be easy and happy. " Had 
 I stood out," he thinks, " I might have had the 
 hat for threepence," and he doubts whether, 
 having given fourpence for it, he will ever get 
 back his money. My good Shadrach, if you go 
 through life passionately deploring the irrev- 
 ocable, and allow yesterday's transactions to 
 embitter the cheerfulness of to-day and to-mor- 
 row — as lief walk down to the Seine, souse in, 
 hats, body, clothes-bag and all, and put an end 
 to your sorrow and sordid cares. Before and 
 since Mr. Franklin wrote his pretty apologue 
 of the Whistle have we not all made bargains 
 of which we repented, and coveted and acquired 
 objects for which we have paid too dearly ! 
 Who has not purchased his hat in some market 
 or other ? There is General McClellan's cocked 
 hat for example ; I dare say he was eager 
 enough to wear it, and he has learned that it 
 is by no means cheerful wear. There were the
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 219 
 
 military beavers of Messeigneurs of Orleans : ^ 
 they wore them gallantly in the face of battle ; 
 but I suspect they were glad enough to pitch 
 them into the James River and come home in 
 mufti. Ah, mes amis ! a cJiacun son schakot ! 
 I was looking at a bishop the other day, and 
 thinking, " ]My right reverend lord, that broad- 
 brim and rosette must bind your great broad 
 forehead very tightly, and give you many a 
 headache. A good easy wideawake were bet- 
 ter for you, and I would like to see that honest 
 face with a cutty-pipe in the middle of it." 
 There is my Lord Mayor. My once dear lord, 
 my kind friend, when your two years' reign 
 was over, did you not jump for joy and fling 
 your cheapeau-bras out of window : and has n't 
 that hat cost you a pretty bit of money ? 
 There, in a splendid traveling chariot, in the 
 sweetest bonnet, all trimmed with orange-blos- 
 soms and Chantilly lace, sits my Lady Rosa, 
 with old Lord Snowden by her side. Ah, Rosa! 
 what a price have you paid for that hat which 
 you wear ! and is your ladyship's coronet not 
 purchased too dear ? Enough of hats. Sir, or 
 Madam, I take off mine, and salute you with 
 profound respect. 
 
 1 Two cadets of the House of Orleans who served as Volun- 
 teers under General McCIellan in his campaign against Rich- 
 mond.
 
 220 THACKERAY. 
 
 THE LAST SKETCH. 
 
 Not many days since I went to visit a house 
 where in former years I had received many a 
 friendly welcome. We went into the owner's 
 — an artist's — studio. Prints, pictures, and 
 sketches hung on the walls as I had last seen 
 and remembered them. The implements of the 
 painter's art were there. The light which had 
 shone upon so many, many hours of patient and 
 cheerful toil poured through the northern win- 
 dow upon print and bust, lay figure and sketch, 
 and upon the easel before which the good, the 
 gentle, the beloved Leslie labored. In this 
 room the busy brain had devised, and the 
 skillful hand executed, I know not how many 
 of the noble works which have delighted the 
 world with their beauty and charming humor. 
 Here the poet called vip into pictorial presence, 
 and informed with life, grace, beauty, infinite 
 friendly mirth and wondrous naturalness of ex- 
 pression, the people of whom his dear books 
 told him the stories, — his Shakespeare, his Cer- 
 vantes, his Moli^re, his Le Sage. There was 
 his last work on the easel — a beautiful fresh 
 smiling shape of Titania, such as his sweet 
 guileless fancy imagined the Midsummer Night's
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 221 
 
 queen to be. Gracious, and pure, and bright, 
 the sweet smiling image glimmers on the can- 
 vas. Fairy elves, no doubt, were to have been 
 grouped around their mistress in laughing clus- 
 ters. Honest Bottom's grotesque head and 
 form are indicated as reposing by the side of 
 the consummate beauty. The darkling forest 
 would have grown around them, with the stars 
 glittering from the midsummer sky ; the flow- 
 ers at the queen's feet, and the boughs and 
 foliage about her, would have been peopled 
 with gamboling sprites and fays. They were 
 dwelling in the artist's mind, no doubt, and 
 would have been developed by that patient, 
 faithful, admirable genius : but the busy brain 
 stopped working, the skillful hand fell lifeless, 
 the loving, honest heart ceased to beat. What 
 was she to have been — that fair Titania — 
 when perfected by the patient skill of the poet, 
 who in imagination saw the sweet innocent 
 figure, and with tender courtesy and caresses, 
 as it were, posed and shaped and traced the 
 fair form ? Is there record kept anywhere 
 of fancies conceived, beautiful, unborn ? Some 
 day will they assume form in some yet unde- 
 veloped light ? If our bad unspoken thoughts 
 are registered against us, and are written in 
 the awful account, will not the good thoughts
 
 222 THACKERAY. 
 
 unspoken, the love and tenderness, the pity, 
 beauty, charity, which pass through the breast, 
 and cause the heart to throb with silent good, 
 find a remembrance too ? A few weeks more, 
 and this lovely offspring of the poet's concep- 
 tion would have been complete — to charm the 
 world with its beautiful mirth. May there not 
 be some sphere unknown to us where it may 
 have an existence ? They say our words, once 
 out of our lips, go traveling in omne cevum, 
 reverberatmg forever and ever. If our words, 
 why not our thoughts ? If the Has Been, why 
 not the Might Have Been ? 
 
 Some day our spirits may be permitted to 
 walk in galleries of fancies more wondrous and 
 beautiful than any achieved works which at 
 present we see, and our minds to behold and 
 delight in masterpieces which poets' and artists' 
 minds have fathered and conceived only. 
 
 With a feeling much akin to that with which 
 I looked upon the friend's — the admirable 
 artist's — unfinished work, I can fancy many 
 readers turning to the last pages which were 
 traced by Charlotte Bronte's hand. Of the 
 multitude that have read her books, who has 
 not known and deplored the tragedy of her 
 family, her own most sad and untimely fate ? 
 Which of her readers has not become her
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 223 
 
 friend ? Who that has known her books has 
 not admired the artist's noble English, the 
 burning love of truth, the bravery, the simplic- 
 ity, the indignation at wrong, the eager sym- 
 pathy, the pious love and reverence, the pas- 
 sionate honor, so to speak, of the woman ? 
 What a story is that of that family of poets in 
 their solitude yonder on the gloomy northern 
 moors ! At nine o'clock at night, Mrs. Gas- 
 kell tells, after evening prayers, when their 
 guardian and relative had gone to bed, the 
 three poetesses — the three maidens, Charlotte, 
 and Emily, and Anne — Charlotte being the 
 " motherly friend and guardian to the other 
 two " — " began, like restless wild animals, to 
 pace up and down their parlor, ' making out ' 
 their wonderful stories, talking over plans and 
 projects and thoughts of what was to be their 
 future life." 
 
 One evening at the close of 1854, as Char- 
 lotte Xicholls sat with her husband by the fire, 
 listening to the howling of the wind about the 
 house, she suddenly said to her husband, "If 
 you had not been with me, I must have been 
 writing now." She then ran up stairs, and 
 brought down, and read aloud, the beginning 
 of a new tale. When she had finished, her 
 husband remarked, " The critics will accuse
 
 224 THACKERAY. 
 
 you of repetition." She replied, "Oh! I 
 shall alter that. I always begin two or three 
 times before I can please myself." But it was 
 not to be. The trembling little hand was to 
 write no more. The heart newly awakened to 
 love and happiness, and throbbing with mater- 
 nal hope, was soon to cease to beat ; that in- 
 trepid outspeaker and champion of truth, that 
 eager, impetuous redresser of wrong, was to be 
 called out of the world's fight and struggle, to 
 lay down the shining arms, and to be removed 
 to a sphere where even a noble indignation cor 
 ulterius nequit lacerare^ and where truth com- 
 plete, and right triumphant, no longer need to 
 wage war. 
 
 I can only say of this lady, vidi iantum. I 
 saw her first just as I rose out of an illness 
 from which I had never thought to recover. I 
 remember the trembling little frame, the little 
 hand, the great honest eyes. An impetuous 
 honesty seemed to me to characterize the wo- 
 man. Twice I recollect she took me to task 
 for what she held to be errors in doctrine. 
 Once about Fielding we had a disputation. She 
 spoke her mind out. She jumped too rapidly 
 to conclusions. (I have smiled at one or two 
 passages in the Biography, in which my own dis- 
 position or behavior forms the subject of talk.)
 
 EOUXDABOUT PAPERS. 225 
 
 She formed conclusions that might be wrong, 
 and built whole theories of character upon 
 them. New to the London world, she entered 
 it with an independent, indomitable spirit of 
 her own ; and judged of contemporaries, and 
 especially spied out arrogance or affectation, 
 with extraordinary keenness of vision. She 
 was angry with her favorites if their conduct 
 or conversation fell below her ideal. Often she 
 seemed to me to be judging the London folk 
 prematurely : but perhaps the city is rather 
 angry at being judged. I fancied an austere 
 little Joan of Arc marching in upon us, and re- 
 buking our easy lives, our easy morals. She 
 gave me the impression of being a very pure, 
 and lofty, and high-minded person. A great 
 and holy reverence of right and truth seemed 
 to be with her always. Such, in our brief in- 
 terview, she appeared to me. As one thinks of 
 that life so noble, so lonely — of that passion 
 for truth — of those nights and nights of eager 
 study, swarming fancies, invention, depression, 
 elation, prayer ; as one reads the necessarily 
 incomplete though most touching and admir- 
 able history of the heart that throbbed in this 
 one little frame — of this one amongst the myr- 
 iads of souls that have lived and died on this 
 great earth — this great earth? — this little speck
 
 226 THACKERAY. 
 
 in the infinite universe of God, — with what won- 
 der do we think of to-day, with what awe await 
 to-morrow, when that which is now bnt darkly 
 seen shall be clear ! As I read this little frag- 
 mentary sketch, I think of the rest. Is it ? 
 And where is it ? Will not the leaf be turned 
 some day, and the story be told ? Shall the 
 deviser of the tale somewhere perfect the his- 
 tory of little Emma's griefs and troubles ? 
 Shall TiTANiA come forth complete wdth her 
 sportive court, with the flowers at her feet, the 
 forest around her, and all the stars of summer 
 glittering overhead ? 
 
 How well I remember the delight, and 
 wonder, and pleasure with which I read Jane 
 Eyre, sent to me by an author whose name 
 and sex were then alike unknown to me ; the 
 strange fascinations of the book ; and how, 
 with my. own work pressing upon me, I could 
 not, having taken the volumes up, lay them 
 down mitil they were read through ! Hun- 
 dreds of those who, like myself, recognized and 
 admired that master-work of a great genius, 
 will look with a mournful interest and regard 
 and curiosity upon the last fragmentary sketch 
 from the uoblo baud which wrote Jane Eyre.
 
 THE CURATE'S WALK. 
 
 I. 
 
 T was the third out of the four bell-but- 
 tons at the door at which my friend the 
 curate pulled ; and the summons was 
 answered after a brief interval. 
 
 I must premise that the house before which 
 we stopped was Xo. 14, Sedan Building-s, lead- 
 ing out of Great Guelph Street, Dettingen 
 Street, CuUoden Street, Minden Square ; and 
 Upper and Lower Caroline Row form part of 
 the same quarter — a very queer and solemn 
 quarter to walk in, I think, and one which 
 always suggests Fielding's novels to me. I 
 can fancy Captain Booth strutting out of the 
 very door at which we were standing, in tar- 
 nished lace, with his hat cocked over his eye, 
 and his hand on his hanger ; or Lady Bellaston's 
 chair and bearers comiu"- swin<^in<^ down Great
 
 228 THACKERAY. 
 
 Guelph Street, which we have just quitted to 
 enter Sedan Buildings. 
 
 Sedan Buildings is a little flagged square, 
 ending abruptly with the huge walls of Bluek's 
 Brewery. The houses, by many degrees smaller 
 than the large decayed tenements in Great 
 Guelph Street, are still not uncomfortable, 
 although shabby. There are brass-plates on 
 the doors, two on some of them : or simple 
 names as " Lunt," " Padgemore," etc. (as if no 
 other statement about Lunt and Padgemore 
 were necessary at all), under the bells. There 
 are pictures of mangles before two of the 
 houses, and a gilt arm with a hammer sticking 
 out from one. I never saw a Goldbeater. 
 What sort of a being is he, that he always 
 sticks out his ensign in dark, mouldy, lonely, 
 dreary, but somewhat respectable places ? 
 What powerful Mulciberian fellows they must 
 be, those Goldbeaters, whacking and thumping 
 with huge mallets at the precious metals all 
 day. I wonder what is Goldbeaters' skin ? and 
 do they get impregnated with the metal ? and 
 are their great arms under their clean shirts on 
 Sundays, all gilt and shining ? 
 
 It is a quiet, kind, respectable place some- 
 how, in spite of its shabbiness. Two pewter 
 pints and a jolly little half-pint are hanging on
 
 THE curate's walk. 229 
 
 the railings in perfect confidence, basking in 
 what little snn comes into the Court. A group 
 of small children are making an ornament of 
 oyster-shells in one corner. Who has that 
 half-pint ? Is it for one of those small ones, or 
 for some delicate female recommended to take 
 beer ? The windows in the Court, upon some 
 of which the sun glistens, are not cracked, and 
 pretty clean ; it is only the black and dreary 
 look behind which gives them a poverty-stricken 
 appearance. No curtains or blinds, A bird- 
 cage and very few pots of flowers here and 
 there. This — with the exception of a milk- 
 man talking to a whity-brown woman, made up 
 of bits of flannel and strips of faded chintz and 
 calico seemingly, and holding a long bundle 
 which cried — this was all I saw in Sedan 
 Buildings while we were waiting until the door 
 should open. 
 
 At last the door was opened, and by a por- 
 teress so small, that I wonder how she ever 
 could have lifted up the latch. She bobbed a 
 courtesy, and smiled at the Curate, whose face 
 gleamed with benevolence too, in reply to that 
 salutation, 
 
 " Mother not at home ? " says Frank White- 
 stock, patting the child on the head, 
 
 " Mother 's out charing, sir," replied the
 
 230 THACKERAY. 
 
 girl ; "but please to walk up, sir." And she 
 led the way up oue and two pair of stairs to 
 that apartment in the house which is called the 
 second-floor front ; in which was the abode of 
 the charwoman. 
 
 There were two young persons in the room, 
 of the respective ages of eight and five, I should 
 think. She of five years of age was hemming 
 a duster, being perched on a chair at the table 
 in the middle of the room. The elder, of eight, 
 politely wiped a chair with a cloth for the ac- 
 commodation of the good-natured Curate, and 
 came and stood between his knees, immediately 
 alongside of his umbrella, which also reposed 
 there, and which she by no means equaled in 
 height. 
 
 "These children, attend my school at St. 
 Timothy's," Mr. Whitestock said, " and Betsy 
 keeps the house while her mother is from 
 home." 
 
 Anything cleaner or neater than this house 
 it is impossible to conceive. There was a big 
 bed, which must have been the resting-place of 
 the whole of this little family. There were 
 three or four religious prints on the walls ; be- 
 sides two framed and glazed, of Prince Coburg 
 and the Princess Charlotte. There were brass 
 candlesticks, and a lamb on the chimney-piece,
 
 THE curate's walk. 231 
 
 and a cupboard in the corner, decorated with 
 near half a dozen plates, yellow bowls, and 
 crockery. And on the table there were two or 
 three bits of dry bread, and a jug with water, 
 with which these three young people (it being 
 then nearly three o'clock) were about to take 
 their meal called tea. 
 
 That little Betsy who looks so small is nearly 
 ten years old : and has been a mother ever 
 since the age of about five. I mean to say that 
 her own mother having to go out upon her 
 charing operations, Betsy assumes command of 
 the room during her parent's absence : has 
 nursed her sisters from babyhood up to the 
 present time : keeps order over them, and the 
 house clean as you see it ; and goes out 
 occasionally and transacts the family purchases 
 of bread, moist sugar, and mother's tea. They 
 dine upon bread, tea and breakfast upon bread 
 when they have it, or go to bed without a 
 morsel. Their holiday is Sunday, which they 
 spend at Church and Sunday-school. The 
 younger children scarcely ever go out, save on 
 that day, but sit sometimes in the sun, which 
 comes in pretty pleasantly : sometimes blue in 
 the cold, for they very seldom see a fire except 
 to heat irons by, when mother has a job of 
 liueu to get up. Father was a journeyman
 
 232 THACKERAY. 
 
 bookbinder, who died four years ago, and is 
 buried among thousands and thousands of the 
 nameless dead who lie crowding the black 
 churchyard of St. Timothy's parish. 
 
 The Curate evidently took especial pride in 
 Victoria, the youngest of these three children 
 of the charwoman, and caused Betsy to fetch a 
 book which lay at the window, and bade her 
 read. It was a Missionary Register which the 
 Curate opened hap-hazard, and this baby began 
 to read out in an exceedingly clear and resolute 
 voice about — 
 
 "The island of Raritongo is the least fre- 
 quented of all the Caribbean Archipelago. 
 Wankyfungo is at four leagues S. E. by E., and 
 the peak of the crater of Shuagnahua is dis- 
 tinctly visible. The * Irascible ' entered Rari- 
 tongo Bay on the evening of Thursday 29th, 
 and the next day the Rev. Mr. Flethers, Mrs. 
 Flethers, and their nine children, and Shang- 
 pooky, the native converted at Caeabawgo, 
 landed and took up their residence at the house 
 of Ratatatua, the principal Chief, who enter- 
 tained us with yams and a pig," etc., etc., etc. 
 
 " Raritongo, Wankyfungo, Archipelago." I 
 protest this little woman read off each of these 
 long words with an ease which perfectly aston- 
 ished me. Many a lieutenant in her Majesty's
 
 THE curate's walk. 233 
 
 Heavies would be puzzled with words half the 
 length. Whitestock, by way of reward for her 
 scholarship, gave her another pat on the head ; 
 having received which present with a courtesy, 
 she went and put the book back into the window, 
 and clambering back into the chair resumed the 
 hemming of the blue duster. 
 
 I suppose it was the smallness of these people, 
 as well as their singular, neat, and tidy be- 
 havior, which interested me so. Here were 
 three creatures not so high as the table, with 
 all the labors, duties, and cares of life upon 
 their little shoulders, working and doing their 
 duty like the biggest of my readers ; regular, 
 laborious, cheerful — content with small pit- 
 tances, practicing a hundred virtues of thrift 
 and order. 
 
 Elizabeth, at ten years of age, might walk 
 out of this house and take the command of a 
 small establishment. She can wash, get up 
 linen, cook, make purchases, and buy bargains. 
 If 1 were ten years old and three feet in height 
 I would marry her, and we would go and live 
 in a cupboard, and share the little half-pint pot 
 for dinner. 'Melia, eight years of age, though 
 inferior in accomplishments to her sister, is her 
 equal in size, and can wash, scrub, hem, go 
 errands, put her hand to the diimer, and make
 
 234 THACKERAY. 
 
 herself generally useful. In a word, she is fit 
 to be a little housemaid, and to make every- 
 thing but the beds, which she cannot as yet 
 reach up to. As for Victoria's qualifications, 
 they have been mentioned before. I wonder 
 whether the Princess Alice can read off " Rari- 
 tongo," etc., as glibly as this surprising little 
 animal. 
 
 I asked the Curate's permission to make 
 these young ladies a present, and accordingly 
 produced the sum of sixpence to be divided 
 amongst the three. " What will you do with 
 it ? " I said, laying down the coin. 
 
 They answered, all three at once, and in a 
 little chorus, " We '11 give it to mother." This 
 verdict caused the disbursement of another six- 
 pence, and it was explained to them that the 
 sura was for their own private pleasures, and 
 each was called upon to declare what she would 
 purchase. 
 
 Elizabeth says, " I would like twopenn'orth 
 of meat, if you please, sir." 
 
 'Melia : " Ha'porth of treacle, three-far- 
 things'-worth of milk, and the same of fresh 
 bread." 
 
 Victoria, speaking very quick, and gasping 
 in an agitated manner : " Ha'pny — aha — 
 orange, and ha'pny — aha — apple, and ha'pny
 
 THE curate's walk. 235 
 
 — aha — treacle, aud — and " — here her im- 
 agination failed her. She did not know what to 
 do with the rest of the money. 
 
 At this 'Melia actually interposed, " Suppose 
 she and Victoria subscribed a farthing apiece 
 out of their money, so that Betsy might have a 
 quarter of a pound of meat ? " She added that 
 her sister wanted it, and that it would do her 
 good. Upon my word, she made the proposal 
 aud the calculations in an instant, and all of 
 her own accord. And before we left them, 
 Betsy had put on the queerest little black shawl 
 and bonnet, and had a mug and a basket ready 
 to receive the purchases in question. 
 
 Sedan Buildings has a particularly friendly 
 look to me since that day. Peace be with you, 
 O thrifty, kindly, simple, loving, little maidens ! 
 May their voyage in life prosper ! Think of 
 the great journey before them, and the little 
 cock-boat manned by babies venturing over the 
 great stormy ocean. 
 
 II. 
 
 Following the steps of little Betsy with 
 her mug and basket, as she goes pattering 
 down the street, we watch her into a grocer's 
 shop, where a startling placard with " Down
 
 236 THACKERAY. 
 
 Again ! " written on it announces that the 
 Sugar Market is still in a depressed condition 
 — and where she no doubt negotiates the pur- 
 chase of a certain quantity of molasses. A 
 little further on, in Lawfeldt Street, is Mr. 
 Filch's fine silversmith's shop, where a man 
 may stand for a half-hour and gaze with rav- 
 ishment at the beautiful gilt cups and tank- 
 ards, the stunning waistcoat chains, the little 
 white cushions laid out with delightful diamond 
 pins, gold horseshoes and splinter-bars, pearl 
 owls, turquoise lizards and dragons, enameled 
 monkeys, and all sorts of agreeable monsters 
 for your neck-cloth. If I live to be a hundred, 
 or if the girl of my heart were waiting for me 
 at the corner of the street, I never could pass 
 Mr. Filch's shop without having a couple of 
 minutes' good stare at the window. I like to 
 fancy myself dressed up in some of the jewelry. 
 " Spec, you rogue," I say, " suppose you were 
 to get leave to wear three or four of those 
 rings on your fingers ; to stick that opal, round 
 which twists a brilliant serpent with a ruby 
 head, into your blue satin neck-cloth ; and to 
 sport that gold jack- chain on your waistcoat. 
 You might walk in the Park with that black 
 whalebone prize-riding-whip, which has a head 
 the size of a snuflc-box, surmounted with a sil-
 
 THE curate's walk. 237 
 
 ver jockey on a silver race-horse ; and what a 
 sensation you woukl create, if you took that 
 large ram's horn with the cairngorm top out of 
 your pocket, and offered a pinch of rappee to 
 the company round ! " A little attorney's clerk 
 is staring in at the window, in whose mind very 
 similar ideas are passing. What would he not 
 give to wear that gold pin next Sunday in his 
 blue hunting neck-cloth? The ball of it is 
 almost as big as those which are painted over 
 the side door of Mr, Filch's shop, which is 
 down that passage which leads into Trotter's 
 Court. 
 
 I have dined at a house where the silver 
 dishes and covers came from Filch's, let out to 
 their owner by Mr. Filch for the day, and in 
 charge of the grave-looking man whom I mis- 
 took for the butler. Butlers and ladies'-maids 
 innumerable have audiences of Mr. Filch in his 
 back-parlor. There are suits of jewels which 
 he and his shop have known for a half-century 
 past, so often have they been pawned to him. 
 When we read in the Court Journal of Lady 
 Fitzball's head-dress of lappets and superb 
 diamonds, it is because the jewels get a day 
 rule from Filch's, and come back to his iron 
 box as soon as the drawing-room is over. 
 These jewels become historical among pawn-
 
 238 THACKERAY. 
 
 brokers. It was here that Lady Prigsby brought 
 her diamonds one evening of last year, and de- 
 sired hurriedly to raise two thousand pounds 
 upon them, when Filch respectfully pointed out 
 to her ladyship that she had pawned the stones 
 already to his comrade, Mr. Tubal, of Charing 
 Cross. And, taking his hat, and putting the 
 case under his arm, he went with her ladyship 
 to the hack-cab in which she had driven to 
 Lawfeldt Street, entered the vehicle with her, 
 and they drove in silence to the back entrance 
 of her mansion in Monmouth Square, where 
 Mr. Tubal's young man was still seated in the 
 hall, waiting until her ladyship should be un- 
 dressed. 
 
 We walked round the splendid shining shop 
 and down the passage, which would be dark 
 but that the gas-lit door is always swinging to 
 and fro, as the people who come to pawn go in 
 and out. You may be sure there is a gin-shop 
 handy to all pawnbrokers'. 
 
 A lean man in a dingy dress is walking lazily 
 up and down the flags of Trotter's Court. His 
 ragged trousers trail in the slimy mud there. 
 The doors of the pawnbroker's, and of the gin- 
 shop on the other side, are banging to and fro : 
 a little girl comes out of the former, with a tat- 
 tered old handkerchief, and goes up and gives
 
 THE curate's walk. 239 
 
 something to the dingy man. It is ninepence, 
 just raised on his waistcoat. The man bids the 
 chikl to " cut away home," and when she is 
 clear out of the court, he looks at us with a 
 lurking scowl and walks into the gin-shop doors, 
 which swing always opposite the pawnbroker's 
 shop. 
 
 Why should he have sent the waistcoast 
 wrapped in that ragged old cloth ? Why should 
 he have sent the child into the pawnbroker's 
 box, and not have gone himself ? He did not 
 choose to let her see him go into the gin-shop 
 — why drive her in at the opposite door ? The 
 child knows well enough whither he is gone. 
 She might as well have carried an old waist- 
 coat in her hand through the street as a ragged 
 napkin. A sort of vanity, you see, drapes itself 
 in that dirty rag ; or is it a kind of debauched 
 shame, which does not like t« go naked ? The 
 fancy can follow the poor girl up the black 
 alley, up the black stairs, into the bare room, 
 where mother and children are starving, while 
 the lazy ragamuffin, the family bully, is gone 
 into the gin-shop to " try our celebrated Cream 
 of the Valley," as the bill in red letters bids 
 him. 
 
 " I waited in this court the other day," 
 Wliitestoek said, " just like that man, wliile a
 
 240 THACKERAY. 
 
 friend of mine went in to take her husband's 
 tools out of pawn — an honest man — a jour- 
 neyman shoemaker, who lives hard by." And 
 we went to call on the journeyman shoemaker 
 
 — Randle's Buildings — two-pair back — over 
 a blacking manufactory. The blacking was 
 made by one manufactor, who stood before a 
 tub stirring up his produce, a good deal of 
 which — and nothing else — was on the floor. 
 We passed through this emporium, which abut- 
 ted on a dank, steaming little court, and up the 
 narrow stair to the two-pair back. 
 
 The shoemaker was at work with his recov- 
 ered tools, and his wife was making women's 
 shoes (an inferior branch of the business) by 
 him. A shriveled child was lying on the bed 
 in the corner of the room. There was no bed- 
 stead, and indeed scarcely any furniture, save 
 the little table on which lay his tools and shoes 
 
 — a fair-haired, lank, handsome young man, 
 with a wife who may have been pretty once, in 
 better times, and before starvation pulled her 
 down. She had but one thin gown; it clung to 
 a frightfully emaciated little body. 
 
 Their story was the old one. The man had 
 been in good work, and had the fever. The 
 clothes had been pawned, the furniture and 
 bedstead had been sold, and they slept on the
 
 THE curate's walk. 241 
 
 mattress ; the mattress went, and they slept on 
 the floor ; the tools went, and the end of all 
 things seemed at hand, when the gracious appa- 
 rition of the Curate with his umbrella came and 
 cheered those stricken-down poor folks. 
 
 The journeyman shoemaker must have been 
 astonished at such a sight. He is not, or was 
 not, a church-goer. He is a man of " advanced " 
 opinions ; believing that priests are hypocrites, 
 and that clergymen in general drive about in 
 coaches-and-four, and eat a tithe-pig a day. 
 This proud priest got Mr. Crispin a bed to lie 
 upon, and some soup to eat ; and (being the 
 treasurer of certain good folks of his parish, 
 whose charities he administers), as soon as the 
 man was strong enough to work, the Curate 
 lent him money wherewith to redeem his tools, 
 and which our friend is paying back by install- 
 ments at this day. And any man who has seen 
 these two honest men talking together would 
 have said the shoemaker was the haughtiest of 
 the two. 
 
 We paid one more morning visit. This was 
 with an order for work to a tailor of reduced 
 circumstances and enlarged family. He had 
 been a master, and was now forced to take 
 work by the job. He who had commanded 
 many men was now fallen down to the ranks
 
 242 THACKERAY. 
 
 again. His wife told us all about his misfor- 
 tunes. She is evidently very proud of them. 
 "He failed for seven thousand pounds," the 
 poor woman said, three or four times during 
 the course of our visit. It gave her husband 
 a sort of dignity to have been trusted for so 
 much money. 
 
 The Curate must have heard that story many 
 times to which he now listened with great 
 patience in the tailor's house — a large, clean, 
 dreary, faint - looking room, smelling of pov- 
 erty. Two little stunted, yellow-headed chil- 
 dren, with lean pale faces and large protruding 
 eyes, were at the window staring with all their 
 might at Guy Fawkes, who was passing in the 
 street, and making a great clattering and shout- 
 ing outside, while the luckless tailor's wife was 
 prating within about her husband's by-gone 
 riches. I shall not in a hurry forget the pic- 
 ture. The empty room in a dreary background ; 
 the tailor's wife in brown, stalking up and 
 down the planks, talking endlessly ; the sol- 
 emn children staring out of the window as the 
 sunshine fell on their faces, and honest White- 
 stock seated, listening, with the tails of his coat 
 through the chair. 
 
 His business over with the tailor, we start 
 again. Frank Whitestock trips through alley
 
 243 
 
 after alley, never getting any mud on his boots, 
 somehow, and his white neckcloth making a 
 wonderful shine in those shady places. He has 
 all sorts of acquaintance, chiefly amongst the 
 extreme youth, assembled at the doors or about 
 the gutters. There was one small person oc- 
 cupied in emptying one of these rivulets with 
 an oyster-shell, for the purpose, apparently, of 
 making an artificial lake in a hole hard by, 
 whose solitary gravity and business air struck 
 me much, while the Curate was very deep in 
 conversation with a small coalman. A half 
 dozen of her comrades were congregated round 
 a scraper and on a grating hard by, playing 
 with a mangy little puppy, the property of the 
 Curate's friend. 
 
 I know it is wrong to give large sums of 
 money away promiscuously, but I could not 
 help dropping a penny into the child's oyster- 
 shell, as she came forward holding it before her 
 like a tray. At first her expression was one 
 rather of wonder than of pleasure at this influx 
 of capital, and was certainly quite worth the 
 small charge of one penny, at which it was pur- 
 chased. 
 
 For a moment she did not seem to know 
 what steps to take ; but, having communed in 
 her own mind, she presently resolved to turn
 
 244 THACKERAY. 
 
 them towards a neighboring apple-stall, in the 
 direction of which she went without a single 
 word of compliment passing between us. Now, 
 the children round the scraper were witnesses 
 to the transaction. " He 's give her a penny," 
 one remarked to another, with hopes misera- 
 bly disappointed that they might come in for 
 a similar present. 
 
 She walked on to the apple-stall meanwhile, 
 holding her penny behind her. And what did 
 the other little ones do ? They put down the 
 puppy as if it had been so much dross. And 
 one after another they followed the penny-piece 
 to the apple-stall.
 
 MODERN CLASSICS. 
 
 'Hie Princess. ) 
 
 Maud. > Tennyson. 
 
 Locksley Hall. ) 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. An Essay, by E. C. Stedma*». 
 
 Lady Geraldine's Courtship. Mrs. Browning. 
 
 Favorite Poems. Robert Browning. 
 
 Goethe. An Essay, by Carlyle. 
 
 The Tale. 
 Favorite Poems. 
 
 Goethe. 
 
 14. Schiller An Essay, by Carlyle. 
 
 The Lay of the Bell, and Fridolin. ) s^-j^llb^ 
 Favorite Poems. ) 
 
 15. Burns. An Essay, by Carlyle. 
 Favorite Poems, Burns. 
 Favorite Poems. Scott. 
 
 16. Byron. An Essay, by Macaulay. 
 Favorite Poems. Byron. 
 Favorite Poems. Hood. 
 
 17. Milton. An Essay, by Macaulay. 
 L' Allegro, II Penseroso. Milton. 
 
 Elegy m a Country Churchyard, etc. Gray. 
 
 18. The Deserted Village, etc. Goldsmith. 
 Favorite Poems. Cowper. 
 
 Favorite Poems. Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 19. Cliaracteristics. Carlyle. 
 Favorite Poems. Shelley. 
 
 The Eve of St. Agnes, etc. Keats, 
 so. An Essay on Man. ) p_„„ 
 
 Favorite Poems, j ^^^^ 
 
 Favorite Poems. Moore. 
 SI The Choice of Books. Carlylb. 
 
 Essays from Elia. Lamb. 
 
 Favorite Poems. Southey. 
 ». Spring. 1 
 
 ir„r: Thomson. 
 
 Winter. J 
 «S The Pleasures of Hope. ) Campbeu- 
 
 Favonte Poenr ^ ) 
 
 Pleasures of Wemory. Rogers. 
 
 See page opposite inside of first ca^
 
 song?}^"-^ B 000 004 346 
 
 Favorite Poems. Leigh Hunt. 
 2<v Favorite Poems. Herbert. 
 
 Favorite Poems. Collins, Drvden, Marvell. 
 
 Favorite Poems. Herrick. 
 2(x Lays of Ancient Rome, and other Poems. Macau lav. 
 
 Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers. Aytoun. 
 
 27. Favorite Poems. Charlrs Kingsley. 
 Favorite Poems. Owen Meredith. 
 Favorite Poems. Stedman. 
 
 28. Nathaniel Hawthorne. An Essay, by Fields. 
 Tales of the White Hills. ) „ 
 
 Legends of New England. / Hawthorne. 
 
 29. Oliver Cromwell. Carlyle. 
 
 A Virtuoso's Collection. ) „ 
 
 Legends of the Province House. } Hawthornb. 
 
 30. Favorite Poems. iHnrviP^ 
 My Hunt after "The Captain." ) ^^LMEi, 
 
 31. My Garden Acquaintance. ) t „ .„. . 
 A Moosehead Journal. [Lowell. 
 The Farmer's Boy. Bloomfield. 
 
 32. A Day's Pleasure. | 
 Buying a Horse. 
 
 Flitting. |- Howells. 
 
 The Mouse. 
 
 A Year in a Venetian Palace. J 
 33- Selections from the Breakfast-Table Series and froiB Pages 
 from an Old Volume of Life. Holmes. 
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