^ If 
 
 ^AIN(1]W^ 
 
 LI 
 
 Jill 
 
 Ill^> 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 ■ M \J .1 I 1 T _/ J ' 
 
 inavv*-
 
 ^v 
 
 V/i 
 
 :^ ^r7 
 
 
 =9. 
 
 ^MM'N 
 
 C5 
 
 ^- '' 
 
 'V/: 
 
 -^\ 
 
 ' J « I ' . J J ^ 
 
 < \,' J » I » ^ J ■« 
 
 .^ 
 
 ..^
 
 
 /:/ ^/,^^ 
 
 f 
 
 PAPERS 
 
 HUMOROUS AND PATHETIC.
 
 PAPERS 
 
 HUMOROUS AND PATHETIC: 
 
 BEING SELECTIONS FROM THE WORKS OF 
 
 GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA. 
 
 REVISED AND ABRIDGED BY THE AUTHOR 
 FOR PUBLIC READING. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 TISSLEY BROTIIKllS. 18. CATHERLXK STREET, STRAND. 
 
 1872. 
 
 [All riyhU of Trantlation and Reproduction are reserved.'\
 
 lONBON: 
 
 SAVILI,, EEWAEDS AKD CO., PRINTEBS, CHANBOS STKBET, 
 
 COVENT GABDEN.
 
 PEEFACE. 
 
 MESSRS. TINSLEY, the esteemed firm who 
 have pubHshed some half score of books of 
 mme during as many years, have asked me to 
 make a selection from the works which they hold 
 in such a manner as to render the papers suit- 
 able for public reading ; and I have done their 
 bidding' : to their satisfaction, I hope, although 
 scarcely, I must confess, to my own ; since I 
 have been forced, with a view towards sparing 
 the time and the patience of a possibly popu- 
 lar audience, to make very great excisions in 
 the articles printed in this volume. The prun- 
 ing knife, habitually, and the axe, occasionally, 
 have been used : and to be called upon to 
 mutilate one's own offspring is, to say the least, 
 painful. The father of a numerous progeny 
 should properly, I think, be as fond of his 
 weakest, most rickety and most deformed 
 bantling as of his shapeliest son or his comeliest 
 daughter; and he is the best parent who is 
 unable to tell which of his children he loves 
 
 ic 
 
 o-:
 
 vi Preface. 
 
 most. If there be any swans among my 
 geese it is for the public, and not for me, to 
 judge. I may mention, however, that one paper 
 in this collection was originally printed in 
 Household Words in 1851, and has conse- 
 quently more than attained its majority. Its 
 reversionary interest in the favour of the public 
 was disposed of (on very liberal terms) many 
 years ago ; and it may have but little to in- 
 herit in the wav of criticism, now that it has 
 come of age. I may further remark that the 
 article in question, 'The Key of the Street/ 
 was not by any means my first printed offence. 
 My original sin was committed, I think, in the 
 columns of the Family Herald, and in the 
 shape of a burlesque story bearing on the 
 Eailway Mania, in the year 1845; but the 
 kindly acceptance of the ' Key of the Street' 
 by the late Mr. Chaules Dickens did in 
 reality lead me to the adoption of the profes- 
 sion of letters as a serious and responsible 
 vocation. Mr. Dickens had no sooner j^ib- 
 lished my ' Key' than ho began, like his own 
 Oliver Twist, to 'ask for more;' I continued 
 to write 'more' for him durino- eijrhteen 
 years; and I am still writing 'more' in the 
 journal conducted by his son. I have seen 
 in print, both in this country and in the
 
 Preface. vii 
 
 United States, a number of paragraphs in 
 wliicli the circumstances under which the 
 
 * Key of tlie Street' was written were rehitcd 
 in a more or less absurd manner. Not many 
 of my readers, perhaps, desire any enlighten- 
 ment whatever on the subject ; but there are 
 always a few people who are anxious to know 
 whether the author of a tale has really been 
 himself the hero of the adventures he describes ; 
 and whether it was indeed Paul Ferroll who 
 wrote that startling^ narrative of the killiuir of 
 Paul Ferroll's wife. For the benefit of such 
 inquisitive souls I will state thus much : that 
 more than one-and-twenty years since, being 
 at the time the landlord of an eligible twelve- 
 roomed house, in AVellington Street, Strand, 
 hard by the then office of IlouscJioId Words, I 
 happened one night to be locked out of my 
 own dwelling; and that I did actually walk 
 the streets, shelterless, until next morning, 
 Avitli my receipts for rent and taxes duly paid 
 in my pocket. The documents, unhappily, 
 were not of a nature to be discounted by the 
 
 * private gentlemen' or ' retired tradesmen,' 
 who are always so benevolently read}^ to assist 
 'persons in want of temporar}'- accommodation.' 
 Since then I have walked the streets all nights 
 bedless, in times of political or festive stress.
 
 viii Preface. 
 
 maii}'^ times, and in many countries — notably 
 in Alsace and Lorraine, in Venetia, and in the 
 Tyrol ; but the occasions were those when I 
 had plenty of cash, but when beds were not 
 procurable for love or money. In 1851 1 beat 
 the London pavement with desolate hoof, 
 simply because I had no bed whither to repair, 
 and no more money than the sum I have set 
 down in print. The statement may be as 
 inelegant as Ben Jonson's retort to John 
 Sylvester; but, as Ben cogently remarked, it 
 is True. 
 
 J<muary^ lb72.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. THE CONVERSION OF COLONEL QUAGG . . 1 
 
 II. LITTLE SAINT ZITA 32 
 
 III, THE KEY OF THE STREET 54 
 
 IV. DOWN WHITECHAPEL AVAY 85 
 
 V. TATTYBOYS RENTS. . Ill 
 
 VI. HOW I WENT TO SEA 131) 
 
 VII. NIAGARA IN AVINTER 166 
 
 VIII. THE WORMS 192 
 
 IX. SCHENECTADY 204 
 
 X. A POODLE XT THE PROW 230 
 
 XI. THE BLEEDING DIAMOND 250 
 
 XII. A VISIT TO BEDLAM 280 
 
 XIII. MADAME BUSQUE^S 303 
 
 XIV. THE CLEAN VILLAGE OF BROCK . . . 313
 
 HUMOROUS PAPERS, 
 
 THE CONVERSION OF COLONEL QUAGG. 
 
 SOME of our religions in the States are not 
 over well paid. Down Punkington way, 
 now, they have a religion with a chandelier ; 
 at least the chapel in which Eeverend Eufus 
 P. Pillsbury officiates has one. That religion 
 has a bell, and a weathercock, and a flight of 
 steps of General Bufi'um's patent scagliola 
 adamant, and columns with Corinthian fixings 
 outside— bright and handsome. There's another 
 religion in those parts though, that has no 
 better chapel than a loft, formerly used for 
 warehousing dry goods ; and our citizens have 
 to go to worship up a ladder, and through a 
 trap-door. Elder Peabody Eagle proposed 
 that they should have a crane outside the
 
 2 TIte Conversion of Colonel Quagg. 
 
 building, as was tlie case in Baggby Brotliers', 
 tbe former proprietors' time, and so hoist the 
 congregation up like cotton or molasses ; but 
 the proposition, though practical, was thought 
 irreverent, and came to nothing. Eeverend 
 Doctor Nathan Flower, who oificiated over 
 the dry goods, was very poorly off. Indeed, 
 people said that he had nothing under his 
 black doctor of divinity's gown but a shirt 
 and pants, and that his whole income did not 
 amount to two hundred dolls, a-year ; whereas 
 Eeverend Eufus P. Pillsbury had a clear seven 
 or eight hundred ; besides a store of silk 
 gowns as stiff as boards, and that rustled beau- 
 tifully ; white cambric handkerchiefs by the 
 whole dozen ; a real diamond ring ; starched 
 collars and bands by scores ; and, better than 
 all, the run of all his congregation's sympa- 
 thies and houses, which was worth I don't 
 know how many corncakes and cups of tea 
 every day ; besides comforters, over-shoes, 
 umbrellas, gold watches, silver teapots, self- 
 acting coffee-biggins, and select libraries of 
 theology, given or sent to him in the way of 
 testimonials in the course of the year, without 
 end. 
 
 Folks do say, too, that when Eeverend 
 Eufus was in the ministry down South,
 
 The Conversion of Colonel Qiu'l/fj- 3 
 
 before he came to Punkington, lie was even 
 still richer in worldly goods, for that he 
 owned something mentionable in niggers. 
 But 3^ou know how folks will talk. 
 
 Punking-ton is in BufFum county, Mass. 
 There are a good many religions there. They 
 don't quite hate each other ; strive, speechify, 
 write and talk against each other, as seems to 
 be indispensable with orthodoxy and liete- 
 rodox}-- in Britain. Each religion gets along 
 pretty well as it can : some grandly, some 
 poorly, from Eeverend Eufus P. Pillsbury 
 with his chandelier, stiff silk gown and 
 diamond ring, down to Reverend Lovejoy 
 Snowdrop, who is quite black, and preaches to 
 the coloured people (they can sing, some — 
 coloured people can) down in a little crazy 
 affair sot up with planks and sailcloth close 
 to the wharf, and which is more like a wash- 
 house than a chapel. 
 
 -X It may be ten years ago that there was a 
 religion in rather a small way in Punkington, 
 called the Grace- Walking Brethren. They 
 had originally been called the Punkington 
 Seceders ; but, coalescing with Reverend 
 Py grave Clapp — who had just sloped from 
 Coonopolis, Ga., where he had had a slight 
 difficulty with the citizens on the Preesoil 
 
 1—2
 
 4 The Conversion of Colonel Quagg. 
 
 (whole ticket) question, which ended by his 
 being ridden on a rail out of the State, and a 
 report being spread abroad that the darkness 
 of his complexion came from his having been 
 tarred ; and that under his clothes he was 
 feathered like a bird — coalescino- with this 
 persecuted Testifier, the amalgamated ticket 
 was thenceforward known as Grace-Walkino-. 
 They encountered some little opposition at 
 first. The Baal-Peor congregation (brass band 
 connexion) felt it incumbent upon them to 
 denounce and repudiate the Grace- Walkers as 
 Erastians, Ebionites, Arminians, Socinians, 
 nigger-saviours, shoulder-hitters, money-dig- 
 gers, and traders in shin-plasters ; Eeverend 
 Lysander Sphoon published a card in the 
 Punkington Sphynx and Commercial Adver- 
 tiser, in which he accused Eeverend Barkley 
 BafTCS, of the Grace-Walkers, of whittlinir in 
 the pulpit, chewing in the vestry, and having 
 a bust of Tom Paine over his bookcase. 
 Eeverend B. B. retorted by another card in 
 the Punkington Sibyl and North-and-South 
 Buffum Oracle, in which he alluded to the 
 well-known story of Eeverend L. Sphoon 
 having been in early life in Sing-Sing peni- 
 tentiary for picking up things on the wharf; 
 adding some little anecdotes concerning what
 
 The Conversion of Colonel Qiiaf/f/. 5 
 
 he had done subsequently in tlio wooden 
 nutmeg trade, the clocks-that-wouldn t-figure 
 trade, tlie school-teaching trade, the spirit- 
 rapping trade, the tarred-oakum-iniitation- 
 India-rubbcr trade, the temperance-lecturing 
 trade, and the whisky-selling trade. lie 
 regretted that his sacerdotal character pre- 
 cluded him from cowhiding Reverend L. 
 Sphoon the first time he met him in town ; 
 but offered to match any one of his lay-elders 
 against his opponent's deacons, and to forfeit 
 fiity dolls, if the former left a strip of skin 
 broader than a finger on the body of the latter 
 alter half an hour's ' licking.' 
 
 This was the only feud of any consequence 
 in which the Grace- Walking Brethren were 
 concerned. They were peaceful, decent, harm- 
 less bodies enough, minding their own busi- 
 ness, not interfering with that of anybody 
 else, and our citizens took to them kindly. 
 Their congregation soon began to multiply in 
 number, and tliey had chapels at Marathon, 
 Squashborough, Lower Whittle, Thermopyla?, 
 Jeffersonville, and East Halleluia. Within a 
 3'ear from their establishment they had five 
 circuits within a fifty-mile circle of Punk- 
 ington. 
 
 Now a circuit, you must understand, may
 
 6 The Conversion of Colonel Q,ucigg. 
 
 compreliend five, ten, fifteen, twenty congre- 
 gations ; and, the religion not being quite 
 rich enough to entertain a minister for each 
 separate congregation, there are so many 
 circuits — religious ' beats,' in fact — each of 
 which is assigned to a different clergyman, 
 who goes the round thereof in turn. Punk- 
 ino'ton circuit, includins: as it did the 
 townships of Eggnogville, Bunkum, and 
 Beersheba, together with Eapparoarer city 
 and the villages of Snakesby, Fiscopolis, New 
 Marseilles, Globbs, and Ephesus, was a very 
 popular circuit indeed. There were always 
 dreadful handsome girls at preachings and 
 camp meetings, and plenty of comfortable 
 farm-houses where the ministers were enter- 
 tained '^vith such delicacies in the way of pork 
 fixings, mush, hominy, johnnycakes, canvas- 
 backed ducks, pumpkin pies, squash, whitepot, 
 curds, molasses, turkeys, hams, and apple 
 pasties ; with elder wine, and perhaps a small 
 drop of peach brandy or Monongahela whisky, 
 that would have brought water into the mouth 
 of a London alderman all cloyed and soggy 
 from a tortoise dinner at Guildhall, or a proud/ 
 British nobleman surfeited with the luxuries 
 of a regal banquet at the court of St. James s. ] 
 The country round Punkington was pretty and
 
 The Conversion of Colonel Qua(/(/. 7 
 
 pictnresome; and the brethren walked in 
 grrace with meekness and devoiitness. There 
 was but one ihrn^i: wanting^ to make the whole 
 circuit one real land of milk and honey ; or, 
 rather, there was one thing that turned it into 
 a land of gall and wormword — of soreness of 
 flesh and bitterness of spirit ; and that thing 
 was an individual; and that individual was 
 Colonel Quagg. 
 
 A dreadful man, a skeery man, a man to 
 waken snakes and rile monkeys was Colonel 
 Quagg. Goliah "Washington Quagg was his 
 name ; and two and a half miles from Punk- 
 ington did he locate, on the main road to 
 Eapparoarer city. He was six foot three 
 without his stockings, which would have made 
 him, in jackboots, screeching tall to look at. 
 He had a bushy beard and whiskers, and the 
 integument that covered his bones was hard and 
 horny as a crab-shell. The hair of his head 
 was like a primeval forest, for it looked as 
 though it had never been lopped, combed, 
 weeded, or trimmed. His eyes were fearful to 
 look upon when they flashed, and they flashed 
 almost always. He ate so much that people 
 said he was hollow all through — legs, arms, 
 and all — and packed his food from the feet 
 upwards. Some people compared him to a
 
 8 The Conversion of Colonel Quagg. 
 
 locomotive, for he was always smoking, drink- 
 ing, roaring, and coming into collision with 
 other folks. He compared himself to a Mis- 
 sissippi steamhoat with the safety-valves tied 
 down with rope-yarn. ' Eosin me uj), and 
 stand on my boilers,' he used to cry. ' Grive 
 me goss and let me rip. Strangers, pay your 
 bilh", and liquor up once more before you die, 
 for I must lick every 'coon of you or bust.' 
 He was always licking 'coons. He licked a 
 backwoodsman ; four ' Bowery bhoys ' from 
 New York, one after the other ; an Irish hod- 
 carrier (with one hand), and an English prize- 
 fighter. The}^ sot a giant out of a menagerie 
 at him once, and the giant closed with him, 
 and was heard, soon afterwards, to crack like 
 a nut. The giant said (after he was cracked) 
 that it was a darned, tarnation, everlasting 
 shame it was ; for he had gone in to whip a 
 man, not a grisly bear. 
 
 Colonel Quagg was a blacksmith. He was 
 not by any means the sort of blacksmith that 
 Professor Longfellow has described. He had 
 no boys to sit in the church among, no little 
 daughter to hear singing in the choir. He 
 was not the sort of blacksmith / saw once, 
 during my travels in Europe, in a little village 
 in the south of France, and who, on a broiling
 
 The Conversion of Colonel Qnagfj. 9 
 
 July day, was hammering away at his anvil 
 with might and main, — in his shirt, and with 
 his hair in curl papers ; for it was Sunday, 
 and there was to be a fete in the village in the 
 evening. No. Colonel Quagg was a very 
 different kind of Mulcibcr : not a harmonious 
 blacksmith or a learned blacksmith ; but a 
 roaring, rampagious, coaly, knotty, sooty 
 Yulcan of a man. To hear him shout out 
 hoarsely to 'Zeek, his long, lank, bellows- 
 blower : to see him whirl his tremendous 
 hammer above his head as though it had been 
 a featlier, and bring it down upon the iron on 
 his anvil with such a monstrous clang that the 
 sparks flew about, and the flames leaped up 
 the chimney and tripped up the heels of the 
 smoke, as if they were frightened out of their 
 wits. This was a sight — grand if you like, 
 but fearful. 
 
 The colonelcy of Goliah Quagg arose from 
 his command of the Eapparoarer Tigers. 
 These redoubtable volunteers were (of course) 
 the a:gis of the Union, and the terror of 
 Buft'um County. On fourth of July day they 
 fired off so many rounds of musketry that 
 their eventually blowing themselves up witli 
 gunpowder was thought to be by no means a 
 matter of extreme improbability. The Eappa-
 
 10 The Conversion of Colonel Qucigg. 
 
 roarer Screamer newspaper teemed with cards 
 headed ' Eapparoarer Tigers, attention !' and 
 commanding the attendance of the corps at 
 reviews, burials or weddings of members, or 
 political meetings. Colonel Quagg, in his 
 Tiger uniform, at the head of his corps, vow- 
 ing vengeance against the Punkington Na- 
 tional Guards, the Lower Whittle Eire Corps ; 
 the Squashborough Invincibles ; the Bunkum 
 Defenders ; the East Halleluia Hussars (be- 
 tween which last-named volunteers and the 
 Tigers there had occurred a deadly fray at the 
 corners of Seventh Street and Slosr Avenue, 
 Punkington ; the Hussars being at last obliged 
 to take refuge in a liquor store in the next 
 block, and two eyes and unnumbered double 
 teeth being left on the field) : Colonel Quagg 
 brandishing his sabre and threatening gouging, 
 cowhiding, and etarnal chawing-up to creation 
 in general and rival militia and fire-corps in 
 particular, was a great and glorious sight to 
 see once, perhaps twice, but not oftener ; for 
 the sun at noonday dazzles, and distance lends 
 enchantment to the voice of a powder maga- 
 zine, or Vesuvius, or a mad dog. 
 
 Colonel Quagg had neither wife nor relations, 
 chick nor child. He lived behind the smithy, 
 in a grim cabin ; where, for aught anybody
 
 The Conversion of Colonel Qua(ju. 1 1 
 
 knew, he slept on the bones of his enemies, or 
 kept bears and wolves, or burned brimstone 
 and Beno-al liijhts in his stove. Where he 
 was raised was not certain. What he did on 
 Sundays (for he never went to churcli or 
 meetings, and could not, in deference to our 
 citizens, work in his smithy on the Sabbath) 
 was not known. There were but two things 
 about him on which arguments could be, with 
 tolerable certainty, held. That he liked rum 
 — raw — which he drank in vast quantities 
 without ever winking, or being intoxicated ; 
 and that he hated the Grrace- Walking Brethren. 
 
 What these or any other brethren had ever 
 done to incur his dislike was not stated ; but 
 it was clear and certain that he hated them 
 fiercely and implacably. He declaimed against 
 them in drinking bars ; he called tliem oppro- 
 brious names in the street ; and, which was 
 particularly disagreeable to the brethren them- 
 selves, he made a point of giving every minister 
 who passed his smithy — on horse or on foot, 
 on business or pleasure — a sound and particu- 
 larly humiliating beating. 
 
 Colonel Quagg's method was this. 'Zeek, 
 tlie long, lanky assistant, would, as he blew 
 the bellows, keep a sharp look-out through a 
 little round hole in the smithy wall. When,
 
 12 The Conversion of Colonel Qiiagg. 
 
 on the crest of the httle hill in the valley 
 beneath which the smithy lay (the bridge over 
 the Danube, leading to Punkington, was in 
 the other direction), there appeared the devoted 
 figure of a Grace- Walking clergyman, 'Zeek 
 would call out, ' One o' 'em, Colonel !' Where- 
 upon the blacksmith would lay down his 
 hammer, and say grimly, ' 'Zeek, " ile." ' 
 
 The ' ile,' or oil, being brought, the colonel 
 would therewith anoint a tremendous leather 
 strap, in size and appearance between the trace 
 for a cart-horse and the lathe for a steam- 
 engine. Then would he sally forth, tug the 
 luckless preacher by oue leg off his horse if 
 he happened to be riding, or grapple him by 
 the collar of his coat if he were a-foot, and 
 thrash him with the strap — not till he howled 
 for mercy, for the victim always did tltat at the 
 very first stroke of the terrible leather, but till 
 his own brawny arm could no longer hold the 
 mighty weapon. All this was accompanied by 
 a flood of abuse on the part of the Colonel : 
 the minister, his congregation, sect, person, 
 and presumed character, were all animadverted 
 upon ; and, after having been treated with 
 brutality, he was dismissed with scorn, with a 
 sardonic recommendation to send as many 
 more of his brethren that way as he could, to
 
 TIic Conversion of Colonel Q^'(i(j(j. 13 
 
 be served in the same vray. Then, execution 
 beiniT done, and the miserable victim of his 
 ferocity gone on his bruised way towards 
 Punkincton, the colonel would stride into 
 Silas B. Powkey's tavern over the hill, hot, 
 perspiring, and fatigued ; and, throwing his 
 strap on the bar, and seating himself on a 
 puncheon, would throw his legs aloft, half in 
 weariness half in trium])h, even till they 
 reached the altitude of the mantelpiece, 
 would there rest them, and, ejecting a mighty 
 stream of tobacco juice, cry. 
 
 ' Squire, strapped another Grace-Walker : 
 Eum.' 
 
 Now this, as in the celebrated Frog and 
 Boy case [vide spelling-book reports), albeit 
 excellent sport to one party concerned, was 
 death to the other. Martyrdom had not 
 exactly been contracted for when the Grace- 
 Walking: Brethren entered the ministry ; and 
 without martyrdom there was no riding the 
 Punkington circuit. There was no avoiding 
 the colonel and his awful strap. There was 
 no £roin£r round another way. There was no 
 mollifying, persuading, or infusing soft pity 
 into the colonel's breast. ' I licks ye,' he was 
 wont to reply when interceded with, ' because 
 I kin, and because I like, and because ye'se
 
 14 The Conversion of Colonel Quagg. 
 
 crittiirs that licks is good for. Skins ye have 
 on and skins I'll have off; hard or soft, wet or 
 dry, spring" or fall. Walk in grace if ye like 
 till pumpkins is peaches ; but licked ye must 
 be till your toenails drop off and your noses 
 bleed blue ink.' And licked they were ac- 
 cordingly. 
 
 What was to be done with such a man — a 
 man wdth this dreadful fixed idea of strapping 
 clergymen — a man with an indomitable will, 
 a strong arm, and an abusive tongue ? War- 
 rants, summonses, exigents, and actions for 
 battery, the colonel laughed to scorn. ' As 
 much law as you like,' he said, ' but not one 
 lick will that save you.' The female members 
 of the Grace- Walking congregation were fain 
 to write anonymous letters to him, exhorting 
 him to repentance. Eeverend Joash M'Tear 
 wrote to Lucretia Z. Tackeboguey of Grim- 
 gribberopelis, Va., the celebrated table-turner 
 and spirit-rapper, and begged her to consult a 
 four-legged mahogany of extraordinary talent 
 and penetration with reference to Colonel 
 Quagg's persecution of the saints. He received 
 in reply a highly flattering and interesting 
 communication from the spirits of Cleopatra 
 and Johanna Southcote, in which it was 
 confidently predicted that shortly after the
 
 The Conversion of Colonel Qungg. 15 
 
 passing of the Maine liquor law in Holland, 
 and the adoption of Blooraerism at the British 
 court, Colonel Quagg would be bound in 
 leathern straps for five hundred 3^ears ; which, 
 all things taken into consideration, was not a 
 very encouraging look-out for the Grace- 
 Walkers. Then they took to holding public 
 meetings, mass meetings, indignation meetings, 
 against him ; then to praying for him ; then to 
 praying to be delivered from him as from a 
 serpent or fiery dragon. One bright spirit of 
 the sect suggested bribery, either directly, by 
 the enclosure of dollar-notes, or indirectly, by 
 the encouragement of the colonel's trade in 
 having horses shod at his smithy. But both 
 artifices failed. The colonel took the first ten- 
 dollar bill that was offered him, and adminis- 
 tered a more unmerciful thrashing than 
 ordinary to the giver — as a receipt, he said. 
 The next victim happened to have a horse that 
 opportunely cast both his fore-shoes in front 
 of the colonel's residence. The enemy of 
 Grace-Walkers shod the beast ; but the only 
 benefit that its proprietor derived from giving 
 Quagg his custom was the privilege of being 
 strapped inside the smithy instead of out of 
 it, and the threat that the next time he 
 presumed to come that way he should be laid
 
 16 Tlie Conversion of Colonel Quagg. 
 
 on the anvil and beaten as flat as a wheel-tire 
 with a red-hot crowbar. 
 f> This state of things was growing intolerable. 
 The more the brethren went on preaching, the 
 more the Colonel went on licking. ; The more 
 they beat the — | 
 
 ' Pulpit drum ecclesiastic 
 With fist instead of a stick,' 
 
 the more Colonel Quagg proved his doctrine ' 
 orthodox — 
 
 ' By apostolic blows and knocks.' 
 
 The Punkington circuit began to lack 
 ministers. Clergymen were not forthcoming. 
 The pulpits were deserted. The congrega- 
 tions began to cry out. No wonder. Devotion, 
 meekness, self-abnegation are all admirable 
 qualities in their way, but human nature, after 
 all, is not cast-iron. It will wrestle with wild 
 beasts a,t Ephesus, but it does not exactly 
 love to wrestle when the wild beasts are twist- 
 ing the bars of their cage, and have not had a 
 shin-bone to feed on for three weeks. To put 
 one's head into the lion's mouth is good once 
 in a way ; but it is hardly prudent to do so 
 when the lion's tail begins to wag, and his 
 mane to bristle, and his eyes to flash fire and 
 fury. ;
 
 The Conversion of Colonel Quagfj. 1 7 
 
 There was a meeting held at Punkington 
 to decide upon what ministers should go the 
 ensuing Spring circuit; ijust as, in Europe, 
 / the Judges meet to arrange among themselves 
 \who shall go a-hanging and where. The ques- 
 tion of Colonel Quagg was debated in solemn 
 conclave : for, though all the other places in 
 the circuit found read}' volunteers, not one 
 clergyman could be found to oiler to administer 
 to the spiritual necessities of the Rapparoarer 
 brethren. Brother JM'Tear had a bad cold ; 
 Brother Brownjohn would rather not; Brother 
 Knash had a powerful call down Weepingwail 
 way ; Brother Bobberlink would next time — 
 perhaps. Brother Slocum gave a more decided 
 reason than any one of his brother ministers. 
 He said that he would be etarnally licked if 
 he'd go, because he'd be sure to be consider- 
 ably licked if he went. 
 
 A brother who, up to that time, had said 
 little or nothing — a long, thin, loose-limbered 
 brother, with a face very like a quince more 
 than three parts withered — who sat in the 
 corner of the room during the debate, with his 
 legs curled up very much in the fashion of a dog : 
 — a brother, to say the truth, of whose abilities 
 a somewhat mean opinion was entertained, for 
 he was given to stammering, blushing, lieni- 
 
 2
 
 18 The Conversion of Colonel Quagg. 
 
 ming, hawing, scraping with his feet, and 
 seemed to possess no peculiar accomplishment 
 save the questionable one of shutting one eye 
 when he expectorated — this brother, by name 
 Zephaniah Sockdolloger, here addressed him- 
 self modestly to speech : — 
 
 ' Thorns,' he said, ' isn't good eating ; 
 stinging-nettles isn't pleasant handling, with- 
 out gloves ; nor is thistles comfortable, worn 
 next to the skin. Corns is painful. Man's 
 skin was not made to be flayed off him like 
 unto the hide of a wild cat. But vocation is 
 vocation, and dooty, dooty — some. I, Zepha- 
 niah Sockdolloger, will go on the Rappa- 
 roarer location, and if Brother Brownjohn will 
 lone me his hoss I will confront the man — 
 even Goliah Quagg.' After which the devoted 
 brother shut one eye and expectorated. 
 
 The meeting turned their quids and ex- 
 pectorated too ; but without shutting their 
 eyes. They adopted the long brother's dis- 
 interested proposition, nem. con. But Brother 
 Bobberlink whispered to Brother Slocum that 
 he had allers thought Zephaniah Sockdolloger 
 considerable of a fool, and that now he knowed 
 it — that was a fact. 
 
 The fire roared, the sparks flew up the 
 chimney, and the bellows blew fiercely one
 
 The Conversion of Colonel Quagfj. 19 
 
 April evening; and Colonel Quagg and his 
 anvil were in fierce dispute about a red hot 
 horseshoe.'?, The Colonel had the advantajre 
 of a hammer that Tubal Cain might have 
 wielded when he fiishioned the first plough- 
 share ; but the anvil was used to hard knocks, 
 and stood out against the blacksmith bravely. 
 Indeed, if a certain metallic vibration \vas to 
 be taken into account, the anvil had the best 
 of it ; for it had the last word. Only the 
 unfortunate horseshoe came to grief ; and, like 
 the man between two stools who came to the 
 ground, was battered into all sorts of shapes 
 between the two disputants. Suddenl}^, 'Zeek, 
 the bellows-blower, ceased for a moment in his 
 occupation, and remarked : 
 
 ' One 'o them, Colonel, top o' the hill. On 
 a boss. Legs as long as a coulter.' 
 
 ' Twankeydillo ! twankeydillo I'* sung out 
 Colonel Quagg in great exultation. 'lie, 
 'Zeek, and plenty of it for Jack Strap, the 
 crittur, is getting tarnation rusty.' 
 
 The fatal strap being 'iled' rather more 
 liberally than usual, the Colonel grasped it in 
 his mighty hand, and passed out of the smithy 
 door. 
 
 song 
 
 * Twankeydillo is the burden of an old country bhick^nutli'!! 
 
 2—2
 
 20 The Conversion of Colonel Quagg. 
 
 He saw, coming towards liim down tlie hill, 
 a long-legged, yellow-faced man in black, witli 
 a white neckcloth and a broad brimmed hat. 
 He bestrode a solemn-looking, white horse 
 with a long tail. He had but one spur (the 
 rider) but it was a very long and rusty spur. 
 In his hand he carried a little dog's-eared 
 book ; but, as he rode, he sung quite softly a 
 little hymn that ran something like unto the 
 following : — 
 
 ' We are marching through the gi'acious ground. 
 We soon shall hear the trumpet sound ; 
 And then we shall in glory reign, 
 And never, never, part again. 
 
 What, never part again ? 
 
 No, never part again. 
 
 No, never, never, never, &c. 
 And then we shall, &c.' 
 
 Colonel Quagg waited till the verse of the 
 hymn was quite finished, and the horseman 
 had got to within a couple of yards of his 
 door, when he called out in a terrible 
 voice, 
 
 ' Hold hard !' 
 
 ' Brother,' said the man on the horse, * good 
 evening and peace.' 
 
 ' For the matter of that,' responded Colonel 
 Quagg, ' rot ! Hold hard, and git out of that 
 hoss.'
 
 The Conversion of Colonel Quagg. 21 
 
 * Brother ?' the other interrogated, as if not 
 quite understanding the command. 
 
 * Git out, I tell you,' cried the blacksmith. 
 ' Legs and feet. Git out, you long-tailed 
 blackbird. Git out, for I'm riz, and snakes 
 will wake ! I want to talk to you.' 
 
 The long man slid rather than got off his 
 horse. It was indeed, Brother Zephaniah 
 SockdoUoger ; for his face was quincier than 
 ever, and, as he descended from his steed, he 
 shut one eye and expectorated. 
 
 ' Now,' said the blacksmith, seating himself 
 on the horse block in front of his dwelling, 
 and giving a blow on the ground with his strap 
 that made the pebbles dance. ' Where do you 
 hail from ?' 
 
 ' From Punkino-ton city, brother,' answered 
 the reverend Zephaniah. 
 
 ' And whar are you a goin' tu ?' 
 
 ' To Rapparoarer city.' 
 
 ' And what may you be goin' for to du in 
 that location ?' 
 
 ' Goin' on circuit.' 
 
 'What?' 
 
 ' Lord's business, brother.' 
 
 Colonel Quagg shook out the strap to its 
 full length, and passed it through his horny 
 hand.
 
 22 The Conversion of Colonel Quagg. 
 
 ' There was a brother of yours/ he said 
 sententiously, 'that went to Rapparoarer city 
 on Lord's business last falL He passed this 
 edifice he did. He met this strap close by 
 here. And this strap made him see comets, 
 and dance like a shaking Quaker, and feel 
 uncommon like a bob-tailed bull in fly-time.' 
 
 There was something so dreadfully sug- 
 gestive in the position of a bob-tailed bull in 
 flj^-time (the insects frequently kill cattle with 
 their stings) that Brother Sockdolloger wriggled 
 uneasily. 
 
 ' And I d/c hope,' the Colonel continued,- 
 ' that you, brother, aren't of the same religion 
 as this babe of grace was as met the strap as 
 he was riding. That religion was the Grrace- 
 Walking religion, and that religion I always 
 lick.' 
 
 ' Lick, brother ?' 
 
 ' Lick. With the strap. Dreadful.' 
 
 ' Colonel Goliah Quagg,' said the minister, 
 'for such I know, is your name in the flesh, 
 I a?n a preacher of the Grace-Walking con- 
 nexion. Humble, but faithful, I hope.' 
 
 ' Then,' returned Colonel Quagg, making an 
 ironical bow, ' this is the strap with which I 
 am going to lick you into sarse.' 
 
 ' Brother, brother,' the other cried, shaking
 
 The Conversion of Colonel Quat/f/. 23 
 
 liis head, ' cast that cruel strap from out of 
 thine hand. Close thine hand, if thou wilt, 
 upon the hammer of thy trade, the coulter of 
 thy plough, upon a pen, the rudder of a ship, 
 the handle of a lantern to light men to peace 
 and love and goodwill ; but close it not upon 
 sword of iron, or bludgeon of wood, or strap 
 of leathern hide. For, from the uplifting and 
 downfalliug of those wicked instruments came 
 never good ; but rather boiling tears, and 
 bruises and blood, and misery, and death.' 
 
 ' Now look you here,' the blacksmith cried, 
 impatiently. ' Talk as long as you like; but 
 talk while I am a-licking of you. For time 
 is precious, and must not be thrown away 
 nohow. Lick you I must, and lick you I will. 
 Hard.' 
 
 * But, brother — but. Colonel ' 
 
 'Rot!' exclaimed the Colonel. 'Straps is 
 waiting. Stubs and fences ! I'll knock you 
 into horseshoes and then into horsenails, if you 
 keep me waiting.' 
 
 ' Have you no merciful i'eelings ?' asked 
 Zephaniah, as if sorely troubled. 
 
 ' Not a cent of 'em' Air you ready ! Will 
 you take it fighting, or will you take it lying 
 down ! Some takes it fighting ; some takes it 
 like lambs, lying down. Only make haste.'
 
 24 The Conversion of Colonel Quagg. 
 
 'Goliali Quagg,' the minister responded, 'I 
 am a man of peace, and not one that goes 
 about raging with sword and buckler, like 
 unto Apollyon, or a corporal of the Boston 
 Tigers ; and I would rather not take it at all.' 
 
 ' You must,' the Colonel roared, now fairly 
 infuriated. ' Pickled alligators ! you must. 
 Hold hard, you coon ! Hold hard ! for I'm a 
 goin' to begin. Now, once more ; is it fighting, 
 or is it quiet, you mean for to take it ?' 
 
 'Well,' said Brother Zephaniah, 'you are 
 hard upon me. Colonel, and that's true. It's 
 fighting or lying down, isn't it ?' 
 
 ' Aye,' returned tlie colonel, brandishing his 
 strap. 
 
 ' Tlieii Til lake it fighting' the man of peace 
 said quietly. 
 
 Colonel Quagg halted for a moment, as if 
 amazed at the audacity of the Grace- Walker. 
 Then, with a wild halloo, he rushed upon him 
 very much as a bob-tailed bull does rush about 
 under the aggravating influence of flies. His 
 hand was upon the minister's collar ; the strap 
 that had done so much execution in its time 
 was swinging high in the air, when 
 
 Stay. Can you imagine the rage, astonisli- 
 ment, and despair of a schoolmaster caned by 
 his pupil ; of the Emperor of China sentenced to
 
 The Conversion of Colonel Qnarjfj. 25 
 
 be bambooed by a Hong Kong coolie ; of the 
 beadle of the Burlington Arcade expulsed 
 therefrom by a boy with a basket ; of a butler 
 kicked by a footpage ; of a Southern planter 
 cowhided by one of his own niggers ; of a 
 Broadway dandy jostled by a newly landed 
 Irish emigrant ; of a policeman ordered to 
 move on by an apple-woman ; of the Com- 
 mander-in-chief of the army desired to stand 
 at ease by a drummer ; of the Pope of Borne 
 blessed with two fingers by a chorister boy? 
 If you can imagine anything of that sort, — 
 but only if you can, — you may be able to form 
 some idea of how Colonel Quagg felt when a 
 storm of blows, hard, well-directed, and 
 incessant, began to fall on his head, on his 
 breast, on his face, on his shoulders, on his 
 arms, on his legs — all over his body, so rapidly 
 that he felt as if he was being hit everywhere 
 at once, — when he found his strap would hit 
 nowhere on the body of his opponent, but that 
 he himself was hit everywhere. 
 
 Sledgehammers ! Sledgehammers were no- 
 thing- to the lists of the Grace- Walkin"- brother. 
 A bob-tailed bull in fly-time was an animal to 
 be envied in comparison to the Colonel. He 
 danced with all the vis^our of a ni^'i^fer toeing? 
 and heeling a hornpipe. He saw more comets
 
 26 The Conversion of Colonel Quagg. 
 
 tlian Tyclio Bralie or Erra Pater ever dreamed 
 of. He felt that lie was all nose, and that a 
 horribly swollen one. Then that he had 
 swallowed all his teeth. Then that he had 
 five hundred eyes, and then none at all. Then 
 that his ribs went in and his blood came out. 
 Then his legs failed under him, and he fell down 
 all of a heap ; or perhaps, to speak classically 
 and pugilistically, he hit out wildly, felt groggy, 
 and went down at the ropes. The tall brother 
 went down atop of him, and continued pounding 
 away at his body — not perhaps as hard as he 
 could, but decidedly much harder than the 
 Colonel liked — singing all the while the little 
 hymn beginning 
 
 ' We are marching through the gracious ground,' 
 
 quite softly to himself. 
 
 ' Hold hard !' gasped the Colonel at last, 
 faintly. 'You don't mean murder, do you? 
 You wont hit a man when he's down, much 
 more, will you, brother ?' 
 
 ' By no means,' answered Zephaniah, bring- 
 ing down his fist nevertheless with a tremendous 
 ' bash ' upon the Colonel's nose, as if there 
 were a fly there, and he wanted to kill it. 
 ' But you've took it fighting, Colonel, and you 
 may as well now take it like a lamb, lying down.'
 
 Tlte Conversion of Colonel Qua<^f/. 27 
 
 ' But I'm broke, I tell you,' groaned the 
 vanquished blacksmith. ' I can't do no more. 
 You air so mighty hard, you areJ 
 
 ' Oh ! you give in, then ?' 
 
 ' Aye,' murmured Colonel Quagg, ' I cave in.' 
 
 ' Speak louder, I'm hard of hearing.' 
 
 'Yes !' repeated the Colonel, with a groan. 
 * I du cave in. For I'm beat ; whittled clean 
 away to the small end o' nothing— chawed 
 up — cornered.' 
 
 ' You must promise me one little thing, 
 Colonel Groliah Quagg,' said the Eeverend 
 Sockdolloger, without however removing his 
 knees from the Colonel's chest. ' You must 
 promise before I leave off hammering of your 
 body, never for to ill-treat by word or deed 
 any of our people — ministers, elders, deacons, 
 or brethren.' 
 
 ' I'll promise,' replied the Colonel ; ' only let 
 me up. You're choking me.' 
 
 'Not to rile, lick, or molest any other 
 peaceable critturs as are coming or going past 
 your way upon Lord's business.' 
 
 ' I promise,' muttered the Colonel, who was 
 now becoming purple in the face. 
 
 ' Likewise,' concluded Zcphaniah, pkiyfully 
 knocking away one of his adversary's loose 
 teeth, so as to make his mouth neat and tidy,
 
 28 The Conversion of Colonel Quagg. 
 
 'you must promise to give up drinking of 
 rum ; which is a dekision and a snare, and bad 
 for the innards, besides being on the trunk- 
 line to perdition. And finally, you must 
 promise to come to our next camp meeting, 
 clean shaved, and with a contrite heart.' 
 
 ' No,' cried the almost-expiring Colonel, ' I 
 wont, not for all the toebacco in Virginny ! 
 Nor yet for Martin Van Buren, or Dan'el 
 Webster! Nor yet for to be postmaster !' 
 
 ' You wont, brother ?' asked Zeplianiah, 
 persuasively raising his fist. 
 
 ' No, I'm darned if I do.' 
 
 ' Then,' said the Grace-Walker, meekly, ' I 
 must sing you another little hymn.' 
 
 Immediatel}^ afterwards Colonel Quagg's 
 tortures recommenced. He struggled, he 
 roared, he entreated, but in vain. All he 
 could see were the lono" man's arms whirlins" 
 about like the sails of windmills. All he could 
 feel was the deadly pain of the blows on his 
 already hideously bruised face and body. All 
 he could hear was the snuflflino- voice of his 
 tormentor singing, with an occasional stammer, 
 a verse of a little hymn, commencing 
 
 ' I'm goinj^ home to bliss above — 
 Will you go, will you go? 
 To live ill mercy, peace, and love — 
 Will you go, will you go ?
 
 The Conversion of Colonel Qxfigg. -9 
 
 jMv old companions fare you well, 
 A brighter fate has me befel, 
 I mean up in the skies to dwell. 
 
 Will you go, will you go ?' 
 
 He could stand it no longer. He threw out 
 his arms, and groaned, 'Spare my life, and I'll 
 promise an^'-thing.' 
 
 ' Happy to hear it, Colonel, 'answered Brother 
 Sockdolloger, helping his adversary to rise, 
 and then coolly settling his own white neck- 
 cloth and broadbrimmed hat. ' Perhaps you'll 
 be good enough to look after my lioss a bit. 
 He cast a shoe just after I left Punkington/ 
 
 Colonel Quagg, quite humiliated and crest- 
 fallen, proceeded to shoe the horse, which had 
 been quietly cropping the stunted herbage 
 while the Colonel was being licked. The 
 operation finished, as well as Quagg's bruised 
 arms would permit, the Grace- Walker gravely 
 handed him a coin, which the blacksmith as 
 gravely took ; then mounted his steed, and 
 rode away. As for 'Zeek he had been hiding 
 away somewhere during the combat. But he 
 now appeared ; and, to judge by the energetic 
 manner in which he blew the bellows, and a 
 certain grin overspreading his swarthy counte- 
 nance, he seemed -.not altogether displeased at 
 tlie discomfiture of his master. 
 N^ Colonel Quagg had never read Shakspeare,
 
 30 Tli.c Conversion of Colonel Qucigg. 
 
 but he had unconsciously acted the part of 
 Ancient Pistol. He had been compelled to eat 
 the leek which he had mocked. He had been 
 a woodmono'er, and bousjht nothinsc of Brother 
 Sockdolloger but cudgels. He had taken a 
 groat, too, to heal his pate. Let us hope, 
 with Fluellen, that it was good for his wounded 
 sconce. 1 yC 
 
 There is a seat at religious camp meetings 
 in America called the ' anxious seat.' A camp 
 meeting is not unlike a fair — a very pious one, 
 of course ; and the anxious seat is one on which 
 sit the neophytes, or newly-entered — those who 
 have anything to confess, anything to complain 
 of, anything to disclose, or to tell, or to ask. 
 
 Upon the anxious seat at the next camp 
 meeting near Rapparoarer city of the Grace- 
 Walking Brethren sat Colonel Groliah Quagg. 
 Amid a breathless silence, he frankly avowed 
 his former evil course of life, narrated the events 
 of his conversion by Brother Sockdolloger, and 
 promised amendment for the future. A brother, 
 who had been reposing on a bench, with his 
 limbs curled up after the manner of a dog — a 
 long, yellow-faced brother, who had a curious 
 habit of shutting one eye when he expec- 
 torated — rose to speak when the Colonel sat 
 down. He expressed how happy he was to
 
 The Conversion of Colonel Q"nr//j. 31 
 
 have been the instrument of Colonel Ouao-o-'s 
 conversion, and that the means he had em- 
 ployed, though somewhat rough, had been 
 effectual. With much modesty, also, he 
 alluded to his own conversion. It was not 
 such a long time ago, he said, that he himself 
 had been but as one of the wicked. He owned 
 it with shame that he had at one time been 
 one of the abandoned men called prize- 
 fighters — a pugilist to be backed and betted 
 on for hire and gain ; and that he had beaten 
 Dan Grummlcs, surnamed the Brooklyn Pet, 
 in a stand up fight for two hundred dolls, a 
 side. 
 
 Colonel Quagg has kept his promise. He 
 left off rum and parson licking. He resigned 
 the command of the Tigers, and is now, as 
 Elder Quagg, one of the burning and shining 
 lights among the Grace- Walking Bretliren.
 
 11. 
 
 LITTLE SAINT ZITA. 
 
 A CULINARY LEGEND. 
 
 |NLY yesterday,* the postman (lie is a Pa- 
 risian postman, and, in appearance, is 
 something between a policeman and a field- 
 marshal in disguise), brought me a deformed 
 little card, on which was pasted an almanck 
 with a wdiole calendar-full of saints, neatly 
 tied up with cherry-coloured riband, accom- 
 panying the gift with the compliments of the 
 season, and an ardent wish that the new year 
 might prove honne et belle to me ; all of which 
 meant that I should give him two francs, on 
 pain of being denounced to the door-porter as 
 a curmudgeon, to the landlord as a penniless 
 lodger, and to the police as a suspicious cha- 
 
 * Twenty years ago.
 
 TJllIe Saint Zita. 33 
 
 racter. Musing over the little almanack, in 
 the futile attempt to get two francs' wortli of 
 information out of it, I found a whole army of 
 Saints, of whom I had never heard before, and 
 I noticed the absence of a great many who are 
 duly set down in another calendar I possess. 
 AVould you believe that neither Saint Giles 
 nor Saint S with in was to be found in my 
 postman's hagiology — that no mention was 
 made of Saint Waldcburga, or of the blessed 
 Saint Wuthelstan ; while on the other hand I 
 found Saint Yon, Saint Fiacre, Saint Ovid, 
 Saint Baby las. Saint Pepin, Saint Ponce, 
 Saint Frisque, Saint Nestor, and Saint Pan- 
 taloon ? AVho was Saint Pantaloon ? What 
 do we know of these Saints in Engrland ? 
 Where were Saint Willibald, Saint Winifred, 
 Saint Edward the Confessor, and Saint 
 Dunstan the nose-tweaker ? Nowhere ! Yet 
 they must all have their days, their eves, and 
 morrows. AVhere, above all, was my little 
 Saint Zita ? 
 
 I have no memory for dates, and no printed 
 information to go upon, so I am unable to 
 state the exact year, or even century, in which 
 Saint Zita flourished. But I know that it 
 was in the dark ages, and that the Chri.stian 
 religion was young, and that is was con-
 
 34 Little Saint Zita. 
 
 siclerably more than one thousand five hun- 
 dred years ago. 
 
 Now, Pomponius Cotta (I give hhn that 
 name because it is a sounding one — not that 
 I know his real denomination) was a noble 
 Eoman. He was one of the actors in that 
 drama which Mr. Gibbon of London and 
 Lausanne so elegantly described some cen- 
 turies afterv*^ards : ' The Decline and Fall of 
 the Eoman Empire.' It must have been a 
 strange time, that Decline and FalL Eeflect- 
 ing upon the gigantic, overgrown, diseased 
 civilization of the wonderful empire, sur- 
 rounded and preyed upon by savage and bar- 
 barous Goths and Visigoths, Vandals, Dacians, 
 and Pannonians, I cannot help picturing to 
 myself some superannuated old noble, accom- 
 plished, luxurious, diseased, and depraved — 
 learned in bon-mots and scandalous histories of a 
 former age, uselessly wealthy, corruptly culti- 
 vated, obsoletely magnificent, full of memories 
 of a splendid but infamous life : — too old to 
 reform, too callous to repent, cynically pre- 
 saging a deluge after him, j^et trembling lest 
 that deluge should come while he was yet upon 
 th.e stage, and w^ash his death-bed with bitter 
 waters ; who is the sport and mock, the un- 
 v/illing companion and victim unable to help
 
 Little Saint Zita. 35 
 
 himself, of a throng of rougli, brutal, un- 
 polished youngsters — hobbcdehoys of the new 
 generation — who carouse at his expense, smoke 
 tobacco under his nose, borrow his money, slap 
 him on the back, and call him old fogey behind 
 it, sneer at his worn-out stories, tread on his 
 gouty toes, ridicule his old-fashioned polite- 
 ness, and tie crackers to the back of his coat 
 collar. Have you not seen the decline and fall 
 of the Human Empire ? 
 
 But Pomponius Cotta never recked, it is 
 very probable, of such things. He might have 
 occasionally expressed his belief, like some 
 noble Eomans of our own age and empire, that 
 the country was going to the bad ; but he had 
 large revenues, which he spent in a right 
 noble and Eoman manner ; and he laid what- 
 ever ugly misgivings he had in a Eed Sea of 
 Falernian and Chiajian. He had the finest man- 
 sion in Genoa j and you who know what glo- 
 rious palaces the city of the Dorias and the 
 Spinolas can yet boast of, even in these de- 
 generate days, may form an idea of what 
 marvels of marble, statuary, frescoes, and mo- 
 saics owned Pomponius Cotta for lord, in the 
 days when there was yet a Parthenon at Athens, 
 and a Capitol at Eome. 
 
 The noble Pomponius was a Christian, but 
 
 3—2
 
 36 Little Saint Zita. 
 
 I am afraid only in a very slovenly, lukewarm, 
 semi-pagan sort of way. As for his wife, the 
 Domina Flavia Poraponia, she came of far too 
 noble a Roman family, was far too great a lady, 
 thought far too much of crimping her tresses, 
 perfuming her dress, painting her face, giving 
 grand entertainments, and worrying her slaves, 
 to devote herself to piety; and though One- 
 simus, that blessed though somewhat unclean 
 hermit, did often come to the Pomponian house 
 and take its mistress roundly to task for her 
 mundane mode of life, she only laughed at the 
 good man ; quizzed his hair shirt, and long 
 thickly-peopled beard ; and endeavoured to se- 
 duce him from his recluse fare of roots and 
 herbs and spring-water, by pressing invitations 
 to partake of dainty meals and draughts of hot 
 wine. 
 
 I am not so uncharitable as to assume that all 
 the seven deadly sins found refuge in the 
 mansion of Pomponius Cotta, but it is certain 
 that it was a very fortalice and citadel for one 
 of them — namely, gluttony. There never were 
 such noble Eomans (out of Guildhall) as the 
 Pomponii for guzzling and guttling, ban- 
 queting, junketing, feasting, and carousing. 
 It was well that plate glass was not invented 
 in these times, for the house was turned out
 
 Little Saint Zlta. 37 
 
 of windows regularly every day, and the major 
 part of the Pomponian revenues would have 
 been expended in glaziers' bills. But there 
 were dinners, and suppers, and after-suppers. 
 The guests ate till they couldn't move, and 
 drank till they couldn't see. Of course they 
 crowned themselves with flowers, and lolled 
 upon soft couches, and had little boys to titil- 
 late their noses with rare perfumes, and pledged 
 each other to the sounds of dulcet music ; but 
 they were an emerited set of gormandizers for 
 all that, and richly deserved the visitation of 
 the stern Nemesis that sate ever in the gate in 
 the shape of the fair-haired barbarian, with 
 the brand to burn, the sword to slay, and the 
 hands to pillage. Or, like the Philistine lords, 
 they caroused and made merry, unwotting of 
 that stern, moody, blind Samson sitting apart 
 yonder, with his hair all a-growing, and soon 
 to rise in his might and pull the house down 
 on their gluttonous heads. Or, like Belshaz- 
 zer's feasters, they were drunk in vessels of 
 gold and silver, while the fingers of a man's 
 hand were writing on the wall, and the Medes 
 and Persians were at the gate. 
 
 It may easily be imagined that in such a 
 belly-god temple — such a house of feasting and 
 wassail — the cook was a personage of great
 
 38 Little Saint Zita. 
 
 power and importance. Poraponius Cotia had 
 simply the best cook not only in Genoa, but 
 in Magna Grsecia — not only in Magna Grrsecia, 
 but in the whole Italian peninsula. But no 
 man-cook had he — no haughty, stately m agis- 
 ter coquiiicB, no pedant in Apicius, or bigoted 
 believer in Lucullus. Yet Pomponius was 
 proud and happy in the possession of a culinary 
 treasure — a real cordoii-hleu, a Mrs. Grlasse of 
 the dark ages, a Miss Acton of antiquity, a 
 Mrs. Eundell of Eomanity ; and this was no 
 other than a little slave girl whom they called 
 Zita. 
 
 We have all heard of the cook who boasted 
 that he could serve up a leathern shoe in 
 twenty-seven different phases of sauce and 
 cookery. I never believed in him, and always 
 set him down as a vapouring fanfaroon — a sort 
 of copper-stewpan captain of cookery . But I 
 have a firm belief that little Zita would have 
 made everything out of anything or nothing 
 culinary ; that her stewed pump-handles would 
 have been delicious, her salmi of bath -brick 
 exquisite, her croquettes of Witney blanket 
 unapproachable, her horsehair en pa})illotes a 
 dish fit for a king. She cooked such irresistible 
 dishes for tire noble Pomponius that he fre- 
 quently wept, and would have given her her
 
 Little Saint Zita. 39 
 
 freedom had he not been afraid that she would 
 be off and be married ; that the noble Domina 
 Pomponia was jealous of her, and that she 
 would have led a sorry life had the Domina 
 dared to cross her husband ; that the guests of 
 the Pomponian house wrote bad sapphics and 
 dactylics in her praise, and would have given 
 her necklaces of pearl and armlets of gold for 
 ecifts, but that the Roman finances were in 
 rather an embarrassed condition just then, and 
 that poor trust was dead with the G-enoese 
 jewellers. 
 
 Little Zita was very pretty ; she must have 
 been pretty — and she was. She was as sym- 
 metrical as one of Pradier's Bacchantes — as 
 ripe and blooming as the grapes they press ; 
 but as pure as the alabaster of which they are 
 made. Her complexion was as delicately, 
 softly tinted as one of Mr. Gribson's Gra^co- 
 Eoman statues ; her long hair, when she re- 
 leased it from its confining fillet, hung down 
 about her like a king's mantle ; she had wrists 
 and ancles that only gold or gems were worthy 
 to embrace -. she had a mouth like a Cupid's 
 bow, and eyes like almonds dyed in ebony : and 
 teeth that were gates of ivory to the dreams 
 of love, and nails like mother of pearl. She 
 da need like Arbuscula, and sansr like Galeria
 
 40 Little Saint Zita. 
 
 Coppiola ; and she cooked like an angel — as 
 she Is. 
 
 None could serve up in such style the great 
 standard dishes of Roman cookery. The wild 
 boar of Troy, with honey, oil, flour, and 
 garum ; the Campanian sow fed from golden 
 troughs, stuffed with chestnuts and spices, and 
 brought to table whole with her nine little 
 sucking pigs disj^osed around her in sweet 
 sauce; the vol-au-vents of peacocks' tongues, 
 and ortolans' eyes, and nightingales' brains. 
 Yet, though great in these, she excelled in 
 fanciful, ravishing, gem-like dishes — in what 
 the French call surprises — in culinary epi- 
 grams, edible enigmas, savoury fables, poems 
 that you could eat and drink. She had sauces, 
 the secrets of which have gone to Paradise 
 with her; she had feats of legerdemain in 
 compounding dishes that no life-long appren- 
 ticeship could teach. And, withal, she was so 
 saving, so economical, so cleanly in her 
 arrangements, that her kitchen was like a 
 street in the clean village of Brock (I should 
 not like to pass half an hour even in Vefour's 
 kitchen) ; and her noble master had the satis- 
 faction of knowing that he gave the mightiest 
 'spreads' in Genoa at anything but an un- 
 reasonable or ruinous expense.
 
 Little Saint Zita. 41 
 
 She was as honest as a child's smile, and 
 quite regardless of kitchen stuff, perquisites, 
 Christmas boxes from tradesmen; and the 
 dangerous old crones who hang about the area 
 and cried hare-skins. 
 
 Now, a pious cook is not considered, in 
 these sceptical days, as a very great deside- 
 ratum. A pious cook not unfrequently refuses 
 to cook a Sunday's dinner, and entertains a 
 non-serious grenadier on Sunday evening. I 
 have seen many a kitchen drawer in which the 
 presence of a hymn-book and the ' Cook's 
 Spiritual Comforter ' (price ninepence per 
 hundred for distribution) did not exclude the 
 company of much surreptitious cold fat and 
 sundry legs of fowls that were not picked 
 clean. Serious cooks occasionally wear their 
 mistresses' black silk stockings to go to chapel 
 in. My aunt had a serious cook who drank; 
 and there is a legend in our family of a 
 peculiarly evangelical cook who could not 
 keep her hands off other people's pomatum. 
 But little Zita was sincerely, unfeignedly, 
 cheerfully, devotedly pious. She did not 
 neglect her duties to pray : she rose up early 
 in the morning before the cock crew, while her 
 masters were sunk in drunken sleep, and 
 prayed for herself and for them, and then went
 
 42 Little Saint Zita. 
 
 to her dailv labour witL. visf'orous heart of 
 grace. There are some of us who pray, as 
 gruclgmgly performing a certain duty, and 
 doing it, but no more — some of us as an ex- 
 ample (and what an example !) to others — some 
 through mere habit (and those are in a bad 
 case) — some (who shall gainsay it ?) in hypo- 
 crisy ; but do we not all. Scribes and Pharisees, 
 Publicans and Sinners, number among our 
 friends, among those we know, some few good 
 really pious souls who strike us with a sort of 
 awe and reverent respect ; who do their good 
 deeds before we rise, or after we retire to rest ; 
 creep into .heaven the back way, but are not 
 the less received there with trumpets and 
 crowns of glory ? 
 
 It is in the legend that she would decoy the 
 little white-haired, blue-eyed children of the 
 barbarian soldiers into her kitchen, and there, 
 while giving them sweetmeats and other 
 goodies, teach them to lisp little Latin prayers, 
 and tell over the rosary, and kiss the crucifix 
 appended to it. She bestowed the major part 
 of her wages in gifts to beggars, unmindful 
 whether they were Christian or Pagan ; and, 
 for a certainty, the strong-minded would have 
 sneered at her, and the wearers of phylacteries 
 would have frowned on her, for she thought it
 
 Little Saiut Zita. 4S 
 
 a grave sin to disobey the edict of the Church 
 that forbade the eating of flesh on Friday and 
 other appointed fasts. Pomponius Cotla, it 
 must be acknowledged, was troubled with no 
 such scruples. He would have rated his cook 
 soundly, and perchance scourged her, if she had 
 served him up meagre fare on the sixth day 
 of the week ; yet I find it in the legend that 
 little Zita was enabled by her own skill, and 
 doubtless by celestial assistance, to perpetrate 
 a pious fraud upon this epicurean Eoman. 
 The Fridays' dinners were as rich and succu- 
 lent, and called forth as loud an encomium, as 
 those of the other days ; yet not one scrap of 
 meat, one drop of carnal gravy, did Zita em- 
 ploy in the concoction thereof. Fish, and 
 eggs, and divers mushrooms, truffles and 
 catsups, became, in the hands of the saintly 
 cook, susceptible of giving the most meaty 
 flavours. 'Tis said that Zita invented burnt 
 onions — those grand culinary deceptions ! 
 And though they were in reality making 
 meagre, as good Christians should do, Pom- 
 ponius and his boon companions thought they 
 were feasting upon venison and pouUiy and 
 choice roasts. This is one of the secrets that 
 died with Saint Zita. I never tasted sorrel 
 pottage that had even the suspicion of a
 
 44 Little Saint Zita. 
 
 flavour of meat about it ; and though I have 
 heard much of the rice fritters and savoury 
 soups of the Lancashire vegetarians, I doubt 
 much of their ability to conceal the taste of 
 the domestic cabbage and the homely onion. 
 
 Now it fell out in the year — which, by-the- 
 by, has unluckily escaped me — that P. Marem- 
 nius Citronius Ostendius, a great gastronome 
 and connoisseur in oysters, came from Asia to 
 visit his kinsman Pomponius. There was 
 some talk of his marrying the beautiful Plavia 
 Poraponilia, the oldest daughter of the Pom- 
 ponia,n house (she was as jealous of Zita as 
 Fleur de Lys was of Esmeralda, and would 
 have thrust golden pins into her, a-la-mode 
 Bomaine, but for fear of her father) ; but at all 
 events Ostendius was come down from Asia 
 to Genoa, and there Vv^as to be a great feast in 
 honour of his arrival. Ostendius had an 
 aldermanic abdomen under his toga, had a 
 voice that reminded you of fruity port, bees- 
 wings in his eyes, a face very like collared 
 brawn, and wore a wig. Those adjuncts to 
 beauty were worn, ladies and gentlemen, 
 fifteen hundred years ago. Ay ! look in at the 
 Egyptian Eoom of the British Museum, 
 London, and you shall find wigs older than 
 that. He had come from Asia, where he was
 
 LUile Sa'uit Zita. 45 
 
 reported to have partaken of strange dislics — 
 birds of paradise, gryplions, phoenixes, ser- 
 pents, elephants — but he despised not the 
 Persicos' apparatus, and was not a man to be 
 trifled witli in his victuals ! Pomponius Cotta 
 called his cook into his sanctum, and gave her 
 instructions as to the banquet, significantly 
 telling her what she might expect if she failed 
 in satisfying him and his gastronomical guests. 
 Poor Zita felt a cold shudder as she listened 
 to the threats which, in lazy Latin, her uoble 
 master lavished upon her. But she deter- 
 mined, less through fear of punishment than 
 a sincere desire of doing her duty, to exert 
 herself to the very utmost in the preparation 
 of the feast. Perhaps there may have been a 
 little spice of vanity in this determination ; 
 perhaps she was actuated by a little harmless 
 desire to please the difficult Ostendius, and so 
 prove to him that Pomponius Cotta had a 
 slave who was the best cook in Grenoa and in 
 Italy. Why not ? I am one who, believing 
 that all is vanity, think that the world as it is 
 could not well get on without some vanity. 
 By which I mean an honest moderate love of 
 and pleasure in approbation. I think we 
 could much easier dispense with monc}' than 
 with this. When I see a conceited man, I
 
 46 Little Saint Zita. 
 
 tliink him to be a fool ; but when I meet a 
 man who tells me he does not rejoice when he 
 is praised for the good book he has written, or 
 the good picture he has painted, or the good 
 deed he has done, I know him to be a hum- 
 bug, and a mighty dangerous one to his fel- 
 low-creatures. 
 
 Flowers, waxen torches, perfumes, rich ta- 
 pestries, cunning musicians — all were ordered 
 for the feast to the guest who was come from 
 Asia. The j^iscator brought fish in abundance ; 
 the lipiariifs brought wood and charcoal to 
 lio-ht the cookino: furnaces withal: the vcnafor 
 brought game and venison ; the sartor stitched 
 unceasingly at vestments of purple and fine 
 linen ; the slaves who fed ordinarily upon 
 salsamentum, or salt meat, revelled in blithe 
 thoughts of the rich fragments that would fall 
 to their share on the morrow of the banquet. 
 It need scarcely be said that Zita the cook 
 had a whole army of cook's mates, scullions, 
 marmitons, plate-scrapers, and bottle-washers, 
 under her command. These peeled the vege- 
 tables, tliese jointed the meat, these strained 
 the soups and jellies; but to none did she ever 
 confide the real cooking of the dinner. Her 
 spoon was in every casserole, her spatula in 
 every sauceboat ; she knew the exact number
 
 Little Saint Zita. 47 
 
 of mushrooms to every gralli), and of ti'uffles 
 to every turkey. Believe me — in tlie works of 
 great artists there is little vicarious handi- 
 work. Asses say that Mr. Stanfield painted 
 the scenery of Acis and Galatea by means of 
 a speaking trumpet from the shilling gallery, 
 Lis assistants working on the stage. Asses 
 say that Carcme used to compose his dinners 
 reclining on a crimson velvet couch, while his 
 nephew mixed the magic ingredients in silver 
 stewpans. Asses say that all the hammering 
 and chiselling of Praxiteles' statues were done 
 by workmen, and that the sculptor only 
 polished up the noses and finger-tips with a 
 little marble dust. Don't believe such tales. 
 In all great works the master-hand is every- 
 where. 
 
 On the morning of the banquet, early, Zita 
 went to market, and sent home stores of 
 provisions, which her assistants knew well 
 how to advance through their preparatory 
 stages. Then, knowing that she bad plenty 
 of time before her, the pious little cook — 
 though she had already attended matins — 
 went to church to have a good pray. In the 
 simplicity of her heart, she thought she would 
 render up special thanks for all the good 
 dinners she had cooked, and pray as specially
 
 48 Little Saint Zita. 
 
 that tins evening's repast should be the very 
 best and most succulent she might ever pre- 
 pare. You see she was but a poor, ignorant, 
 little slave-girl, and lived in the dark ages. 
 
 Zita went to church, heard high mass, con- 
 fessed, and then, going into a little dark 
 chapel by herself, fell down on her knees 
 before the shrine of Her whom she believed to 
 be the Queen of Heaven. She prayed, and 
 prayed, and prayed so long, so earnestly, so 
 devoutly, that she quite forgot how swiftly 
 the hours fleet by, how impossible it is to 
 overtake them. She prayed and prayed till 
 she lost all consciousness and memorj- of 
 earthly things, of earthly ties and duties : — 
 till the vaulted roof seemed to open ; till she 
 seemed to see through a golden network a sky 
 of lapis-lazuli all peopled with angelic beings 
 in robes of dazzling white ; till she heard soft 
 sounds of music such as could only proceed 
 from harps played by celestial hands ; till the 
 statue of the Queen of Heaven seemed to 
 smile upon her and bless her ; till she was no 
 longer a cook and a slave, but an ecstatic 
 in communion with the saints. 
 
 She prayed till the mortal sky without, 
 from the glare of noonday took soberer hues ; 
 till the western horizon began to blush for
 
 Litlle Saint ZUa. 49 
 
 Zita's tardiness ; till the great blue Mediterra- 
 nean sea grew purple, save where the sunset 
 smote it ; till the white palaces of Genoa were 
 tinged with pinlc, as if the sky had rained 
 roses. She prayed till the lazy dogs which 
 had been basking in the sun rose and shook 
 themselves and raised their shiftless eyes as if 
 to wonder where the sun was ; till the bar- 
 barian soldiers, who had been lounging on 
 guard-house benches, staggered inside, and fell 
 to dicing and drinking ; till hired assassins 
 woke up on their straw pallets, and, rubbing 
 tlieir villanous eyes, began to think that it 
 Avas pretty nearly time to go a-murdering ; till 
 cut-purses' fingers began to itch premoni- 
 torily ; till maidens watched the early moon, 
 and longed for it to be sole sovereign of the 
 lieavens, that the bysting-time might arrive ; 
 till the young spendthrift rejoiced that another 
 day was to come, and the old sage sighed that 
 another day was gone ; till sick men quarrelled 
 with their nurses for closing their casements, 
 and the birds grew drowsy, and the flowers 
 shut themselves up in secresy, and the frog 
 began to speak to his neighbour, and the 
 glowworm kindled his lamp. 
 
 She prayed till it v.'as dusk, and almost 
 dark, till the vesper bell began to ring, when 
 
 4
 
 50 LUtle Saint ZUa. 
 
 slie awoke from out her trance ; and not a dish 
 of the dinner was cooked ! 
 
 And she hurried home, weeping, ah! so 
 bitterly. For Zita knew her duty towards her 
 neighbour as the road towards heaven. She 
 knew that there were times for all things, 
 and that she had prayed too much and too 
 long. Punishment she did not so much dread 
 as the reproaches of her own conscience for the 
 neglect of her duty. At length, faltering and 
 stumbling in the momentarily increasing dark- 
 ness, she reached the Pomponian house, which 
 was all lighted up from top to bottom. * Ah !' 
 thought she, 'the major domo has, at least, 
 attended to his business.' She hurried into a 
 small side court-yard where the kitchen was, 
 and there she found all her army of assistants: 
 the cook's mates, the scullions, the marmitons, 
 the plate-scrapers, and the bottle-washers, all 
 fast asleep, with their ladles, their knives, and 
 their spits on benches and doorsteps, and in 
 corners. ' Ah !' cried little Zita, wringing her 
 hands ; ' waiting for me, and quite worn out 
 with fatigue !' Then, stepping among them 
 without awakening them, she approached the 
 great folding-doors of the kitchen, and tried 
 the handle ; but the doors were locked, and 
 through the keyholes and hinges, the chinks
 
 Little Saint Ziia. 51 
 
 and crannies of the portal, there came a rich, 
 powerful, subtle odour, as of the best dinner 
 that ever was cooked. She thought she under- 
 stood it all. Enraged at her absence, her 
 master had sent for Maravilla, the corpulent 
 female cook of Septimus Pylorus, his neigh- 
 bour, to prepare the dinner ; or perhaps the 
 Sfreat P. Maremnius Citronius Ostendius had 
 himself condescended to assume the cook's cap 
 and apron, and was at that moment engaged 
 within, with locked doors, in blasting her pro- 
 fessional reputation for ever. She was ruined 
 as a cook, a servant — a poor little fatherless 
 girl, with nought but her virtue and her 
 cookery for a dower. Unhappy little Zita ! 
 
 She ran back through the court-yard to the 
 great banqueting saloon, and there, lo ! she 
 found the table decked, and the soft couches 
 ranged, the flowers festooned, the rich ta- 
 pestries hanging, and the perfumes burning 
 in golden censers. And there, too, she found 
 the proud Domina Pomponia, in gala raiment, 
 who greeted her with a smile of unwonted 
 benevolence, saying — 
 
 ' Now, Zita, the guests are quite ready for 
 the banquet ; and I am sure, from the odour 
 which we can smell even here, that it will be 
 tlie very best dinner that ever was cooked.' 
 
 4—2
 
 52 Little Saint Zita. 
 
 Then came from an inner chamber the fruity 
 Falernian voice of Ostendius, crying — 
 
 ' Ay, ay, I am sure it will be the very best 
 dinner that ever was cooked ;' and the voice 
 of Pomponius Cotta answered him gaily, that 
 ' Little Zita was not the best cook in Genoa 
 for nothing,' and that he would not part with 
 her for I don't know how many thousand 
 sesterces. Poor Zita saw in this only a cruel 
 jest. For certain another cook had been en- 
 gaged in her place, and she herself would be 
 had up after the banquet, taunted with its 
 success, confronted with her rival, and perhaps 
 scourged to death amid the clatter of drinking- 
 cups. Her eyes blinded with tears, she de- 
 scended again to the court-yard, and fervently, 
 though despairingly, breathed one more brief 
 prayer to our Lady of the Chapel. She had 
 scarcely concluded, when the great folding- 
 doors of the kitchen flew open, and there issued 
 forth a tremendous cloud of ambrosial vapour, 
 radiant, golden, roseate, azure, in which 
 celestial odours were mingled with the unmis- 
 takable smell of the very best dinner that ever 
 was cooked. And lo ! hovering in the cloud, 
 the rapt eye of little Saint Zita seemed to 
 descry myriads of little airy figures in white 
 caps and jackets, even like unto cooks, but who
 
 Lit lie Saint Zila. 53 
 
 all had wings and little golden knives at their 
 girdles. And she heard the same soft music 
 that had stolen upon her ears in the chapel ; 
 and as the angelic cooks fluttered out of the 
 kitchen, it seemed as though each little celes- 
 tial Soyer saluted the blushing cheek of the 
 trembling maiden with a soft and soothing 
 kiss. 
 
 At the same time the army of earthly cook's 
 assistants a^'oke as one scullion, and, without 
 so much as 3^awning, took their places at the 
 dresser-board, and composedly began to dish 
 the dinner. And little Zita, hurrying from 
 furnace to furnace, and lifting up the lids of 
 casse?'otes and bain-marie pans, found, done to 
 a turn, a dinner even such as she with all her 
 culinary genius would never have dreamt of. 
 
 Of course it was a Miracle. Of course it 
 was the very best dinner ever dressed ; what 
 else could it have been with such cooks ? They 
 talk of it to this day in Genoa ; though I am 
 sorry to say the Genoese cooks have not pro- 
 fited by the example, and do not seek to emulate 
 it. They have the best maccaroni, and dress 
 it in worse fashion than any other people in 
 Europe.
 
 III. 
 
 THE KEY OE THE STEEET. 
 
 A.D. 1850. 
 
 T is commonly asserted, and as commonly 
 believed, that there are seventy thousand 
 persons in London who rise every morning 
 without the slightest knowledge as to where 
 they shall lay their heads at night. However 
 the number may be over or understated, it is 
 very certain that a vast number of people are 
 habitually in the above-mentioned state of 
 uncertainty regarding sleeping accommoda- 
 tion ; and that when night approaches, a great 
 majority solve the problem in a somewhat 
 (to themselves) disagreeable manner, by not 
 going to bed at all. 
 
 People who stop up, or out all night, may 
 be divided into three classes: — First, •< editors.
 
 The Key of the Street. oo 
 
 bakers, market-gardeners, police-coustables, 
 ministers of state, lovers, night nurses, and 
 all those who are kept out of their beds by 
 business. Secondly, gentlemen and ' gents,' 
 anxious to cultivate a knowledge of the 
 ' Lark ' species, or intent on the navigation 
 of the ' Spree/ Thirdly, and lastly, those 
 ladies and gentlemen who do not go to bed, 
 for the very simple reason that thc}^ have no 
 beds to go to. 
 
 The members of this last class — a very 
 numerous one — are said, facetiously, to possess 
 ' the key of the street.' And a remarkably 
 unpleasant key it is. It will unlock for you 
 all manner of caskets you would fain know 
 nothing about. It is the ' open sesame ' to 
 dens you never saw before, and would much 
 rather never see again : — a key to knowledge 
 which should surely make the learner a sadder 
 man, if it make him not a wiser one. 
 
 Come with me, luxuriant tenant of beavy- 
 draped four-poster — basker on feather bed, 
 and nestler in lawn sheets. Come with 
 me, comfortable civic bolster-presser — snug 
 woollen-nightcap-wearer. Come with me, 
 even workmen, labourer, peasant — sleeper on 
 narrow pallet — though your mattress be hard,
 
 56 The Keij of the Street. 
 
 and your rug coarse. Leave your bed — bad 
 as it may be — and gaze on those who have no 
 beds at alL Follow with me the veins and 
 arteries of this huge giant that lies a-sleeping. 
 Listen while with ' the key of the street ' I 
 unlock the stony cofl'er, and bring forth the 
 Book, and from the macadamized page read 
 forth the lore of midnight London Life. 
 
 I have no bed to-night. Why, it matters 
 not. Perhaps I have lost my latch-key, — 
 perhaps I never had one ; yet am fearful of 
 knocking up ray landlady after midnight. 
 Perhaps I have a caprice — a fancy — for staying 
 up all night. At all events, I have no bed ; and, 
 saving ninepence (sixpence in silver and 
 threepence in coppers), no money. I must 
 walk the streets all night ; for I cannot, look 
 you, get anything in the shape of a couch for 
 less than a shilling. Coffee-houses, into 
 which — seduced by their cheap appearance — 
 I have entered, and where I have humbly 
 sought a lodging, laugh my ninepence to 
 scorn. Their proprietors demand impossible 
 eighteenpences — unattainable florins. There 
 is clearly no bed for me. 
 
 It is midnight — so the clanging tongue of St. 
 Dunstan's tells me — as I stand thus, bedless, at 
 Temple Bar. I have walked a good deal
 
 The Key of the Sired. 57 
 
 during the day, and have an uncomfortable 
 sensation in my feet, sug-g-esting the idea that 
 the soles of my boots are made of roasted 
 brick-bats. I am thirsty, too (it is July, and 
 sultr}^) ; and, just as the last chime of St. 
 Dunstan's is audible, I have half a pint of 
 porter — and a ninth part of my ninepence is 
 gone from me for ever. The public-house 
 where I have my drink (or rather the beer- 
 shop, for it is an establishment of the ' glass 
 of ale and sandwich ' description) is an early- 
 closing one ; and the landlord, as he serves me, 
 yawningly orders the pot-boy to put up the 
 shutters, for he is ' off to bed.' Happy 
 proprietor ! There is a bristly-bearded tailor, 
 too, very beery, having his last pint, who 
 expresses a similar somniferous intention. He 
 calls it ' Bedfordshire.' Thrice happy snip ! 
 
 I envy him fiercely, as he goes out, though, 
 God wot, his bedchamber may be but a squalid 
 attic, and his bed a tattered hop-sack, with a 
 slop great-coat — from the emporium of Messrs. 
 Melchisedech and Son, and which he has been 
 working at all day — for a coverlid. I envy his 
 children (I am sure he has a callow ragged 
 brood of them), for they have at least some- 
 where to sleep, — I haven't. 
 
 I watch, witli a species of lazy curiosit}', the
 
 58 The lieu of i^'-e Street. 
 
 whole process of closiDg the 'Original Burton 
 Ale House,' from the sudden shooting up of 
 the shutters, through the area grating, like 
 gigantic Jacks-in-a-box, to the final adjustment 
 of screws and iron nuts. Then I bend my 
 steps westward, and at the corner of Welling- 
 ton Street stop to contemplate a cab-stand. 
 
 Cudgel th^^self, weary Brain, — exhaust thy- 
 self, Invention, — torture thyself, Ingenuity — 
 all, and in vain, for the miserable acquisition 
 of six feet of palliasse and a blanket ! 
 
 Had I the delightful impudence, now — the 
 calm audacity — of my friend, Bolt, I should 
 not be five minutes without a bed. Bolt, I 
 verily believe, would not have the slightest 
 hesitation in walking into the grandest hotel 
 in Euston Square or Jermyn Street ; asking 
 for supper and a bootjack ; having his bed 
 warmed ; and would trust to Providence and 
 his happy knack of falling, like a cat, on all- 
 fours, for deliverance in the morning. I could 
 as soon imitate Bolt as I could dance on the 
 tight-rope. Spunge again, that stern Jeremy 
 Diddler. who always bullies you when you 
 relieve him, and whose request for the loan of 
 half a crown is more like a threat than a 
 petition — Spunge, I say, would make a violent 
 irruption into a friend's room ; and, if he did
 
 The Key of the Street. 50 
 
 not turn liim out of Lis bed, would at least 
 take possession of his sofa and his great-coats 
 for the night, and impetuously demand break- 
 fast in the morning. If I were only Spunge, 
 now! 
 
 What am I to do ? It is just a quarter past 
 twelve ; how am I to walk about till eight 
 o'clock to-morrow? Suppose I walk three miles 
 an hour, am I to walk twenty-four miles in 
 these fearful London streets ? Suppose it rains, 
 can I stand under an archway for six hours ? 
 
 I have heard of the dark arches of the 
 Adelphi, and of houseless vagrants crouching 
 there by night. But, then, I have read that 
 police constables are nightly enjoined by their 
 inspectors to rout out these vagrants, and drive 
 them from their squalid refuge. Then there 
 are the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge, and 
 the railway arches ; but I abandon the idea of 
 seeking refuge there, for I am naturally 
 timorous, and I can't help thinking of chloro- 
 form and life-preservers in connexion with 
 them. Though I have little to be robbed of, 
 Heaven knows ! 
 
 I have heard, too, of tramps' lodging-houses, 
 and of the ' twopenny rope.' I am not jDrepared 
 to state that I would not willingly avail myself 
 of that species of accommodation, for I am
 
 CO The Key of the street. 
 
 getting terribly tired and foot-sore. But I 
 don't know where to seek for it, and I am 
 ashamed to ask. 
 
 I would give something to lie down, too. 
 I wonder whether that cabman would think it 
 beneath his dignity to accept a pot of porter, 
 and allow me to repose in his vehicle till he 
 got a fare ? I know some cabmen never obtain 
 one during the night, and I could snooze 
 comfortably in hackney-carriage two thousand 
 and twenty-two. But I cannot form a favour- 
 able 02)inion of the driver, who is discussing 
 beer and democratic politics with the water- 
 man ; and neither he nor any of his brother 
 Jehus, indeed, seem at all the persons from 
 whom to ask a favour. 
 
 It is Opera night, as I learn from the 
 accidentally-heard remark of a passing police- 
 man. To watch the departing equipages will, 
 surely, help to pass the time on bravely, and 
 with something almost like hope, I stroll to 
 Co vent Garden Theatre. 
 
 I am in the thick of it at once. Such a 
 scrambling, pushing, jostling, and shouting! 
 Such pawing of spirited horses,and objurgations 
 of excited policemen! Now, Mrs. Eitz-some- 
 body's carriage stops the way ; and now, Mr. 
 Smith, of the Stock Exchange, with two ladies
 
 Ike Key of the St reef. Gl 
 
 on eacli arm, stands bewildered in a cliaos of 
 carriages, helplessly ejaculating ' Cab.' Now, 
 is there a playful episode in tlie shape of a 
 policeman dodging a pickpocket among horses'- 
 heads, and under wheels ; and now, a pitiable 
 one, in the person of an elderly maiden lady, 
 who has lost her party in the crush, and her 
 shoe in the mud, and is hopping about the 
 piazza like an agonized sparrow. It is all over 
 soon, however. The carriages rattle, and the 
 cabs lumber away. The great City people, 
 lords of Lombard Street, and kaisers of Cornhill, 
 depart in gorgeous chariots, emblazoned in 
 front and at the back. The dukes and 
 marquises, and people of that sort, glide away 
 in tiny broughams, and infinitesimal clarences. 
 The highest personage of the land drives off 
 in a plain chariot, with two servants in plain 
 black, more like a doctor (as I hear a gentleman 
 from the country near me indignantly exclaim) 
 than a queen. Mr. Smith has found his party, 
 and the sparrow-like lady her shoe, by this 
 time. Nearly everybody is gone. Stay, the 
 gentleman who thinks it a * genteel ' thing to 
 go to the Opera, appears on the threshold 
 carefully adjusting his white neckcloth with 
 the huge bow, and donning a garment some- 
 thing between a smockfrock and a horsecloth,
 
 62 The Key of the Street. 
 
 which is called, I believe, the 'Opera envelope/ 
 He will walk home to Camberwell with his 
 lorgnette case in his hand, and in white 
 kid gloves, to let everybody know where 
 he has been. The policemen and the night 
 wanderers will be edified, no donbt. Fol- 
 lowing him comes the Jiabitue, who is a lover 
 of music, I am sure. He puts his gloves, 
 neatly folded, into his breast-pocket, stows 
 away his opera-glass, and buttons his coat. 
 Then he goes quietly over to the Albion, where 
 I watch him gravely disposing of a pint of 
 stout at the bar. He is ten to one a gentle- 
 man ; and I am sure he is a sensible man. 
 And now all, horse and foot, are departed ; the 
 heavy portals are closed, and the Royal Italian 
 Opera is left to the fireman, to darkness, and 
 to me. 
 
 The bed question has enjoyed a temporary 
 respite while these proceedings are taking place. 
 Its discussion is postponed still further by the 
 amusement and instruction I derive from 
 watching the performances in the ham and 
 beef shoj) at the corner of Bow Street. Here 
 are crowds of customers, hot and hungry, from 
 the Lyceum or Drury Lane, and clamorous for 
 sandwiches. Ham sandwiches, beef sandwiches, 
 German sausage sandwiches — legions of sand-
 
 The Keij of the Street. 03 
 
 wiclies are cut and consumed. Tlie cry is 
 ' mustard,' and anon the coppers rattle, and 
 payment is tendered and change givf?n. Then 
 come the people who carry home half a pound 
 of 'cold round' or three-pennyworth of 'bris- 
 ket ;' I scrutinize them, their purchases, and 
 their money. I watch the scale with rapt 
 attention, and wait with trembling eagerness 
 the terrific combat between that last piece of 
 fat and the half-ounce weisj-ht. The half-ounce 
 has it ; and the beef merchant gives the meat 
 a satisfied slap with the back of his knife, and 
 rattles the price triumphantly. I have been 
 so intent on all this, that I have talvcn no heed 
 of time as yet ; so, when custom at the ham 
 and beef shop begins to flag, glancing at the 
 clock, I am agreeably surprised to find it is ten 
 minutes past one. 
 
 A wear}'' waste of hours yet to traverse — 
 the silence of the night season yet to endure. 
 There are many abroad still ; but the reputable 
 wayfarers drop off gradually, and the disrepu- 
 table ones increase with alarming rapidity. The 
 great-coated policeman, the shivering Irish 
 prowlers, and some fleeting shadows that seem 
 to be of women, have taken undisputed 
 possession of Bow Street and Long Acre ; and 
 but for a sprinkling of young thieves, and a few
 
 64 The K"y of tJie Street. 
 
 tipsy bricklayers, tliey would have it all their 
 own way in Drury Lane. 
 
 I have Wandered into this last-named un- 
 savoury thoroughfare, and stand disconsolately 
 surveying its aspect. And it strikes me now, 
 that it is eminently distinguished for its street- 
 corners. There is scarcely a soul to be seen in 
 the street itself, but all the corners have posts, 
 and nearly all the posts are garnished Avitli 
 leaning figures — now two stalwart policemen 
 holding municiiDal converse — now two women, 
 God help them ! — now a knot of lads with pale 
 faces, long greasy hair, and short pipes. 
 Thieves, my friend — (if I had a friend) — 
 unmistakeable thieves. 
 
 There are no professional beggars about — 
 what on eartli is there for them to be out for ! 
 The be(/f/ees 2iYQ gone home to their suppers and 
 their beds, and the beggars are gone home to 
 their suppers and tlieir beds. They have all 
 got beds, bless you ! 
 
 Some of the doorways have heaps of some- 
 thing huddled up within them ; and ever and 
 anon a policeman will come and stir the 
 something up with his truncheon, or more 
 probably with his boot. Then you will see a 
 chaotic movement of legs and arms, and hear 
 a fretful crooning with an Irish accent. Should
 
 T]ie Keij of the Street, G5 
 
 the gruarcHaii of tlie nio-lit insist in the enforce- 
 ment of his ' move on ' decree — the legs and 
 arms will stagger a few paces onward, and as 
 soon as the policeman's back is turned, slink 
 into another doorway — to be routed out per- 
 chance again in another quarter of an hour by 
 another truncheon, or another boot. 
 
 Half-past one by the clock of St. Mar3'-le- 
 Strand, and I am in Charles Street, Drury 
 Lane. It is a very dirty little street this — 
 full worthy, I take it, to challenge competition 
 with Church Lane or Buckeridge Street. A 
 feeling, however, indefinable, but strong, 
 prompts me to pui'sue its foul and devious 
 course for some score of yards. Then I stop. 
 
 ' Lodgings for single men at fourpence per 
 night.' Tliis agreeable information greets me, 
 pictured on the panes of a window, behind 
 which a light is burning. I step into the road 
 to have a good look at the establishment that 
 proffers the invitation. It is a villanous 
 ramshackle house — a liorrible cut-throat- 
 looking den, to Ije sure : — but then the four- 
 pence ! Think of that. Master Brooke ! There 
 is a profusion of handbills plastered on the 
 door-jambs, which I can read by the light of a 
 gas-lamp a few paces off. I decipher a 
 flattering legend of separate beds, every con- 
 

 
 G6 The Key of tie Street. 
 
 venience for cooking, and liot water always 
 ready. I am informed that this is the Eeal 
 Model Lodging-house ; and I read, moreover, 
 some derisive couplets relative to the Great 
 Spitalfields Lodging-house (a rival, I presume), 
 which is styled a ' Bastille !' I begin fingering, 
 involuntarily, the eightpence in my pocket. 
 Heaven knows what uncouth company I may 
 fall into ; but then, fourpence ! and my feet are 
 so tired, Jacta est alea, I will have four- 
 penn'orth. 
 
 You have heard ere now what the ' deputy' 
 of a tramps' lodging-house is like. I am 
 received by the deputy — a short-haired, low- 
 browed, stunted lout, sometimes, it is said, 
 not over courteous to inquisitive strangers. 
 As, however, I come to sleep, and not to 
 inspect, I am not abused, but merely in- 
 spected and admitted. I am informed that, 
 with the addition my company will make, 
 the establishment is full. I pay my four- 
 pence, without the performance of which 
 ceremony I do not get beyond the filthy 
 entrance passage. Then, the 'deputy' bars 
 the door, and, brandishing an iron candlestick 
 as though it were an antique mace, bids me 
 ibllov/ hira. 
 
 What makes me, when we have ascended
 
 The Key of ihe Street. 67 
 
 the rotten staircase, when I have entered my 
 bedchamber — when the ' deputy ' has even bid 
 me a wolfish fi^ood-niirht — what makes me 
 rush downstairs, and, bursting through the 
 passage, beg him to let me out for Heaven's 
 sake? What makes me, when the 'deputy' 
 has unbarred the door, and bade me go out, 
 and be something'd, and has not given me 
 back my fourpence, stand sick and stupefied 
 in the street, till I wake up to a disgusted 
 consciousness in being nearly knocked down 
 by a group of staggering roysterers, howling 
 out a drunken chorus ? It was not the hang- 
 dog look of the ' deputy,' nor the cut-throat 
 appearance of the house. It was not even the 
 aspect of the score or more ragged wretches 
 who were to be my sleeping companions. It 
 was, in plain English, the smell of the buys. 
 Ugh ! — the place was alive with them. They 
 crawled on the floor — they dropped from the 
 ceiling — they ran mad races on the walls! 
 Give me the key of the street, and let me 
 wander forth again. 
 
 I have not got further than Broad Street, 
 St. Giles's, before I begin to think that I have 
 been slightly hasty. I feel so tired, so worn, 
 so full of sleep now, that I can't help the 
 thought that I might have fallen oft' into 
 
 5—2
 
 68 The Key of the Street. 
 
 heavy sleep yonder, and that the havoc com- 
 mitted by the insects on my carcase miglit 
 have been borne nnfelt. It is too late now. 
 The four pence are departed, and I dare not 
 face the 'deputy' again. 
 
 Two in the morning, and still black, thick, 
 impervious night, as I turn into Oxford Street, 
 by Meux's Brewer3^ The flitting shadows 
 that seemed to be of women, have grown 
 scarcer. A quarter past two, and I have 
 gained the Regent Circus, and can take my 
 choice, either for a stroll in the neighbour- 
 hood of the Eegent's Park, or a quiet lounge 
 in the district of the Clubs. Quite an epicure ! 
 I choose the Clubs, and shamble down Eeo^ent 
 Street, towards Piccadilly. 
 
 I feel myself slowly, but surely, becoming 
 more of a regular night skulker — a houseless, 
 hopeless vagrant, every moment. I feel my 
 feet shuffle, my shoulders rise towards my 
 ears ; my head goes on one side ; I hold my 
 hands in a crouching position before me ; I no 
 longer walk, I prowl. Though it is July, I 
 shiver. As I stand at the corner of Conduit 
 Street (all night skulkers affect corners), a 
 passing figure, in satin and black lace, flings 
 me a penny. How does the phantom know 
 that I have the key of the streets ? I am not
 
 The Key of ike Street. 69 
 
 in rags, and yet my plight must be evident. 
 So I take the penny. 
 
 AVhere are the poUcemen, I wonder ? I 
 am walking in the centre of the road, yet, 
 from end to end of the magnificent street, I 
 cannot see a single soul. Stay, here is one. 
 A little fair-headed ruffian leaps Irom the 
 shadow of Archbishop Tenison's Chapel. He 
 has on a ragged pair of trousers, and nothing 
 else to speak of He vehemently demands to 
 be allowed to turn head over heels three times 
 for a penny. I give him the penny the 
 phantom gave me (cheap charity !), and inti- 
 mate that I can dispense with the tumbling. 
 But he is too honest for that, and, putting the 
 penny in his mouth, disappears in a series of 
 somersaults. Then, the gas-lamps and I have 
 it all to ourselves. 
 
 Safe at the corner (corners again, you see !) 
 of what was once the Quadrant, where a 
 mongrel dog joins company. I know he is 
 a dog without a bed, like I am, for he has not 
 that grave trot, so full of purpose, which the 
 dog on business has. Tliis dog wanders irre- 
 solutely, and makes feigned turnings up by 
 streets — returning to the main thoroughfare 
 in a slouching manner ; he ruminates over 
 cigar-stumps and cabbage-stalks, which no
 
 70 The Key of the Street. 
 
 liomeward-bound dog would do. But even 
 that dog is happier than I am, for he can lie 
 down on any doorstep, and take his rest, and 
 no policeman shall say him nay ; but the Act 
 of Parliament refuses me that repose, and says 
 sternly that I must ' move on.' 
 
 Hallo ! a rattle in the distance — nearer — 
 nearer — louder and louder! Now it bursts 
 upon my sight, A fire-engine at full speed ; 
 and the street is crowded in a moment ! 
 
 Where the people come from / don't pre- 
 tend to say ; but there they are — hundreds of 
 them — all wakeful and noisy and clamorous. 
 On goes the engine, with people hallooing, and 
 following and mingling with the night wind 
 the dreadful cry of Fire. 
 
 I follow, of course. An engine at top 
 speed is as potent a spell to a night prowler 
 as a pack of hounds in full cry is to a Leicester- 
 shire yeoman. Its influence is contagious, too, 
 and the crowd swells at every yard of distance 
 traversed. The fire is in a narrow street of 
 Soho, at a pickle-shop. It is a fierce one, at 
 which I think the crowd is pleased ; but then 
 nobody lives in the house, at which I imagine 
 they are slightly chagrined ; for excitement, 
 you see, at a fire is ever^^thing. En revanche 
 there are no less than three families of small
 
 The Key of (he Street. 71 
 
 children next door, and the crowd are hn^'elv 
 deHghted when they are expeditiously brought 
 out in their night-dresses by the Fire-brigade. 
 
 More excitement ! The house on the other 
 side has caught lire. The mob are in ecstasies, 
 and the pickpockets make a simultaneous 
 onslaught on all the likely pockets near them. 
 I am not pleased, but interested — highly in- 
 terested. I would pump, but I am not strong 
 in the arms. Those who pump, I observe, 
 receive beer. 
 
 I have been watching the blazing pile so 
 long — basking, as it were, in the noise and 
 shouting and confusion ; the hoarse clank of 
 the engines — the cheering of the crowd — the 
 dull roar of the fire, that the bed question has 
 been quite in abeyance, and I have forgotten 
 all about it and the time. But when the fire 
 is quenched, or at least brought under, as it 
 is at last ; when the sheets of flame and 
 sparks are succeeded by columns of smoke and 
 steam ; when, as a natural consequence, the 
 excitement begins to flag a little, and the 
 pressure of the crowd diminishes ; then, turn- 
 ing away from the charred and gutted pickle- 
 shop, I hear the clock of St. Anne's, Soho, 
 strike four, and find that it is broad daylight. 
 
 Four dreary hours yet to wander before a
 
 7 2 The Key of the Street. 
 
 London day commences ; four weaiy, dismal 
 revolutions on the clock-face, before the milk- 
 man makes his rounds, and I can obtain access 
 to my penates, with the matutinal supply of 
 milk! 
 
 To add to my discomfort and to the utter 
 heart-weariness and listless misery which is 
 creeping over me, it begins to rain. Not a 
 sharp pelting shower, but a slow, monotonous, 
 ill-conditioned drizzle ; damping without wet- 
 ting — now deluding you into the idea that it 
 is going to hold up ; and now with a sudden 
 spirt in your face, mockingly informing 3^ou 
 iLat it has no intention of the kind. Very 
 wretchedly indeed I thread the narrow little 
 streets about Soho, meeting no one but a tom- 
 cat returning from his club, and a misan- 
 thropic-looking policeman, who is feeling 
 shutter-bolts and tugging at door handles with 
 a vicious aspect, as though he were disap- 
 pointed that some unwary householder had 
 not left a slight temptation for a sharp house- 
 breaker, 
 
 I meet another policeman in Golden Square, 
 who looks dull, missing, probably, the society 
 of the functionary who guards the fire-escape 
 situated in that fashionable localit}^ and who 
 hasn't come back from the burnt pickle-shop
 
 The Kci/ of the Slreel. 73 
 
 yet. He honours me with a long stare as I 
 2)ass him. 
 
 ' Good morning/ he says. 
 I return the compUment. 
 ' Going: home to bed ?' he asks. 
 ' Y-e-es,' I answer. 
 
 He turns on his heels and says no more ; 
 but, bless you ! I can see irony in his bull's- 
 eye — contemptuous incredulity in his oilskin 
 cape ! It needs not the long low whistle in 
 which he indulges, to tell me that he knows 
 very well I have no bed to go home to. 
 
 I sneak quietly down Sherrard Street into 
 the Quadrant. I don't know why, but I begin 
 to be afraid of policemen. I never trans- 
 gressed the law — yet I avoid the ' force.' The 
 sound of their heavy boot-heels disquiets me. 
 One of them stands at the door of Messrs. 
 Swan and Edgar's, and to avoid him I actually 
 abandon a resolution I had formed of walking 
 up Eegent Street, and turn down the Hay- 
 market instead. 
 
 There are three choice spirits who evidently 
 have got beds to go to, though they are some- 
 wlvdi tardy in seeking them. I can tell that 
 they have latch-keys, by their determined air — 
 their bold and confident speech. They have 
 just turned, or have been turned out from an
 
 74 The Key of the Street. 
 
 oyster-room. They are all three very drunk ; 
 have on each other's hats ; and one of them 
 has a quantity of dressed lobster in his cravat. 
 These promising gentlemen are out ' on the 
 spree.' The doors of the flash public-houses 
 and oyster-rooms are letting out similar 
 detachments of choice spirits all down the 
 Haymarket ; some of a most patrician sort, 
 with most fierce mustachios and whiskers ; 
 whom I think I have seen before, and whom I 
 may ver}^ probably see again, in jackboots and 
 golden aiguillettes, prancing on huge black 
 horses by the side of Her Majesty's carriage, 
 going to open Parliament. The gentlemen, or 
 rather gents on the ' spree,' call this * life.' 
 They will probably sleep in the station-house 
 this morning, and will be fined various sums 
 for riotous conduct. They will get drunk, I 
 dare say, three hundred times in the course of 
 a year, for about three years. In the last- 
 mentioned space of time they will bonnet 
 many dozen policemen, break some hundreds 
 of gas-lamps, have some hundreds of 'larks,' 
 and scores of ' rows.' They will go to Epsom 
 by the rail, and create disturbances on the 
 course, and among the ' sticks,' and * Aunt 
 Sallies.' They will frequent the Adelphi at 
 half-price, and haunt night-houses afterwards.
 
 The Key of the Street. 75 
 
 They will spend tlieir salaries in debaucliery, 
 and obtain fresh supplies of money from bill- 
 discounters, and be swindled out of it by the 
 proprietors of gambling-liouses. Some day, when 
 their health and their money are gone — when 
 they are sued on all their bills, and by all the 
 tradesmen they have plundered — they will be 
 discharged from their situations, or be discarded 
 by their friends. Then they will subside into 
 Whitecross Street and the Insolvent Debtors' 
 Court* — and then, God knows ! they will die 
 miserably, I suppose : of delirium tremens, 
 maybe. 
 
 I have taken a fancy to have a stroll — save 
 the mark ! — in St. James's Park, and am about 
 to descend the huge flight of stone steps 
 leading to the Mall, when I encounter a 
 martial band, consisting of a grenadier in a 
 great-coat, and holding a lighted lantern (it is 
 light as noon-day), an officer in a cloak, and 
 four or five more grenadiers in great-coats, 
 looking remarkably ridiculous in those hideous 
 grey garments. As to the officer, he appears 
 to regard everything with an air of unmitigated 
 disgust, and to look at the duty upon which 
 
 * Two institutions now defunct, but replaced by the new 
 Bankruptcy Court and HoUowa}' Gaol, to which last-named 
 place, iu the interest of creditors, a debtors' side has been added .
 
 76 TheKeij of the Street. 
 
 lie is engaged as a sjoecial bore. I regard it 
 rather in the light of a farce. Yet, if I 
 mistake not, these are ' Grrand Rounds,' or 
 something of the sort. When the officer gets 
 within a few yards of the sentinel at the Duke 
 of York's Column he shouts out some unin- 
 telligible question, to which the bearer of 
 Brown Bess gives a responsive, but as unin- 
 telligible howl. Then the foremost grenadier 
 plays in an imbecile manner with his lantern, 
 like King Lear with his straw, and the ofl&cer 
 flourishes his sword ; and ' Grand Bounds ' 
 are over, so far as the Duke of York is con- 
 cerned I suppose ; for the whole party trot 
 gravely down Pall Mall, towards the Duchess 
 of Kent's. 
 
 I leave them to their devices, and saunter 
 moodily into the Mall. It is but a quarter to 
 five now ; and I am so jaded and tired that I 
 can scared}^ drag one foot after another. The 
 rain has ceased ; but the morning air is raw 
 and cold ; and the rawness clings, as it were, 
 to the marrow of my bones. My hair is wet, 
 and falls in draggled hanks on my cheeks. 
 My feet seem to have grown preposterously 
 large, and my boots so prej^osterously small. I 
 wish I were a dog or a dormouse ! I long for 
 a haystack, or a heap of sacks, or anything.
 
 Tlio Key of the street. 77 
 
 I even think I could find repose on one of 
 those terribly inclined planes which you see 
 tilted towards you through the window of the 
 Morgue at Paris. I have a good mind to 
 smash a lamp, and be taken to the station- 
 house. I have a good mind to throw myself 
 over Westminster Bridge. I suppose I am 
 afraid ; for I don't do either. 
 
 Seeing a bench under a tree, I fling myself 
 thereon ; and, hard and full of knots and 
 bumps as the seat is, roll myself into a species 
 of ball, and strive to go to sleep. But oh, 
 vain delusion ! I am horribly, excruciatingly 
 wakeful. To make the matter worse, I rise, 
 and take a turn or two — then I feel as though 
 I could sleep standing ; but availing myself of 
 what I consider a favourably drowsy moment, 
 I cast myself on the bench again, and find 
 myself as wide awake as ever. 
 
 There is a young vagrant — a tramp of some 
 eiirhteen summers — sittins^ beside me — fast 
 asleep, and snoring with provoking pertinacity. 
 He is half naked, and has neither shoes nor 
 stockings. Yet he sleeps, and very soundly, 
 too, to all appearance. As the loud-sounding 
 Horse-Guards clock strikes five, he wakes, eyes 
 me for a moment, and muttering ' hard lines, 
 mate,' turns to sleep again. In the mysterious
 
 78 The Key of tJie Street 
 
 freemasonry of misery, lie calls me ' mate.' I 
 suppose, eventually, that I catcli from him. 
 some portion of his vagrant acquirement of 
 somnolence under difficulties, for, after writh- 
 ino; and turning on the comfortless wooden 
 seat till every bone and muscle are sore, I fall 
 into a deep, deep sleep — so deep it seems like 
 death. 
 
 So deep that I. don't hear the quarters 
 striking of that nuisance to Park-slee]3ers, the 
 Horse-Guards clock — and rise only, suddenly en 
 sursaut, as six o'clock strikes. My vagrant friend 
 has departed, and being apprehensive myself of 
 cross-examination from an approaching police- 
 man (not knowing, in fact, what hideous crime 
 sleeping in St. James's Park might be), I also 
 withdrew, feeling very fagged and footsore — 
 yet slightly refreshed by the hour's nap I have 
 had. I pass the stands where the cows are 
 milked, and curds and whey dispensed, on 
 summer evenings ; and enter Charing Cross by 
 the long Spring Garden passage. 
 
 I have been apprised several times during 
 the night that this was a market morning in 
 Covent Garden. T have seen waggons sur- 
 mounted by enormous mountains of vegetable 
 baskets wending their way through the silent 
 streets. I have been met by the early coster-
 
 The Key of the Street. 79 
 
 mongers in their donkey-carts, and cliaffed by 
 the costerboys on my forlorn appearance. But 
 I have reserved Covent Garden as a houne 
 bouche — a wind-up to my pilgrimage; fori 
 have heard and read how fertile is the market 
 in question in subjects of amusement and 
 contemplation. 
 
 I confess that I am disappointed. Covent 
 Garden seems to me to be but one great accu- 
 mulation of cabbages. I am pelted with these 
 vegetables as they are thrown from the lofty 
 summits of piled waggons to costermongers 
 standing at the base. I stumble among them 
 as I walk ; in short, above, below, on either 
 side, cabbages preponderate. 
 
 I dare say, had I patience, that I should see 
 a great deal more ; but I am dazed with ex- 
 cessive greenstuff, and jostled to and fro, and 
 ' danged ' dreadfully by rude market-gardeners 
 — so I eschew the market, and creep round the 
 piazza. 
 
 I meet my vagrant friend of the Park here, 
 who is having a cheap and nutritious breakfast 
 at a coffee-stall. The stall itself is a nonde- 
 script species of edifice — something between a 
 gipsy's tent and a watchman's box : while, to 
 carry out the comparison, as it were, the lady 
 who serves out the coffee ver}^ much resembles
 
 80 The Key of the Street. 
 
 a gipsy in person, and is clad in a decided 
 watchman's coat. The aromatic beverage (if 
 I may be allowed to give that name to the 
 compound of burnt beans, roasted horse-liver, 
 and refuse chicory, of which the ' coffee ' is 
 composed) is poured, boiling hot, from a verv 
 cabalistic-looking caldron into a whole regi- 
 ment of cups and saucers standing near ; while, 
 for more solid refection, the cups are flanked 
 by plates bearing massive piles of thick bread 
 and butter, and an equivocal substance called 
 'cake.' Besides my friend the vagrant, 
 two coster-lads are partaking of the hos- 
 pitalities of the stall ; and a huge gardener, 
 straddling over a pile of potato-sacks, hard 
 by, has provided himself with bread and butter 
 and coffee from the same establishment, and 
 is consuming them with such avidity that 
 the tears start from his eyes at every 
 gulp. 
 
 I have, meanwhile, remembered the existence 
 of a certain fourpenny-piece in my pocket, and 
 have been twice or thrice tempted to expend it. 
 Yet, on reflection, T deem it better to purchase 
 with it a regular breakfast, and repair to a 
 legitimate coffee-shop. The day is by this 
 time getting rapidly on, and something of the 
 roar of London begins to be heard in earnest.
 
 The Kef/ of the Street. 81 
 
 The dull murmur of wheels has never ceased, 
 indeed, the whole night through ; but now, 
 laden cabs come tearing past on their way to 
 the railway station. The night policemen 
 gradually disappear ; sleepy potboys as gra- 
 dually appear, yawning at the doors of public- 
 houses; and sleepy waitresses peep from the 
 half-opened doors of coffee-houses and reading- 
 rooms. There have been both public-houses 
 and coffee-shops open, however, the whole 
 nig^ht. The ' Mohawks' Arms ' in the market 
 never closes. Young Lord Stultus, with 
 Captain Asinus of the Heavies, endeavoured 
 to turn on all the taps there at four o'clock 
 this morning, but at the earnest desire of 
 Frume, the landlord, desisted ; and subse- 
 quently subsided into a chivalrous offer of 
 standing glasses of ' Old Tom ' all round, 
 which was as chivalrously accepted. As the 
 ' all round ' comprised some thirty ladies and 
 gentlemen, Frume made a very good thing of 
 it ; and, like a prudent tradesman as he is, he 
 still further acted on the golden opportunity, 
 by giving all those members of the company 
 (about three-fourths) who were drunk, glasses 
 of water instead of gin ; which operation con- 
 tributed to discourage intemperance, and im- 
 prove his own exchequer in a very signal and 
 
 G
 
 82 The Key of tlic Sheet. 
 
 efficacious manner." As with the ' Mohawks' 
 Arms/ so with the '' Turpin's Head/ the great 
 market-gardeners' house/ and the ' Pipe and 
 Horse Collar/ frequented by the night cabmen 
 — to say nothing of that remarkably snug little 
 house near Drury Lane, ' The Blue Bludgeon/ 
 which is well known to be the rendezvous of 
 the famous Tom Thug and his gang, whose 
 achievements in the strangling line, by means 
 of a silk handkerchief and a life-j^reserver, used 
 ioimiiquef fashion, were so generally admired 
 by the consistent advocates of the ticket-of- 
 leave system. I peep into some of these noted 
 hostelries as I saunter about. They begin to 
 grow rather quiet and demure as the day ad- 
 vances, and will be till midnight, indeed, very 
 dull and drowsy pothouses, as times go. They 
 don't light up to life and jollity and robbery 
 and violence, before the small hours. 
 
 So with the coffee-shops. The one I enter, 
 to invest my fourpence in a breakfast of coffee 
 and bread and butter, has been open all night 
 likewise ; but the sole occupants now are 
 a dirty waiter, in a pitiable state of drowsiness, 
 and half a dozen liomeless wretches who have 
 
 * Entirely an institution of the past, and that will not, I 
 should say, be easily revived.
 
 The Key of the Street. 83 
 
 earned the privilege of sitting down at tlie 
 filthy tables by the purchase of a cup of coffee, 
 and, with their heads on their hands, are 
 snatching furtive naps, cut short — too short, 
 alas ! — by the pokes and ' AYake up, there !' of 
 the waiter. It is apparently his consigne to 
 allow no' sleeping. 
 
 I sit down here, and endeavour to keep 
 myself awake over the columns of the ' Sun ' 
 newspaper of last Tuesday week — unsuccess- 
 fully, however. I am so jaded and weary, so 
 dog-tired and utterly worn out, that I fall off 
 again to sleep ; and whether it is that the 
 waiter has gone to sleep too, or that the 
 expenditure of fourpence secures exemption 
 for me, I am allowed to slumber. 
 
 I dream this tifne. A dreadful vision it is, 
 of bugs, and cabbages, and tramping soldiers, 
 and anon of the fire at the pickle-shop. As I 
 wake, and find, to my great joy, that it is ten 
 minutes past eight o'clock, a ragged little 
 news-boy brings in a damp copy of the 
 'Times,' and I see half a column in that 
 journal headed 'Dreadful Conflagration in 
 Solio.' 
 
 Were I not so tired, I should moralize over 
 this, no doubt ; but there are now but two 
 things on my mind — two things in the world 
 
 G— 3
 
 .84 Tlte Key of the Sired. 
 
 for me — home and bed. Eio-ht o'clock restores 
 these both to me — so cruelly deprived of them 
 for so long a time. So, just as London — 
 work-away, steady-going London — begins to 
 bestir itself, I hurry across the Strand, cross 
 the shadow of the first omnibus going towards 
 the Bank ; and, as I sink between tlie sheets 
 of MY BED, resign the key of the street into 
 the hands of its proper custodian, whoever he 
 may be [and, whoever he may be, I don't envy 
 him].* 
 
 * The words in brackets are Charles Dickens's.
 
 IV. 
 DOWN WHITECHAPEL WAY. 
 
 A.D. 1851. 
 
 How many thousands of us have lived for 
 years — for a third part of our lives, 
 probahly — in London, and have never been 
 down the Whitechapel Eoad ? I declare that 
 there are not half-a-dozen persons in the 
 circle of my acquaintance who can tell me 
 where Bethnal Green is. As to Eatcliffe 
 Highway, Shadwell, Poplar, Limehouse, and 
 Rotherhithe, they are entirel}' terrce incogniicie 
 to shoals of born-and-bred Londoners. 
 
 ' Down Wliitechapel wa3^' Have you ever 
 been ' down ' that way, reader ? Ten to one 
 you have not. You have heard, probabl}-, of 
 Whitechapel needles ; and the costermonger 
 from whom you may occasionally have conde- 
 scended to purchase vegetables would very 
 likely inform you, were you to ask him, that 
 he lives 'down that way.' Perhaps your
 
 86 Doion Whitechcijoel Way. 
 
 impressions connected witli Wliitecbapel refer 
 vaguely to butcliers, or, probably, to Jews, or 
 possibly to tbieves. Very likely you don't 
 trouble yourself at all about tbe matter. You 
 bad an aunt once who lived at Mile End : but 
 sbe quarrelled with everybody during lier 
 lifetime, and left ber money to the London 
 Hospital when sbe died, and you never went 
 to see ber. You see scores of omnibuses pass 
 your door daily, witb Aldgate, Wbitecbapel, 
 Mile End, painted on their panels \ but you 
 have no business to transact there, and let the 
 omnibuses go on their w^ay without further 
 comment. 
 
 On, through Fleet Street — passing St. Dun- 
 stan's as eight strikes ; noting the newspaper 
 offices blazing with gas from basement to 
 garret ; jostled occasionally by the well-looking 
 (though ruined) agricultural gentlemen, with 
 massy watch-chains (and bankrupt purses), 
 who have been discussing port and Protection* 
 after an ample dinner at Peele's or Anderton's. 
 On, and up Ludgate the lofty, watching the 
 red and blue lights of the doctors' shops as 
 they are mirrored in the wet pavement ; and 
 
 * Written ere ' Protection,' as an idea, died a natural death, 
 and became a ' shadow of the shadow ol' smoke.'
 
 Do (1)11 WhUcchapd Wcuj. 87 
 
 thinking, perhaps, that, after all, there may 
 be some good in that early closing movement 
 which has fastened the portals of all those 
 magnificent palaces of linendrapery, and sent 
 those shoals of spruce clerks and assistants 
 forth for health and recreation — many, it is to 
 be hoped, to the Literary and Scientific Insti- 
 tute, the class-room and the singing lesson, 
 and not all (as some kind souls would in- 
 sinuate) to the tap-room or the cigar-shop. 
 On, round the solemn dome of St. Paul's, 
 and by that remarkable thoroughfare on the 
 left hand side, where, to my mind, the odours 
 of a pastry-cook's shop, of a tallow-manufactory, 
 of the defunct, yet promising to be phoenix-like 
 Chapter Coffee House, and all the newly- 
 bound books in Paternoster Eow are irre- 
 vocably combined and blended. On, by Cheap- 
 side, the magnificent, where rows of dazzling 
 gas-reflectors illumine shop fronts, teeming 
 with yet more dazzling stores of watches, rich 
 jewellery, and bales of silver spoons and forks. 
 There are desolate ragged wretches staring 
 wistfully at the glittering heaps of baubles, 
 the clocks, the tiny ladies' watches rich in 
 enamel and jewels, the repeaters, the chrono- 
 meters, the levers jewelled in ever so many 
 holes, the trinkets, and chMelains, and 'charms,'
 
 88 Doivn WldteclLcqoel Way. 
 
 and Albert guard chains, which Mr. John 
 Bennett, a doughty watchmaker he, exposes to 
 pubHc admiration, just as they would at the 
 pennyworth of pudding in the window of a 
 cook's shop. Are they speculating on the 
 possibility of a gold watch filling a hungry 
 belly ? or are they haply contemplating one 
 bold dash through the frail sheet of glass — one 
 hasty snatch at the watches, and rings, and 
 bracelets — one desperate throw for luxury and 
 riot at the best; or at the worst, for the 
 comfortable gaol, the warm convict's dress, 
 and the snug cell with its hot- water pipes ? 
 
 Leaving Cheapside, the magnificent ; avoid- 
 ing the omnibuses in the Poultry as best we 
 may; skirting the huge Mansion House, 
 wliere a feeble gleam from an office in the 
 basement suggests that Messrs. John and 
 Daniel Forrester are yet wide awake, while the 
 broad glare of light from the windows in 
 Charlotte Eow proclaims jolly civic festivities 
 in the Egyptian Hall ; striking through Corn- 
 hill, the wealthy; crossing Gracechurch Street, 
 and suppressing a lingering inclination to 
 take a stroll by the old Flower Pot, and older 
 South Sea House, into old Bishopsgate Street, 
 j ust to have a vagabond quarter of an hour or 
 so of thought about Baring Brothers, Crosby
 
 I>oion Whitechapcl Way. 89 
 
 Hall, Great St. Helen's, Sir Thomas More, 
 and Mr. Ross the hairdresser : — Supposing 
 this, I say, our party boldly invades Leaden- 
 hall Street. Opposite the India House I 
 must stop for a moment, however. Is there 
 not Billiter Street hard-by, with that never- 
 dying smell of Cashmere shawls and opium 
 chests about the sale-rooms ? Is there not 
 St. Mary Axe, redolent of Hebrew London ? 
 Is there not the great house itself, with all its 
 mighty associations of Clive and Warren 
 Hastings, iSTuncomar, and Lally Tollendal, 
 Plassy, Arcot, and Seringapatam — Sheridan, 
 thundering in Westminster Hall on the case of 
 the Begums — and the mighty directors, with 
 their millions of subjects, and their palaces in 
 Belgravia and Tyburnia, who were once but 
 poor hucksters and chapmen of Trichinopoly 
 chains and indigo balls — mere buyers and 
 sellers of rice, sugar, and pepper? But my 
 companions are impatient, and, dropping a 
 hasty tear to the memory of Mr. Toole, the 
 great toastmaster and beadle — (dost thou 
 remember him, Eugenio, in that magnificent 
 cocked hat and scarlet coat? and Eugenio 
 replies that he lives again in his son) — we 
 leave Leadenhall Street the broad for Leaden- 
 hall Street the narrow : and where the tor-
 
 90 Do2i'7i ¥'^hitechcq)el Way. 
 
 tuous Fencliurch Street also converges, emerge 
 into tlie open space by Aldgate pump. We 
 have no time to dilate on the antiquity of tlie 
 pump. A hundred 3^ards to the left and here 
 we are, not absolutely in Whitechapel itself, 
 but at the entrance of that peculiar and cha- 
 racteristic district, which I take to be bounded 
 by Mile-end gate on the east, and by the 
 establishment of Messrs. Moses and Son on 
 the west. 
 
 First, Moses. Gas, splendour, wealth, bound- 
 less and immeasurable, at a glance. Count- 
 less stories of gorgeous show-rooms, laden to 
 repletion with rich garments. Gas every- 
 where. Seven hundred burners, they whisper 
 to me. The tailoring department ; the haber- 
 dashery department ; the hat, boots, shawl, 
 outfitting, cutlery department. Hundreds 
 of departments. Legions of " our young men" 
 in irreproachable coats, and neckcloths void of 
 reproach. Corinthian columns, enriched cor- 
 nices, sculptured panels, arabesque ceilings, 
 massive chandeliers, soft carpets of choice 
 patterns, luxury, elegance, the riches of a 
 world, the merchandize of two, everything 
 that anybody ever could want, from a tin 
 shaving-pot to a Cashmere shawl. Astonish- 
 ing cheapness — wonderful celerity — enchant-
 
 Down WhUecliapel ^Vaij. 91 
 
 ing civility ! Great is Moses of the Minories ! 
 Of the Minories? of everywhere. He per- 
 vades Aldgate ; he looms on Whitechapel ; an 
 aerial suspension bridge seems to connect his 
 Minorial palace with his West End Branch. 
 Moses is everywhere. When I came from 
 Weedon the other day, his retainers pelted me 
 with his pamphlets as I quitted the railway 
 station. Moses has wrenched the lyre and 
 the bays from our laureate's hands; he and 
 his son are the monarchs of Parnassus. His 
 circulars are thrown from balloons and fired 
 out of cannon. I believe they must grow in 
 market gardens somewhere out oi' town — they 
 are so numerous. Of course, Moses is a great 
 public benefactor. 
 
 Crossing the Minories, and keeping on the 
 right hand side of the road, we are in the very 
 thick of ' Butcher Eow' at once. A city of 
 meat ! The gas, no longer gleaming through 
 ground-glass globes, or aided by polished 
 reflectors, but flaring from primitive tubes, 
 lights up a long vista of beef, mutton, and 
 veal. Legs, shoulders, loins, ribs, hearts, 
 livers, kidneys, gleam in all the gaudy panoply 
 of scarlet and white on every side. ' Buy, 
 buy, buy!' resounds shrilly through the 
 greasy, tobacco-laden, gas-rarefied air. There
 
 92 Down W kitechapel Way. 
 
 are eloquent butchers, wlio rival Orator 
 Henley in tlieir encomia on the legs and 
 briskets they expose ; insinuating butchers, 
 who weedle the softer sex into purchasing, 
 with sly jokes and well-turned compliments ; 
 dignified butchers (mostly plethoric, double- 
 chinned men, in top-boots, and doubtless 
 wealthy), who seem to think that the mere 
 appearance of their meat, und of themselves, 
 is sufficient to insure custom, and seldom con- 
 descend to mutter more than an occasional 
 ' Buy !' Then there are bold butchers — 
 vehement rogues, in stained frocks — who utter 
 frantic shouts of 'Buy, buy, buy!' ever and 
 anon making a ferocious sail}' into the street, 
 and seizing some unlucky wight, who buys a 
 leg of mutton or a bullock's heart, nolens 
 volens ! 
 
 Bless the women ! how they love marketing ! 
 Here they are by scores. Pretty faces, ugly 
 faces, young and old, chaffering, simpering, 
 and scolding vehemently. Now, it is the 
 portly matron — housekeeper, may be, to some 
 wealthy, retired old bachelor ; she awes the 
 boldest butcher, and makes even the dignified 
 one incline in his top-boots. And here is tlie 
 newly-married artisan's wife — a fresh, rosy- 
 cheeked girl, deliglitfully ignorant of house-
 
 Doion Whitechapel Wcnj. 03 
 
 keeping, tliougli delighted with its responsi- 
 bilities — charmingly diffident as to what she 
 shall bii}', and placing implicit, and it is to be 
 hoped, not misplaced, confidence in the in- 
 sinuating butcher, who could, I verily believe, 
 persuade her that a pig's fry is a saddle of 
 mutton. Poor thing ! she is anxious to be at 
 bome and get Tom's supper ready for him ; and 
 as for Tom, the sooner he gets away from the 
 public-house, where his wages are paid him 
 every Saturday night, the better it will be for 
 his wife and for him, too, I opine. There are 
 but few male purchasers of butcher's meat. 
 Stay, here is one — a little, rosy man, in deep 
 black, and with a very big basket, and holding 
 by the hand a little rosy girl, in black as deep 
 as his. He is a widower, I dare say, and the 
 little girl his daughter. How will it be, I 
 wonder, with that couple, a dozen j^ears hence ? 
 AVill the little girl grow big enough to go to 
 market by herself, while father smokes his 
 pipe at home? or, will father marry again, 
 and a shrewish stepmother ill-treat the girl, 
 
 till she runs away and Well, well ! we 
 
 have other matters besides Butcher Row to 
 attend to. We can but SDare a o-lance at that 
 gaunt old man, with the bristly beard and the 
 red eyelids, who is nervously fingering, while
 
 94 Doion WJiitechapel Way. 
 
 lie endeavours to beat down the price of those 
 sorry scraps of meat yonder. His history is 
 plain enough to read, and is printed in three 
 letters on his face. GIN. 
 
 On the pavement of this Butcher Eow, we 
 have another market, and a grand one too. 
 Not confined, however, to the sale of any one 
 particular article, but diversified in an eminent 
 degree. Half-way over the kerbstone and the 
 gutter, is an apparently interminable line of 
 ' standings ' and ' pitches,' consisting of trucks, 
 barrows, baskets, and boards on tressels, laden 
 with almost every imaginable kind of small 
 merchandize. Oysters, vegetables, fruit, combs, 
 prints in inverted umbrellas, ballads, cakes, 
 sweetstuff, fried fish, artificial flowers (!), 
 chairs, brushes and brooms, soap, candles, 
 crockery ware, ironmongery, cheese, walking- 
 sticks, looking-glasses, frying-pans, bibles, 
 waste-paper, toys, nuts, and fire-wood. These 
 form but a tithe of the contents of this Wliite- 
 chapel Bezesteen. Each stall is illuminated, 
 and each in its own peculiar manner. Some 
 of the vendors are careless, and their lamps 
 are but primitive, consisting of a rushlight 
 stuck in a lump of clay, or a tnrnijD cut in half. 
 But there is a degree of luxury in not a few ; 
 * Holliday's lamps,' green paper shades, ' fish-
 
 Doxcn Whitecliapd Tl'dij. 95 
 
 tail' burners, and, occasionally, camphine 
 lamps, being freely exhibited. I don't think 
 yon could collect together, in any given place 
 in Europe, a much queerer assortment than 
 the sellers of the articles exposed, were it not 
 the buyers thereof. Here are brawny coster- 
 mongers by dozens, in the orthodox corduroys, 
 fur caps, and ' king's man ' handkerchiefs. 
 Lungs of leather have they, marvellous elo- 
 quence, also, in praising carrots, turnips, and 
 red herrings. Here, too, are street mechanics, 
 manufacturers of the articles they sell, and 
 striving with might and main to sell them ; 
 and you will find very few, or rather, no Irish 
 among this class. I see women among the 
 street sellers, as I move along — some, poor 
 widow souls — some, who have grown old in 
 street trading — some, little puny tottering 
 things, sobbing and shivering as they sell. 
 The buyers are of all descriptions, from the 
 middle to the very lowest class, inclusive. 
 Euddy mechanics, with their wives no their 
 arms, and some sallow and shabby, reeling 
 to and from the gin-shops. Decent married 
 women, and comely servant girls, with latch- 
 keys and market-baskets. Beggars, by dozens. 
 Slatternly, frowsy, drabs of women, wrangling 
 with wrinkled crones, and bating down the
 
 96 Bown WJiitecJiapel Way. 
 
 price of a buncli of carrots fiercely. Blackguard 
 boys, with painted faces, tumbling head over 
 heels in the mud. Bulky costers, whose day's 
 work is over, or who do not care to work at 
 all. Grimy dustmen, newly emancipated from 
 the laystall. The bare-headed or battered- 
 bonneted members of the class, called (and 
 truly) unfortunate, haunt the other side of the 
 road. There is too much light and noise here 
 for them. 
 
 But the noise! the yelling, screeching, 
 howling, swearing, laughing, fighting satur- 
 nalia; the combination of commerce, fun, 
 frolic, cheating, almsgiving, thieving, and 
 devilry ; the Geneva-laden, tobacco-charged 
 atmosphere! The thieves, now pursuing 
 their vocation, by boldly snatching joints of 
 meat from the hooks, or articles from the 
 stalls ; now, peacefully, basket in hand, making 
 their Saturday night's marketing (for even 
 thieves must eat). The short pipes, the thick 
 sticks, the mildewed umbrellas, the dirty 
 faces, the ragged coats ! Let us turn into the 
 gin-shop here, for a moment. 
 
 It is a remarkably lofty, though not very 
 spacious, edifice— the area, both before and 
 behind the bar, being somewhat narrow. 
 There are enormous tubs of gin, marked with
 
 Down IFIiilechajJcl ^^ay. 07 
 
 an almost fabulous number of gallons eacli ; 
 and there are composite columns, and mirrors, 
 and liandsome clocks, and ormolu candelabra, 
 in the approved Seven Dials style. But the 
 compan}^ arc different. ^'hey have not the 
 steady, methodical, dram-drinking system of 
 the Seven Dials, Drury Lane, and Holborn 
 gin-sliop Jiahift/rs ; the tremulous deposition of 
 the required three halfpence ; the slow, 
 measured, draining of the glass ; the smack of 
 the lips, and quick passing of the hand over 
 the mouth, followed by the speedy exit of tlie 
 regular dram drinker, who takes his ' drain ' 
 and is off, even if he be in again in a short 
 time. These Whitechapel gin drinkers brawl 
 and screech horribly. Blows are freely 
 exchanged, and sometimes pewter measures 
 fly through the air like Shrapnell shells. The 
 stuff itself, whicli in tlie western gin-shops, 
 goes generalh' by the name of ' blue ruin ' or 
 ' short,' is here called indifferently, ' tape,' 
 'max,' 'duke,' 'gatter,' and 'jacky.' Two 
 more peculiarities I observe also. One is, that 
 there are no spruce barmaids, or smiling land- 
 ladies — stalwart men in white aprons supply 
 their place. The second is, that there is a 
 multiplicity of doors, many more than would 
 at first seem necessary, and for ever on the 
 
 7
 
 98 DotvfL Whitechcqwl Way. 
 
 swing; but the utility of winch is speedil}^ 
 demonstrated to me by the simultaneous ejec- 
 tion of three ' obstropelous ' Irish labourers, 
 by three of the stalwart barmen. 
 
 The trucks and barrows, the fried fish and 
 artificial flowers, are not quite so abundant 
 when we have passed a thoroughfare called 
 Somerset Street. They become even more 
 scarce when we see, on the other side of the 
 road, two stone posts, or obelisks on a small 
 scale, marking at once the boundaries of the 
 City, and the commencement of that renowned 
 thoroughfare now politely called Middlesex 
 Street, but known to Europe in general, and 
 the nobility and gentry connected with the 
 trade in old clothes in particular, as Petticoat 
 Lane. It is no use going down there this 
 Saturday, for the Hebrew community, who 
 form its chief delight and ornament, are all 
 enjoying their ' shobbhouse,' and we shall meet 
 with them elsewhere. We will, if you please, 
 cross over, leaving the kerbstone market (which 
 only exists on one side), and allured by the notes 
 of an execrably played fiddle, enter one of 
 those dazzling halls of delight, called a ' penny 
 
 gaff-' 
 
 The ' gafi" throws out no plausible puffs, no 
 
 mendacious placards, respecting the entertain-
 
 Doiun Whiteckapel Waij. 99 
 
 ment to be found tliereiu. The public take 
 the genumeness of the ' gaff' for granted, and 
 enter by dozens. The 'gaff' has been a shop — 
 a simple shop — with a back parlour to it, and 
 lias been converted into a hall of delight, by 
 the very simple process of knocking out the 
 shop front, and knocking down the partition 
 between the shop and parlour. The gas- 
 fittings yet remain, and even the original 
 counters, which are converted into 'reserved 
 seats,' on which, for the outlay of twopence, 
 as many costers, thieves, Jew-boys, and young 
 ladies, as can fight for a place, are sitting, 
 standing, or lounging. For the common herd 
 — the 01 TToXAot — the conditio vivendi is simply 
 the payment of one penny, for which they get 
 standing-room in what are somewhat vaguely 
 termed the ' stalls,' — plainly speaking, the 
 body of the shop. The proscenium is marked 
 by two gas ' battens' or pipes, perforated with 
 holes for burners, traversing the room hori- 
 zontally, above and below. There are some 
 monstrous engravings, in vile frames, sus- 
 pended from the walls, some vilely coloured 
 plaster casts, and a stufl'ed monstrosity or two 
 in glass cases. The place is abominably dirty, 
 and the odour of the company generally, and of 
 the shag tobacco they are smoking, is powerful. 
 
 7—2
 
 100 Down Wldteclicqoel Way. 
 
 A capital house tlioiigh, to-niglit : a bumper, 
 indeed. Such a bumper, in flict, that they 
 have been obliged to place benches on the 
 stage (two planks on tressels), on which some 
 of the candidates for the reserved seats are 
 accommodated. As I enter, a gentleman in a 
 fustian suit deliberately walks across the stage 
 and lights his pipe at the footlights ; while a 
 neighbour of mine of the Jewish persuasion, 
 who smells fearfully of fried fish, dexterously 
 throws a cotton handkerchief, containing some 
 savoury condiment from the stalls to the re- 
 served seats, where it is caught by a lady 
 whom he addresses by the title of ' Ber- 
 mondsey Bet.' Bet is, perhaps, a stranger in 
 these parts, and mj^ Hebrew friend wishes to 
 show her that Whitechapel can assert its cha- 
 racter for hospitality. 
 
 Silence for the manager, if you please ! — 
 who comes forward with an elaborate bow, 
 and a white hat in his hand, to address the 
 audience. A slight disturbance has occurred, 
 it appears, in the course of the evening ; the 
 Impresario complains bitterly of the ' machi- 
 nations' of certain parties ' next door,' who 
 seek to injure him by creating an uproar, after 
 he has gone to the expense of engaging ' four 
 good actors' for the express amusement of the
 
 Doion Whitechapel Way. 101 
 
 British public. The ' next door' 2)arties are, 
 it would seem, the proprietors of an adjacent 
 public-house, who have sought to seduce away 
 the supporters of the ' gaff,' by vaunting the 
 superior qualities of their cream gin, a cuckoo 
 clock, and the ' largest cheroots in the world 
 for a penny.' 
 
 Order is restored, and the performances 
 commence. ' Mr. and Mrs. Stitcher,' a buffo 
 duet of exquisite comicality, is announced. Mr. 
 Stitcher is a tailor, attired in the recognised 
 costume of a tailor on the stage, though, I 
 must confess, I never saw it of. He has 
 nankeen pantaloons, a red nightcap — a redder 
 nose, and a cravat with enormous bows. Mrs. 
 Stitcher is ' made up' to represent a slatternly 
 shrew, and she looks it all over. They sing a 
 verse apiece ; tliey sing a verse together ; they 
 quarrel, fight, and make it up again. The 
 audience are delighted. Mr. S. reproaches 
 Mrs. S. with the possession of a private gin- 
 bottle ; Mrs. S. inveighs against the hideous 
 turpitude of Mr. S. lor pawning three pillow- 
 cases to purchase beer. The audience are in 
 ecstacies, A sturdy coalhcaver in the ' stalls' 
 slaps his thigh with delight. It is w real. 
 TJgh ! terribly real ; let us come away, even 
 though murmurs run through the stalls that
 
 102 Doim Wldtechapel Way. 
 
 ' The Baker's Shop' is to be sung. I see, as 
 we edge away to the door, a young lady in a 
 cotton velvet spencer, hare arms, and a short 
 white calico skirt, advance to the footlights. 
 I suppose she is the Fornarina, who is to 
 enchant the dilettanti with the flowery song 
 in question. 
 
 We are still in Whitechapel High Street; 
 but in a wider part. The kerbstone market 
 has ceased, and the head-quarters of com- 
 merce are in the shops. Wonderful shops, 
 these ! Grocers who dazzle their customers 
 with marvellous Chinese paintings, and sur- 
 mount the elaborate vessels (Properties for a 
 Pantomime) containing their teas and sugars 
 with startling acrostics — pungent conundrums. 
 Is it in imagination only, or in reality, that I 
 see, perched above these groceries, an imp — 
 a fantastic imp, whose head-dress is shaped 
 like a retort, who has a Lancet in his girdle, 
 and a microscope in his hand, and on whose 
 brow is written 'Analysis?' — that when I 
 read tlie placards relative to ' Pine young 
 Hyson,' 'Well-flavoured Pekoe,' 'Strong 
 family Souchong,' ' Imperial Gunpowder,' this 
 imp, putting his thumb to his nose, and 
 spreading his fingers out demoniacally, whis- 
 pers, ' Sloe-leaves,' •' China-clay, Prussian-blue,
 
 Down Whitecha2)d Waj/. 103 
 
 yellow-ochre, gum tragacantli, garbage, poi- 
 son ?' — that, pointing to Muscovado, and 
 'Fine West India,' and 'superfine lump,' 
 he mutters, ' Sand, chalk, poison ?' — that, 
 when I talk of cocoa, he screams, ' Venetian- 
 red, and desiccated manure ?' — that, when I 
 allude to coffee, he grins mocking gibes of 
 'burnt beans, chicory, poison?' — that he 
 dances from the grocer's to the baker's, next 
 door, and executes maniacal gambadoes on the 
 quartern loaves and French rolls, uttering yells 
 about chalk, alum, and dead men's bones? — 
 that be draws chalk and horses' brains from 
 the dairyman's milk ; and horse-flesh, and 
 worse offal still, from sausages ? — that he shows 
 me everywhere fraud, adulteration, and poison! 
 Avaunt, imp ! I begin to think that there is 
 nothing real in the eating and drinking line — 
 that nothing is but what is not — that all beer 
 is cocculm Indlcus^nW gin, turpentine, in this 
 delusive A¥hitechapel. And not in White- 
 chapel alone. Art thou immaculate. Shore- 
 ditch ? Art thou blameless. Borough ? Canst 
 thou place thy hand on thy waistcoat, Oxford 
 Street the aristocratic, and say thy tea knows 
 no ' facing or glazing,' thy sugar no potato 
 starch, thy beer no doctoring ? 
 
 But one of my friends is clamorous for beer:
 
 104 Down Whitechajid Waij. 
 
 and, to avoid adulteration, we eschew the 
 delusive main tlioroughfare for a moment and 
 strike into a maze of little, unsavoury back 
 streets, between Whitechapel Church and 
 Goodman's Fields. Here is a beer-shop — a 
 little, blinking, wall-eyed edifice, with red 
 curtains in the window, and a bar squeezed up 
 in one corner, as though it were ashamed of 
 itself. From the door of the tap-room which 
 we open, comes forth a thick, compact body of 
 smoke. There are, perhaps, twenty people in 
 the room, and they are all smoking like lime- 
 kilns. From a kiln at the upper extremity 
 comes forth the well-remembered notes of the 
 old f rink-lied, ' Am Ithein, am Rhein.' We 
 are in Vaterland at once. All these are 
 Teutons — German sugar-bakers. There are 
 hundreds more of their countrymen in the 
 narrow streets about here, and dozens of low 
 lodging-houses, where the German emigrants 
 are crimped and boarded and robbed. Here, 
 also, live the German buy-a-broom girls. There 
 are little German public-houses, and German 
 bakers, and little shops where you can get 
 sauer-kraut and potato-salad, just as though 
 you were in Frankfort or Mayence. Dear old 
 Vaterland ! pleasant country of four meals a 
 day, and feather-bed counterpanes — agreeable
 
 Down IF/titcchajjd Waij. 105 
 
 land, where you can drink wine in the morning-, 
 and where everybody takes off his hat to every- 
 body else ! Though thy cookery is execrable, 
 and thy innkeepers are robbers, I love thee, 
 Germany, still ! 
 
 My experienced friend, when we have re- 
 freshed ourselves at this hostelry, brings us, 
 bv a short cut, into Union Street, and so into 
 the broad Whitechapel Road. Here the 
 kerbstone market I have alluded to crosses 
 the road itself, and stretches, in a stragglings, 
 limping sort of way, up to Whitechapel 
 Workhouse. We come here upon another 
 jjhase of Saturday-night Whitechapel life. The 
 children of Jewry begin to encompass us, not 
 so much in the way of business ; for though 
 their Sabbath is over, and work is legal — 
 thongh Moses, at the other extremity, is in full 
 swing of mone3'-making activity, yet the 
 majority of the Israelites prefer amusing them- 
 selves on a Saturday night. Tiiey are peculiar 
 in their amusements, as in everything else. 
 The public-house — the mere bar, at least — has 
 no charms for them ; but almost all the low 
 coffee-shops you pass are crowded with young- 
 Jews, pla3dng dominoes and draughts ; while 
 in the publics, where tap-rooms are attached, 
 their elders disport themselves with cards.
 
 106 Boivn WJiitecJiapel Way. 
 
 bagatelle, and the excitement of a sing-song 
 meeting. Smoking is universal. Cigars the 
 rule — pipes the exception. Houndsclitch, the 
 Minories, Leman Street, Duke's Place, St. 
 Mary Axe, Bevis Marks, and Whitechapel 
 itself, have all contributed their quota to fill 
 these places of amusement ; and here and there 
 you will see some venerable Israelite, with long 
 beard and strange foreign garb, probably from 
 Tangier or Constantinople, on a visit to his 
 brethren in England. There are legends, too, 
 of obscure places in this vicinity, where what 
 the French call \gro8 jeii,' or high play, is 
 carried on. In Butcher Eow, likewise, are 
 Jew butchers, where you may see little leaden 
 seals, inscribed with Hebrew characters, ap- 
 pended to the meat, denoting that the animal 
 has been slaughtered according to the direc- 
 tions of the Synagogue. In the daytime you 
 may see long-bearded rabbins examining the 
 meat, and testing the knives on their nails. 
 
 What have we here ? ' The Grand Panorama 
 of Australia, a series of moving pictures.' 
 Admission one penny. Just a-going to begin. 
 Some individuals, dressed as Ethiopian sere- 
 naders, hang about the door ; and one with 
 the largest shirt-collar I have ever seen, takes 
 my penny, and admits me, with some score or
 
 Down Wkitecliapel Way. 107 
 
 two more, where, though it is 'just a-going to 
 begin,' I and my friends wait a good quarter 
 of an hour. There are two policemen off duty 
 beside me, who are indulging in the dolce far 
 niente, and cracking nuts. There is a decent, 
 civil-spoken silkweaver from Spitalfields, too, 
 whose ancestors, he tells me, came over to 
 England at the time of the revocation of the 
 Edict of Nantes, and who has a romantically 
 Erencli name. He has the old Lyons inden- 
 tures of his ancestors at home, he says. 
 
 We give up the panorama in despair ; and, 
 for aught we know, is 'jest a-going to begin' 
 at this moment. In our progress towards the 
 Gate, however, we look in at a few more public- 
 houses. Here is a costermongers' house, where 
 the very truck and baskets are brought to the 
 bar. Here is that famous hostelry, where is 
 preserved an oil painting, containing authentic 
 portraits of three Whitechapel worthies, who 
 once drank one hundred and one pots of beer 
 at one sitting. The name of the captain of 
 this gallant band was ' Old Fish.' Here, again, 
 is a thieves' house — thievish all over, from 
 the squint-eyed landlord to the ruffianly cus- 
 tomers. Go in at one door, and go out at 
 another; and don't change more five-pound 
 notes at the bar than you can help, my friend.
 
 lOS Down IVh'itecliapel Watj. 
 
 Here are liouses with queer signs — ' The Grave 
 Morris/ supposed to be a corruption of some 
 dead-ancl-gone German Landgrave, and 'The 
 Blind Becrg:ar,' close to Mile-end Gate. 
 
 Another 'gaff' on the right-hand side of 
 the road — but on a grander scale. The 
 Effingham Saloon, with real boxes, a real pit, 
 and a real gallery ; dreadfully dirty, and with 
 a dirtier audience. No comic singing, but the 
 drama — the real, legitimate drama. There is 
 a bold bandit, in buff-boots, calling on ' yon 
 blew Ev'n to bring-a down-a revving on ther 
 taraytor's ed.' There is nothing new in him, 
 nor in the young lady in pink caUco, with her 
 back hair down, expressive of affliction. Nor 
 in the Pavilion Theatre over the way, 
 where 'Euo-antino the Terrible' is the stock 
 piece, and where there are more buff-boots, 
 rusty broad-swords, calico-skirts, and back 
 
 hairs. 
 
 Shops, Gin-palaces, Saloons — Saloons, Gin- 
 palaces, Shops ; Costermongers, Thieves, and 
 Beggars — Beggars, Thieves, and Coster- 
 mongers. As we near the Gate, the London 
 Hospital looms heavily on one side, while on 
 the other the bare, bleak walls of Whitechapel 
 AVorkhouse stretch grimly along, with a woful 
 skirtin"'-board of crouching Irish paupers.
 
 Down Whltechaiwl Waij. 109 
 
 who have arrived too late for admission into 
 the Workhouse, and are houseless for the 
 night. 
 
 Goino- alono;, and still anxious to see what 
 is to be seen, I look, curiously, at the portraits 
 hansringr on the walls of the coffee-houses and 
 bar-parlours. The democratic element is not 
 very strong in Whitechapel, it would seem ; 
 for the effigies of Her Majesty and Prince 
 Consort are as a hundred to one of the effigies 
 of the Cuffies and Meaghers of the sword. One 
 portrait, though, I see everywhere ; its multi- 
 plications beating all royal, noble, and demo- 
 cratic portraits hollow, and far outnumbering 
 the Bog Billys, and winners of memorable 
 Derby s. In tavern and tap-room, in shop and 
 parlour, I see everywhere the portrait or the 
 bust of Sir Egbert Pekl. 
 
 Mile-end Gate at last, and midnight chimes. 
 There is a ' cheap-jack,' on a rickety platform, 
 and vaunting wares more rickety still, who 
 S^ets vehemently eloquent as it gets later. But 
 his auditor}^ gradually disperse, and the wliole 
 road seems to grow suddenly quiet. Do you 
 know why? The public-houses are closed. 
 The pie-shops, it is true, yet send fortli 
 savoury steams ; but the rain comes down 
 heavily. Therefore, and as I (and I fear you.
 
 110 Down WMiecliapel Way. 
 
 too, clear reader) have had enough of White- 
 chapel for one while, let us jump into this last 
 omnihus bound westwards, reflecting- that if 
 we have not discovered the North -West 
 Passage, or the source of the Niger, we have 
 beheld a strange country, and some strange 
 phases of life. 
 
 fcmmMmuu..i.mi»niiniinallM;iaH'
 
 V. 
 
 TATTYBOYS EENTS. 
 
 IN Tattyboys Eents the sun shines, and the 
 rain rains, and people are born, and live 
 and die, and are buried and forgotten, much 
 as they do in Rents of greater renown. And 
 I do not think that the obscurity of the 
 Tattyboysians, or the lack of fame of their 
 habitation, cause them much grief, simpl}^ 
 because it is to be believed that they are un- 
 conscious of both fame and obscurity. That 
 happy conformation of the human mind which 
 leads us firmly and complacently to think that 
 the whole workl is ceaselessly occupied with our 
 own little tinpot doings — that serenity of self- 
 importance which lends such a dignity of car- 
 riage to little Mr. Claypipkin, as he sails down 
 the street in company with big, burly iMr. 
 Brazenpot — these, I dare say, set my friends in 
 the locality that gives a name to this paper,
 
 ] 1 2 Tatfyhoys Bents. 
 
 quite at tlieir ease in regard to tlie place they 
 occupy, in the estimation of the Universe, and 
 engender a comfortable indifference as to 
 whether the eyes of Europe (that celebrated 
 visionary) are continually fixed upon Tattyboys 
 Eents or not. 
 
 To tell the plain truth about them, never- 
 theless, the Eents and the Renters are alarm- 
 ingly obscure. Beyond the postman, the tax- 
 collectors, and those monsters of topographical 
 erudition who deliver County Court summonses, 
 and serve notices for the Insolvent Court, I 
 doubt if there are a hundred persons in London, 
 exclusive of the inhabitants themselves, who 
 know anything about Tattyboys Rents, or even 
 whereabouts they are. It is to be surmised that 
 the names of the masfnates of the Rents are 
 inscribed in that golden book of commerce, 
 the Post-Office London Directory ; but the 
 place itself finds no mention there. By inter- 
 nal evidence and much collation of the work 
 in question, it may be conjectured that Tatty- 
 boys Rents is not even the proper name of the 
 score of houses so called, and that it is legally 
 known — no, not known, for it isn't known — 
 but that it should be designated as — Little 
 Blitsom Street. l^luirc:, of the water-rates, 
 says that in liis youth he well remembers a
 
 Tall ijhoijs Rents. 113 
 
 small stone tablet on tlie corner wall of 
 number nineteen, running thus, ' Little Blit- 
 som Street, 1770,' — and old Mrs. Brush, the 
 charwoman, wlio, in the days of King James 
 the First, would infallibly have been burnt for 
 a witch, but is now venerated as the Oldest 
 Inhabitant, minds the time * when a ferocious 
 band of miscreants/ whether forgers, burglars, 
 or murderers is not stated, were captured in 
 Tattyboys Eents by that bold runner Towns- 
 hend, and his red-waistcoated acolytes, and 
 by him conveyed before Sir llichard Birnie : 
 the wretches being known as the ' Little 
 Blitsom Street Gang.' Mogg's Map of the 
 Metropolis, with the later charts of Eichard 
 and Davis, pass the Eents by in contemp- 
 tuous silence. Blitsom Street, and long, dirty 
 Turk's Lane, into which it leads, are both set 
 down in fair characters, but beyond an anony- 
 mous little gap between two blocks of houses, 
 there is nothing to tell you where Tattyboys 
 Eents may be. It is no good asking the 
 policeman anything about them. I have my 
 doubts whether Ite knows ; but even granting 
 his sapience, I have my suspicions that unless 
 he knew your position and character well, he 
 would aflect entire ignorance on the subject. 
 He has his private reasons for doing so. 
 
 8
 
 114 TaUi/hoijs Rents. 
 
 Tattyboys Rents are far too snugly situated, 
 peaceable, and well-behaved, for its locality to 
 be divulged to strangers — possibly of indiffe- 
 rent character. Therefore my advice to you 
 is, if 5^ou understand navigation, which I do 
 not, to take your observations by the sun and 
 moon, and by the help of your ' Hamilton 
 Moore,' chronometers, quadrant, compass 
 steering due north, and a guinea case of 
 mathematical instruments, work out Tatty- 
 boys Eents' exact place on the chart, — and 
 then go and find it. Or, 'another way,' as 
 the cookery-book says, follow Turk's Lane till 
 you come to Blitsom Street, up which wander 
 till you stumble, somehow, into Tattyboys 
 Eents. 
 
 The last you are very likely to do literally, 
 for the only approach to the Rents is by a 
 flight of steps, very steep and very treacherous : 
 their vicinity being masked by a grove of posts, 
 and the half-dozen idlers whom jou are always 
 sure to find congregated round Chapford's beer- 
 shop. And it has often happened that, of the 
 few strangers who have travelled in Tattyboys 
 Rents, the proudest and sternest : men who 
 would have scorned to perform the ceremony of 
 the Kotou in China, and would have scouted 
 the idea of salaaming to the Great Mogul : have
 
 Tattijloijs Bents. 115 
 
 made their first entrance into the Eents with 
 the lowHest obeisances, with bended knees, and 
 foreheads touching the pavement. 
 
 If Miss Mitford had not written, years ago, 
 * Our Village,' it is decidedly by that name that 
 1 should have called this paper. For Tatty- 
 boys Eents form not only a village as regards 
 their isolation and the unsophisticated nature 
 of their inhabitants, but they resemble those 
 villages, few and far between, now-a-days, 
 where there is no railway-station — cross-country 
 villacres, where the civilizing: shriek of the 
 ensrine - whistle is never heard ; where the 
 building mania in any style of architecture is 
 nnfelt ; where the inhabitants keep themselves 
 to themselves, and have a supreme contempt 
 for the inhabitants of all other villages, hamlets, 
 townships, and boroughs Avhatsoever; where 
 strangers are barely tolerated and never popu- 
 lar; where improvements, alterations, and in- 
 novations are unanimously scouted; where 
 the father's customs are the son's rule of life, 
 and the daughters do what then* mothers did 
 before them. The Metropolitan Buildings Act 
 is a dead letter in Tattyboys Eents, for nobody 
 ever thinks of building — to say nothing of 
 rebuilding or painting — a house. The Common 
 Lodging -House Act goes for nothing, for 
 
 8—2
 
 116 Tatiijhoijs Benis. 
 
 there are no common lodging-houses, and the 
 lodgers, where there are any, are of an un- 
 common character. No one fears the Nuisances 
 Eemovals Act, for everyhody has his own 
 particular nuisance, and is too fond of it to 
 move for its abrogation. The Health of Towns 
 Act has nothing in common with the health 
 of Tattyboys Rents, for fevers don't seem to 
 trouble themselves to come down its steep 
 entrance steps, and the cholera has, on three 
 occasions, given it the cut direct. It is of no 
 use bothering about the drainage, for nobody 
 complains about it, and nobody will tell you 
 whether it is deficient or not. As to the 
 supply of water, there is a pump at the further 
 extremity of the Rents that would satisfy the 
 most exigent hydropathist ; and, touching 
 that pump, I should like to see the bold 
 stranger female who would dare to draw a 
 jugful of water from it, or the stranger boy 
 who would presume to lift to his lips the 
 time-worn and water-rusted iron ladle attached 
 by a chain to that pump's nozzle. Such 
 persons as district surveyors and inspectors of 
 nuisances have been heard of in Tattyboys 
 Rents, but they are estimated as being in 
 influence and authority infinitely below the 
 parish beadle. There was a chimney on fire
 
 Tattjjho>js Tlents. 117 
 
 once at number twelve, and with immense 
 difficulty an ens^ine was lifted into the lients, 
 but all claims of the Fire Brig-ade were laughed 
 to scorn, and the boys of the Rents made such 
 a tierce attack on the fire-quenching machine, 
 and manifested so keen a desire to detain it as 
 a hostage, that the hclmeted men with the 
 hatchets were glad to make theii* escape as 
 best they could. 
 
 The first peculiarity that will strike you on 
 entering the llents is the tallness of the houses. 
 The blackness of their fronts and the dimriness 
 of their windows will not appear to you as so 
 uncommon, being characteristic of Blitsom 
 Street, Turk's Lane, and the whole of the 
 neighbourhood. But Tattyboys houses are 
 very tall indeed, as if, being set so closely 
 together, and being prevented by conservative 
 tendencies from spreading be3'ond the limits 
 of the Rents, they had grown taller instead, 
 and added unto themselves storeys instead of 
 wings. I can't say much, either, for their 
 picturesque aspect. Old as the Rents are, they 
 are not romantically old. Here are no lean-to 
 roofs, no carved gables, no old lintels, no dormer 
 or lattice windows. The houses are all alike 
 — all tall, grim}', all with mathematically dirty 
 windows, fiights of steps (quite innocent of
 
 118 Tatfijhoys Bents. 
 
 the modern frivolities of washing and hearth- 
 stoning), tall narrow doors,and areas withhideous 
 railings. One uncompromisingly tasteless yet 
 terrible mould was evidently made in the first 
 instance for all the lion's-head knockers : one 
 disproportioned sjDear-head and tassel for all 
 the railings. I can imagine the first Tattyboys, 
 a stern man of inflexible uniformity of conduct 
 and purpose, saying grimly to his builder: 
 ' Build me a Eents of so many houses, on such 
 and such a model,' and the obedient builder 
 turning out so many houses like so many 
 bricks, or so many bullets from a mould, or 
 pins from a wire, and saying, ' There, Tatty- 
 boys, there are your Rents.' Then new, 
 painted, swept, garnished, with the mathema- 
 tical windows all glistening in one sunbeam, 
 the same lion's-head knockers grinning on the 
 same doors, the regularity of Tattyboys Eents 
 must have been distressing ; the houses must 
 all have been as like each other as the beaux 
 in wigs and cocked hats, and the belles in 
 hoops and hair powder, who lived when Tat- 
 tyboys Rents were built ; but age, poverty, 
 and dirt have given as much variety of ex- 
 pression to these houses now, as hair, whiskers, 
 wrinkles, and scars give to the human face. Some 
 of the lion-headed knockers are gone, and many
 
 Tatfi/bot/s Renis. 119 
 
 of the spear-lieaded railings. Some of the tall 
 doors stand continually open, drooping grace- 
 fully on one hinge. The plain fronts of the 
 houses are chequered by lively cartoons, pic- 
 torially representing the domestic mangle, the 
 friendly cow that yields fresh milk daily for 
 our nourishment, the household goods that 
 can be removed (by spring vans) in town or 
 country ; the enlivening ginger-beer which is 
 the favourite beverage (according to the cartoon) 
 of the British Field-Marshal, and the lady in 
 the Bloomer costume. Variety is given to the 
 windows by many of their panes being broken, 
 or patched with parti - coloured paper and 
 textile fabrics ; and by many of the windows 
 themselves being open the major part of the 
 day, disclosing heads and shoulders of various 
 stages of muscular development, with a fore- 
 ground of tobacco-pipes and a background of 
 shirt-sleeves. Pails, brooms, and multifarious 
 odds and ends relieve the uniformity of the 
 areas, while the area gates (where there are 
 any left) swing cheerfully to and fro. Groups 
 of laughing children bespangle the pavement, 
 and diversify the door-steps : and liveliness, 
 colour, form, are given to the houses and the 
 inhabitants by dust, linen on poles, half dis- 
 mantled placards, domestic fowls, dogs, decayed
 
 120 ' Taityhoys Rents. 
 
 vegetables, oyster tubs, pewter pots, broken 
 shutters, torn blinds, ragged door-mats, lidless 
 kettles, bottomless saucepans, shattered plates, 
 bits of frayed rope, and cats whose race is run, 
 and whose last tile has been prowled on. 
 
 Tattyboys originall}^ intended the houses in 
 his Rents to be all private mansions. Of that 
 there can be no doubt : else, why the areas, 
 why the doorsteps and the lion-headed 
 knockers ? But, that mutability of time and 
 fashion which has converted the monastery of 
 the Crutched Friars into a nest of susrar- 
 brokers' counting-houses, and the Palace of 
 Henry the Eighth and Cardinal Wolsey into 
 a hairdresser's shop, has dealt as hardly with 
 the private houses in Tattyboys Rents. The 
 shopkeeping element has not yet wholly 
 destroyed the aristocratic aspect of the place ; 
 still, in very many instances, petty commerce 
 has set up its petty wares in the front-parlour 
 windows, and the chapman has built his 
 counters and shelves on the groundfloors of 
 gentility. 
 
 I have spoken so often of Tattyboys Rents, 
 that the question might aptly be asked, Who 
 was Tatty bo3's ? When did it occur to him to 
 build Rents ? By what fortunate inheritance, 
 what adventitious accession of wealth, what
 
 Tallijhou^ Benh. 121 
 
 prosperous result of astute speculations, was 
 he enabled to give his name to, and derive 
 quarterly revenues from, the two blocks of 
 houses christened after him ? So dense is the 
 obscurit}' that surrounds all the antecedents 
 of the locality, that I do not even know the 
 sex of the primary Tattyboys. 
 
 Tlie estates, titles, muniments, and manorial 
 rights (whatever they may be) of the clan Tatty- 
 boys, are at present enjoyed by a black beaver 
 bonnet and black silk cloak of antediluvian 
 design and antcmundanc rustiness, supposed 
 to contain Miss Tattyboys herself. I say 
 ' supposed,' for though the cloak and the 
 bonnet are patent in the Eents on certain 
 periodical occasions, the ancient female (she 
 must be old) whom they enshroud is facially 
 as unknown as the first Odalisque of the 
 Harem to Hassan the cobbler, or as the Veiled 
 Prophet of Khorassan was to the meanest of 
 his adorers. No man has seen Miss Tatty- 
 boys, not even Mr. Barvvise, her agent ; nay, 
 nor old Mr. Fazzle, the immensely rich bachelor 
 of number thirteen ; but many have heard her 
 stern demands for rent, and her shrill denun- 
 ciation of the ' carryings on ' of her tenants. 
 It is said that Miss Tattyboys resides at 
 Hoxton, and that she keeps her own cows.
 
 12.2 Tatfyhoys Rents. 
 
 Men also say that she discounts bills, and is 
 the proprietor of a weekly newspaper. It is 
 certain that she is in frequent communication 
 with Mr. Hemp, the officer of the Sheriff"s 
 Court;* and many are the proclamations of 
 outlawry made against sprigs of nobility, with 
 tremendously long and aristocratic names, at 
 the ' suit of Bridget Tattyboys.' Likewise 
 she arrested the Honourable Tom Scaleybridge, 
 M.P., at the close of the last session, before 
 the advent of the present Administration, but 
 was compelled to release him immediately 
 afterwards ; he claiming his privilege. There 
 are many solicitors of my acquaintance, who 
 in their mysteriously musty and monied 
 private offices have battered tin boxes with 
 half effaced inscriptions relative to 'Tattyboys 
 Estate, 1829 ;' ' Tattyboys Trust, 1832 ;' 
 ' Tattyboys versus Patcherly ;' and ' Miss 
 Bridget Tattyboys.' She is mixed up with 
 an infinity of trusts, estates, and will cases. 
 She is the subject of dreary lawsuits in which 
 the nominal plaintiff" is the real defendant, and 
 the defendant ought not to be a party to the 
 suit at all. [Time is always being given to 
 speak to her, or communicate with her, or to 
 summon her to produce papers which she 
 
 * His occupiition is gone.
 
 Ted tij boys Rents. 123 
 
 never will produce.] The lines in brackets 
 are Mr. Dickens's. Law reports about her 
 cases begin with ' So far back as eighteen 
 hundred and ten \ 'it will be remembered 
 that ;' ' this part-heard case ;' and the daily 
 newspapers occasionally contain letters denying 
 that she made a proposition to A, or sued B, 
 or was indebted to C : signed by Driver, 
 Chizzle, and Wrench, solicitors for Miss Tatty - 
 boys. She got as far as the House of Lords 
 once, in an appeal case against Coger Alley 
 Earn Chunder Loll, of Bombay ; but how this 
 litigious old female managed to get out, phy- 
 sically or literally, to Hindostan, or into diffi- 
 culties with a Parsee broker, passes my com- 
 j)rehension. A mysterious old lady ! 
 
 Meanwhile, Miss Bridget Tattyboys is the 
 landlady of Tattyboys Rents. There is no 
 dubiety about her existence there. Only be a 
 little behindhand with your rent, and you Vvdll 
 soon be favoured with one of Mr. Barwise's 
 '■ Sir, I am instructed by Miss Tattyboys \ 
 and close upon that will follow Mr. S. Scrutor, 
 Miss Tattyboys' broker, with his distraint, 
 and his levy, and his inventory, and all the 
 ceremonies of selling up. I should opine that 
 Miss Tattyboys is deaf, for she is remarkable 
 (in cases of unpaid rent) for not hearkening to
 
 124 Tattijboys Bents. 
 
 appeals for time, and not giving ear to sugges- 
 tions for a compromise. Gilks, the cliandler's 
 shopkeeper of number nine, whose wife is 
 always in the family-way, and himself in difii- 
 culties, once ' bound himself b}^ a curse' to 
 seek out Miss Tattyboys at Hoxton, to beard 
 her in her very den, and appeal to her mercy, 
 her charity, her womanhood, in a matter of 
 two quarters owing. He started one morning, 
 with a determined shirt-collar, and fortified by 
 sundry small libations at the Cape of Grood 
 Hope. He returned at nightfall with a 
 haggard face, disordered apparel, and an un- 
 steady gait ; was inarticulate and incoherent 
 in his speech ; shortly afterwards went to bed ; 
 and to this day cannot be prevailed upon by 
 his acquaintances, by the wife of his bosom 
 even, to give any account of his interview (if 
 interview he had) witli the Terrible Woman 
 of Hoxton. Mrs. Gilks, a wary soul, who has 
 brought, and is bringing, up a prodigious 
 family, has whispered to Mrs. Spileburg, of 
 the Cape of Good Hope tavern, that, on the 
 morning after Gilks's expedition, examining 
 his garments, as it is the blessed conjugal 
 custom to do, she found, imprinted in chalky 
 dust, on the back of his coat, I lie niark of a 
 lii'man foot ! "What could this portend ? Did
 
 Taff>/hop Rciih: 125 
 
 Gilks penetrate to Hoxtoii, unci was lie indeed 
 kicked hy Miss Tatty boys ? or did he sulTer 
 the insulting infliction at the foot of some 
 pampered menial ? Or, coming home despair- 
 ing, was he led to the consumption (and the 
 redundancy of coppers, and the paucity of 
 silver, in his pockets would favour this view 
 of the case) of more liquid sustenance of a 
 fermented nature than was good for him? 
 And was he in this state kicked by outraged 
 landlord or infuriated pot-companion ? Gilks 
 lives, and makes no sign. Pressed on the sub- 
 ject of Miss Tattyboys, he reluctantly grumbles 
 that she is an ' old image,' and this is all. 
 
 I do wonder what Miss Tattyboys is like. 
 Is she really the stern, harsh, uncompromising 
 female that her acts bespeak her ? Does she 
 sit in a rigid cap, or still accoutred in the 
 black bonnet and veil in a dreary office-like 
 parlour at Hoxton, with all her documents 
 docketed on a table before her, or glaring 
 from pigeon-holes, shelves, and cupboards ? 
 Or is she a jolly, apple-faced little woman, in 
 a cheery room with birds and plants and 
 flowers, liking a cozy glass and a merry song : 
 a Lady Bountiful in the neighbourhood, a 
 Dorcas to the poor, the idol of all the dis- 
 senting ministers around ? Perhaps. AVho
 
 12G Tattijhoys Bents. 
 
 knows ? Ah. ! how unlike we all are to what 
 we seem ! How the roar of tlie lion abroad 
 softens into the bleat of the lamb at home ! 
 How meekly the fierce potent schoolmaster of 
 the class-room holds out his knuckles for the 
 ruler in the study ! He who is the same in 
 his own home of homes as he is abroad, is a 
 marvel. 
 
 Miss Tattyboys has a carriage and a horse, 
 but for certain reasons upon which I briefly 
 touched in allusion to the parish engine, her 
 visits to the Rents are made perforce on foot. 
 Monday mornings, black Mondays emphati- 
 cally, are her ordinary visiting days ; and on 
 such mornings you will see her dusky form 
 looming at Mr. Fazzle's door, or flitting 
 through the Eents as she is escorted to her 
 carriage by Bar wise, her agent. Commu- 
 nications may be made direct to her, but 
 they always come somehow tlirough Barwise. 
 He may be described as the buffer to the 
 Tatt3'boys train ; and run at her ever so 
 hard, Barwise receives the first collision, and 
 detracts from its force. If Gilks wants time, 
 or Chapford tlireatens to leave unless his roof 
 is looked to, or Mrs. Chownes asks a^ain 
 about that kitchen range, or Spileljurg ex- 
 presses a savage opinion tliat his Iiouse will
 
 Taitijloijs Rents. 127 
 
 tumble in next week, and that there'll be 
 manslaughter against somebody, Barwise in- 
 terposes, explains, promises, refuses, will see 
 about it. Which Barwise never does. You 
 try to get at Miss Tattyboys, but you can't, 
 though you are within hand and earshot of 
 her. The portentous black veil thitters in the 
 wind ; you are dazzled and terrified by her 
 huge black reticule bursting with papers; you 
 strive to speak ; but Miss Tattyboys is gone 
 [and all you can do is to throw yourself upon 
 Barwise, who throws you over*]. 
 
 The carriage of the landlad}^ of the Eents 
 is an anomalous vehicle on very high springs, 
 of which the body seems decidedly never to 
 liave been made for the wheels, which on their 
 part appear to be all of different sizes, and 
 shriek while moving dreadfully. Much basket- 
 work enters into the composition of Miss 
 Tattyboys' carriage ; also much rusty leather, 
 and a considerable quantity of a fabric resem- 
 bling bed-ticking. There are two lamps, one 
 of which is quite blind and glassless, and the 
 other blinking and knocked on one side in 
 some bygone collision, to a very squinting 
 obliquity. A complication of straps and rusty 
 iron attaches this equipage to a very long- 
 
 * CD.
 
 128 Taff>/boijs Rents. 
 
 bodied, short-legged black horse, not unlike a 
 turnspit dog, wliich appears to be utterly 
 disgusted with the whole turn-out, and drags 
 it with an outstretched head and outstretched 
 legs, as tliough he were a dog and the carriage 
 a tin kettle tied to his tail. There have been 
 blood and bone once about this horse doubtless ; 
 but the blood is confined at present to a per- 
 petual raw on his shoulder, artfully veiled from 
 the Society's constables by the rags of his 
 dilapidated collar, and the bone to a lamentably 
 anatomical development of his ribs. To him, 
 is Jehu, a man of grim aspect and of brickdust 
 complexion, whose hat and coat are as the hat 
 and coat of a groom, but whose legs are as the 
 legs of an agricultural labourer, inasmuch as 
 they are clad in corduroy, and terminate in 
 heavy shoes, much clayed. He amuses himself 
 while waiting- for his mistress with ao-gravatino- 
 the long-bodied horse wdth his whip on his 
 blind side (he, the horse, is wall-eyed), and with 
 reading a tattered volume, averred by many to 
 be a book of tracts, but declared by some to 
 be a ' Little Wai'bler,' insomuch as smothered 
 refrains of ' right tooral lol looral ' have been 
 heard at times from his dreary coachbox. It 
 is not a pleasant sight — this rusty carriage 
 with the long horse and the grim coachman
 
 Taf///ho>/.s Renf.s. 129 
 
 jolting" and staggering about Blitsom Street. 
 It does not do a man good to see the black 
 bonnet and veil inside, with the big reticule 
 and the papers ; and, overshadowed by them 
 all, as though a cypress had been drawn over 
 her, a poor little weazened diminutive pale- 
 faced little girl, in a bonnet preposterously 
 large for her, supposed to be Miss Tattyboys' 
 niece, also to be a something in Chancer}-, and 
 the 'infant' about whose ' custod}^ ' there is 
 such a fluster every other term, the unhappy 
 heiress of tliousands of disputed pounds. 
 
 There are three notable institutions in 
 Tattyboys Rents — these are the posts, the 
 children, and the dogs — and all three as con- 
 nected with the steps. The Rents, if it were 
 famous for anything, which it is not, should 
 be famous for its dogs. They are remarkable, 
 firstly, for not having any particular breed. 
 Gilks, the chandler's shopkeeper, had a puppy 
 which was * giv to him b}^ a party as was 
 alwa3's mixed up with dogs,' which he 
 tliought, at first, would turn out a pointer, 
 then a terrier, then a spaniel ; but was miser- 
 ably disa])pointed in all his conjectures. He 
 had gone to the expense of a collar for him, 
 and the conversion of an emptied butter-firkin 
 into a kennel, and, in despair, took him to 
 
 9
 
 130 TaHyhoys Rents. 
 
 Chuffers, the greengrocer and dogs'-meat 
 vendor in Blitsom Street, and solemnly asked 
 his opinion npon him. ' There ain't a hinch 
 of breed in him' was the dictum of ChnfFers, 
 as he contemptuously bestowed a morsel of 
 eleemosynary ]Daunch upon the low-bred cur. 
 Charley (this was the animal's name) grew up 
 to be a gaunt dog of wolf-like aspect, an in- 
 corrigible thief, a shameless profligate, a bully, 
 and a tyrant. He was the terror of the children 
 and the other dogs ; and as if that unhappy 
 Grilks had not already sufficient sorrows upon 
 his head, Charley had the inconceivable folly 
 and wickedness to make an attack one Monday 
 morning upon the sacred black silk dress of 
 Miss Tattyboys. You may imagine that 
 Barwise was down upon Gilks the very next 
 day, like a portculhs. Charley thenceforth 
 disappeared. Gilks had a strange aifection 
 for him, and still cherished a fond belief 
 that he would turn out something in the 
 thorough-bred line some day ; but the butter- 
 firkin was removed to the back yard, and 
 Charley was supposed to pass the rest of his 
 existence in liowling and figliting with his 
 chain in that town-house amid brickbats, 
 cabbage-stalks, and clothes-pegs, having in 
 addition a villeyiatura or country-house in an
 
 Tatftjljoys Bents. 131 
 
 adjacent dust-bin, into whicli the length of his 
 chain just allowed him to scramble, and in 
 the wliich he sat amoncr the dust and ashes, 
 rasping himself occasionally (for depilatory 
 purposes) against a potsherd. 
 
 There is a brown dog of an uncertain shade 
 of mongrelism who belongs to nobody in par- 
 ticular, and is generally known in the Rents as 
 the Bow-wow. As such it is his avocation and 
 delight to seek the company of ver}^ jo^i^g 
 children (those of from eighteen months to two 
 years of age are his preference), whose favour 
 and familiarity he courts, and whom he amuses 
 by his gambols and good-humour. The bow- 
 wow is a welcome guest on all door-steps, and 
 in most entrance-halls. His gymnastics are a 
 never-failing source of amusement to the 
 juvenile population, and he derives immense 
 gratification from the terms of endearment and 
 cajolement addressed by the mothers and 
 nurses to their children, all of wliich expres- 
 sions this feeble-minded animal takes to be 
 addressed to himself, and at which he snicrc'ers 
 his head and wags his stump of a tail tre- 
 mendously. I have yet to learn whether this 
 brown, hairy, ugly dog is so fond of the little 
 children, and frisks round them, and rolls them 
 over with such tender lovingness, and suffers 
 
 0-2
 
 13:2 Tattyhoys Bents. 
 
 himself to be pulled and pinched and poked 
 by his playmates, all with immovable com- 
 placency — I say, I have yet to learn whether 
 he does all this through sheer good-humour 
 and fondness for children, or whether he is a 
 profound hypocrite, skilled in the ways of the 
 world, and knowing that the way to Mother 
 Hubbard's cupboard, when there are any bones 
 in it, is through Mother Hubbard's motherly 
 heart. I hope, for the credit of dog nature, 
 and for my own satisfaction, loving that nature, 
 that the first is the cause. 
 
 The only dog in the Rents that can claim 
 any family or breed is an animal by the name 
 of Buffo, who was, in remote times, a French 
 poodle. I say toas, for the poodleian appea- 
 rance has long since departed from him, and he 
 resembles much more, now, a very dirty, 
 shaggy white bear, seen through the small 
 end of an opera-glass. He was the property, 
 on his first introduction to the Rents, of one 
 Monsieur Phillips — whether originally Philippe 
 or not, I do not know — who, it was inferred, 
 from sundry strange paraphernalia that he left 
 behind him on his abrupt departure from his 
 residence, was something in the magician, not 
 to say conjuror and mountebank line. Buffo 
 was then a glorious animal, half- shaved, as
 
 Tattyhoys Menh. 133 
 
 poodles should be, with iluify riug-s round 
 his legs, and two tufts on his haunches, and a 
 coal-black nose, due perhaps to the employ- 
 ment of nitrate of silver as a cosmetic, and a 
 pink skin. He could mount and descend a 
 ladder ; he could run away when Monsieur 
 PhilHps hinted that there was a ' policeman 
 coming ;' he could limp on one leg ; he could 
 drop down dead, dance, climb up a lamp-post 
 at the word of command. It was even said 
 that he had been seen in James Street, Covent 
 Garden, on a ragged piece of carpet, telling 
 fortunes upon the cards, and pointing out 
 Monsieur Phillips as the greatest rogue in 
 company. Monsieur Phillips, however, one 
 morning suddenly disappeared, leaving sundry 
 weeks' rent owing to his landlord, Chapford, 
 of the beer-shop ; his only effects being tlie 
 strange implements of legerdemain I have 
 noticed, and the dog Buffo, whom he had 
 placed at livery, so to state, at least at a fixed 
 weekly stipend for his board and lodging. I 
 need not say that in a very short time the un- 
 fortunate dog ' ate his head right off;' the 
 amount of paunch he had consumed far ex- 
 ceeding his marketable value. Chapford, after 
 vainly debating as to the propriety of turning 
 the magician's cups into half-pint measures.
 
 134 Tattyhoys Bents. 
 
 and his balls into bagatelle balls, sold them to 
 Scrutor, the broker, and Buffo himself to Joe 
 (surname unknown), who is a helper up 
 Spavins's yard, the livery and bait stables, in 
 Blitsom Street. Joe ' knowed of a lady down 
 Kensington wot was werry nuts upon poodles;' 
 and Buffo, prior to his introduction to the 
 lady amateur, was subjected to sundry dreadful 
 operations of dog farriery, in the way of clip- 
 ping, staining, and curtailing, which made him 
 from that day forward a dog of sullen and 
 morose temper. He soon came back from Ken- 
 sington in disgrace, the alleged cause of his dis- 
 missal being his having fought with, killed, 
 and eaten a grey cockatoo. He was re-sold to 
 Mrs. Lazenby, old Mr. Fazzle's housekeeper; 
 but he had either forgotten or was too mis- 
 anthropic to perform any of his old tricks, 
 regarded policemen unmoved, and passed by 
 the whole pack of cards with profound disdain. 
 A report, too, founded on an inadvertent re- 
 mark of Chapford, that he (Buffo) had once 
 been on the stage and had been fired out of a 
 cannon by the clown in a pantomime, succeeded 
 in ruining him in the opinion of the Rents, who 
 hold all ' play-actors ' in horror : he passed from 
 owner to owner, and was successively kicked 
 out and discarded by all, and now hangs about
 
 Tattijhoys Benis. 135 
 
 Chap ford's, a shabby, used-up, degraded, broken- 
 down beast. 
 
 Is there anything more pitiable in animal 
 nature than a thoronghl}- hard -up dog?» 
 Such a one I met two Sundays back in a 
 shiningly genteel street in Pimlico. He w^as a 
 cur, most wretchedly attenuated, and there in 
 Pimlico he sat, with elongated jaws, his head 
 on one side, his eyes wofully upturned, his 
 haunches turned out, his feet together, his 
 tail subdued, his ribs rampant : an utterly 
 worn-out, denuded, ruined old dog. If he 
 had taken a piece of chalk, and written ' I am 
 starving ' fifty times on the pavement in the 
 most ornamental calligraphy, it could not have 
 excited more sympathy than the unutterable 
 expression of his oblique misery, propped up 
 sideways as he was against a kitchen railing. 
 I had no sooner halted to accost him, than, 
 taking it for granted that I was going to kick 
 or beat him because he was miserable, he 
 shambled meekly into the gutter, where he 
 stood, shivering ; but I spoke him fair, and 
 addressing him in what little I knew of the 
 Doggee language, strove to reassure him. But 
 how could I relieve him ? What could I do 
 for him ? It was a stern uncompromising shin- 
 ing British Sunday ; there was no back slum
 
 ] 36 Tatfjjhoys Rents. 
 
 nigli ; no lowly shop, whither I could convey 
 him to regale on dogs'-meat. Moreover it was 
 church time, and I could not even purchase 
 licensed victuals for his succour. It Avas no 
 good giving him a penny. I might as well 
 have given him a tract. He was unmistakably 
 mangy, and I dared not convey him home ; 
 and I knew of no dog-hospital.* So I ex- 
 horted him to patience and resignation, and left 
 him reluctantly ; persuaded that the greatest 
 charity I could have extended to him would 
 have been to blow his brains out. 
 
 You are not to think that these I have 
 mentioned are all the dogs of which Tatty- 
 boys Eents can boast. Many more are tlie}^, 
 big dogs and little dogs : from that corpulent 
 Newfoundland dog of Scrutor's, the broker, 
 whose sagacity is so astounding as to lead to his 
 being trusted with baskets and cash, to pur- 
 chase bread and butchers' meat — the which he 
 does faithfully, bringing back change with 
 scrupulous exactitude — and whose only fault 
 is his rapid rate of locomotion, and defective 
 vision, which cause him to run up against 
 and upset very nearly everybod}^ he meets in 
 
 * There is now a refugo for Lost and Starving Dogs, which is 
 deserving of the most liberal support.
 
 Taitijhoys Bents. 137 
 
 his journeys — to Bob Blather, the barl^er's, 
 cock-tail terrier, which can kill a ' power of 
 rats,' and has more than once been matched in 
 ' Bell's Ijife ' (familiarly called by the sporting 
 part of the Eents, ' The Life ') to do so. I 
 may say, to the honour of the dogs of Tatty- 
 boys Rents, that they seldom stray beyond its 
 limits ; and that if any strange dog descend the 
 steps leading thereunto, tliey invariably fall 
 upon, and strive to demolish him with the ut- 
 most ferocity. 
 
 The children of the Eents are so much like 
 other street children, that they preserve the 
 same traditions of street games and songs 
 common to other localities. They are remark- 
 able, however, for a certain grave and sedate 
 demeanour, which I have never failed to ob- 
 serve in children who are in the habit of sitting 
 much upon flights of steps. Such steps are 
 the beach of street life, and the sea of the 
 streets rolls on towards the stony shore. The 
 steps of Tattyboys Rents arc to the children 
 there a place of deliberation, recreation, obser- 
 vation, and repose. There, is to-morrow's 
 lesson studied ; there, does the baby learn a 
 viva-voce lesson in walking ; there, is the dirt- 
 pie made, and there the sharp-pointed ' cat ' 
 constructed ; there, does the nurse-child rest.
 
 138 Tattijhoys Bents. 
 
 and tlie little maid achieve her task of sewing ; 
 there, are tops wound, and marbles gambled 
 for, and juvenile scandals promulgated ; there, 
 is the quarrel engendered, and the difference 
 adjusted. It is good to see this Trinita di 
 Monte of Tattyboys Eents on a sunshiny day ; 
 its degrees sown with little people, whose juve- 
 nile talk falls cheerfull}^ on the ear after the 
 ruder conversation at the posts. The posts are 
 immediately behind the steps, forming a grove 
 of egress, — a sort of forest of Soignies, behind 
 the Mont Saint Jean of the Eents, — into 
 Blitsom Street. At the posts, is Chapford's 
 beer-shop ; pots are tossed for at the posts, 
 and bets are made on horse-races. Many a 
 married woman in the Eents ' drats' the posts, 
 at whose bases she lays the Saturday night 
 vagaries of her ' master ;' forgetting how many 
 of her own sex are postally guilty, and how 
 often she herself has stood a-gossiping at the 
 posts and at the pump.
 
 VI. 
 HOW I WENT TO SEA. 
 
 HOW many years ago is it, I wonder, when, 
 resenting some boyish grievance, deeply 
 and irrecoverably irate at some fancied injury, 
 wounded and exacerbated in my tenderest feel- 
 ings, I ran away from school with the hard, 
 determined, unalterable intention of "•oinof on 
 the tramp and then going to sea? The cur- 
 tain has fallen years ago, and the lights have 
 been put out long since, on that portion of my 
 history. The door of the theatre has been 
 long locked and the key lost where that play 
 was acted. Let me break the door open now 
 and clear away the cobwebs. 
 
 About that time there must have been an 
 epidemic, I think, for running away at Mr. 
 Bogryne's establishment. Bolting House, Eal- 
 ing. ' Chivying' we called it. We had three 
 or four Eton boj^s among us, who had carried
 
 140 How I icent to Sea. 
 
 out so well the maxim oiFloreat Etona at that 
 classic establishment, that they had flourished 
 clean out of it; and — whether it was they 
 missed the daily flogging (Mr. Bogryne was 
 tender-hearted) or the fagging, or, the inter- 
 minable treadmill on the Gradiis ad Paniassum 
 (we were more commercial than classical) — they 
 were always running away. One boy 'chivied' 
 in consequence of a compulsory small-tooth 
 comb on Wednesday evenings — he wouldn't 
 have minded it, he said, if it had been on 
 Saturdays. Another fled his Alma Mafcr be- 
 cause he was obliged to eat fat, and another 
 because he could not cret fat enouo;h. 
 
 I think, were I to be put upon my affirmation 
 relative to the cause of m^ running away from 
 Mr. Bogryne 's establishment, and going on 
 tramp, that I should place it to the account 
 of the Pie. There was a dreadful pie for din- 
 ner every Monday ; a meat-pie with a stony 
 crust that did not break, but split into scaly 
 layers, with horrible lumps of gristle inside, and 
 such strings of sinew (alternated by lumps of 
 flabby fat) as a glioule might use as a rosary. 
 We called it kitten pie — resurrection pie — rag 
 pie — dead man's pie. We abused it by night, 
 we abused it by day : we wouldn't stand it, we 
 said ; we would write to our friends ; we would
 
 JIow I went to Sea. 141 
 
 go to sea. Old Bogryne (we called him ' old ' 
 as an insulting adjective, as a disparaging 
 adjective, and not at all with reference to the 
 aflection and respect due to age) — old Bogryne 
 kept Giggleswick the monitor seven hours on 
 a form with the pie before him ; but Giggles- 
 wick held out bravely, and would not taste the 
 accursed food. Old Bogryne boxed the ears 
 of Clitheroe (whose father supplied the gro- 
 ceries to the establishment, and who was called 
 in consequence ' Gringer') for remarking, sneer- 
 ingly, to the cook, that he (Bogryne) never 
 ate any of the pie himself, and that he hieio 
 the reason whij. Candyman, my chum, found 
 a tooth in the pie one day— a dreadful double- 
 tooth. Who was going to stop in a school 
 where they fed you with double teeth? This, 
 combined with the tyranny of the dancing 
 master, some difficulties connected with the 
 size of the breakfast roll, and others respecting 
 the conjugation of the verb tutttw (for, though 
 we were commercial, we learnt Greek, hang 
 it !), and the confiscation of a favourite hockey 
 stick — for which I had given no less a sum 
 than fourpence and a copy of Philip Quarll — 
 drove me to desperation. I ' chivied' with the 
 full intention of walking to Portsmouth, and 
 going to sea.
 
 142 Hoio I went to Sea. 
 
 One bright moonlight night I rose stealthily 
 from my bed, dressed, and stole downstairs. 
 I held my breath, and trod softly as I passed 
 dormitory after dormitory ; but all slept 
 soundly. The French master — who was wont 
 to decorate himself at nio-ht with a o-reen 
 handkerchief round his head, and a night-gar- 
 ment emblazoned like the San benito of a vic- 
 tim of the Inquisition — gurgled and moaned 
 as I passed his door : but he had a habit 
 of choking himself in his sleep, and I feared 
 him not. Glitheroe, who slept under the last 
 flight of stairs, was snoring like a barrel organ ; 
 and Eunks, his bedfellow, who was the best 
 story-teller in the school, was telling idiotic 
 tales, full of sound and fury signifying 
 nothing, to himself in his slumbers. I crept 
 across the playground cautiously, in the sha- 
 dow of the wall. The play-shed; the brick 
 wall against which we were wont to play 
 * fives;' the trim little gardens, three feet by 
 four, where we cultivated mustard and cress, 
 and flowering plants which never flowered ; all 
 seemed to glance reproachfully at me as I stole 
 out, like a thief in the night. Tlie tall gym- 
 nastic pole up which we climbed ajDpeared to 
 cast a loving, lingering shadow towards me, 
 as if to bring me back. The sky was so clear,
 
 How I went to Sea. 143 
 
 the moon was so bright, and the fleecy clouds 
 were so cahn and peaceful as they floated by, 
 that I half repented of my design and began 
 to blubber. But the clock of Ealing church 
 striking, called to mind the bell I hated most — 
 the 'getting-up bell.' The pie, the tooth, the 
 dancing-master, the diminished roll, and the 
 Greek verb, came trooj)ing up ; and, my un- 
 quenchable nautical ardour filling me with dar- 
 ing, I got over the low palings of the play- 
 ground, and dropped into the high road on my 
 way to sea. 
 
 Nobody was in my confidence. Such friends 
 and relatives as I had were far away, and I 
 felt that ' the world was all before me where to 
 choose.' My capital Vv^as not extensive. I 
 had jacket, waistcoat, and trousers with the 
 et ceteras, half a crown in money, a curiously- 
 bladed knife with a boot-hook and a corkscrew 
 by way of rider, and an accordion. I felt that, 
 with these though, I had the riches of Peru. 
 
 To this day I cannot imagine what the New 
 Police could have been about, that moonlight 
 night, that they did not pounce upon me, 
 man^'-bladed knife, accordion and all, long be- 
 fore I reached Hyde Park Corner. Nor can I 
 discover why Mr. Bogryne pursued me in a 
 chaise-cart and sent foot runners after me up
 
 144 How I went to Sea. 
 
 and down all roads save the very one I was 
 walking quietly along*. I must have looked 
 so very like a runaway boy. The ink was 
 scarcely dr^^ on my fingers ; the traces of yes- 
 terday's ruler were yet fresh on my knuckles ; 
 the dust of the play-ground adliered to my 
 knees. 
 
 A bed next night at a London coffee-shop ; 
 a breakfast and a wild debauch on raspberry 
 tarts and ginger beer, very soon bi'ought my 
 half-crown to twopence [and I felt a lowness 
 of spirits and the want of stimulants].* A 
 penny roll and a savelo}^ brought me to zero. 
 The accordion was a bed the next night, and 
 a sausage roll by way of breakfast, the next 
 morning. The many-bladed knife produced a 
 mouthful of bread and cheese and half a pint 
 of beer for dinner. Then, having nothing, I 
 felt independent. 
 
 By some strange intuitive training, I felt 
 myself all at once a tramp, and looked at 'the 
 journey to Portsmoutli quite philosophically. 
 Curiously, when the produce of the many- 
 bladed knife had been consumed and forgotten, 
 and the want of another repast began to be 
 very unpleasantly remembered ; it never once 
 
 * C. D.
 
 How I ice id to Sea. 145 
 
 occurred to me to turn back, to seek assistance 
 from any friend or friend's friend or boy's father 
 with whom I had spent a lioliday in London. 
 It never struck me that if employment were to 
 be found at sea^ there were docks and sliips in 
 London. I was bound for Portsmouth — why 
 I know not — but bound as irrevocably as 
 though I had a passport made out for that 
 particular seaport, and the route was not by 
 any means to be deviated from. If the London 
 Docks were situated in Xew York, and if 
 ]31ackwall were the port of Bombay, they 
 could not, in my mind, have been more 
 unattainable for the purpose of going to sea 
 than they were, only a mile or so off. I was 
 not afraid of Mr. Bosrrvne. I seemed to have 
 done with him, ages ago. I had quite finished 
 and settled up accounts with him ; so it 
 appeared to me. He, and the days when I 
 wore clean linen, and was Master Anybody, 
 with a name written in the fly-leaf of a 
 ciphering book ; Avith a playbox, and with 
 friends to send me plum-cakes and bright five- 
 shilling pieces, were fifty thousand miles away. 
 They loomed in the distance, just as the 
 burning cities might have done to Lot's wife, 
 very dimly indeed. 
 
 It was Saturday afternoon. I well remem- 
 
 10
 
 146 How I went to Sea. 
 
 ber loitering some time about Vaiixliall, and 
 wondering whether that hot dusty road—with 
 the odours of half a dozen bone-boiling- 
 establishments coursing up and down it like 
 siroccos — could be near the fairy establishment 
 where there were always fifty thousand addi- 
 tional lamps, and to which young Simms at 
 Bolting House had been — marvellous boy ! — 
 twice during the Midsummer holidays. After 
 listlessly counting the fat sluggish barges on 
 the river, and the tall dusty trees at Nine 
 Elms (there was no railway station there tlien), 
 I set out walking, doggedly. I caught a 
 glimpse of myself in the polished plate-glass 
 window of a baker's shop, and found myself 
 to be a very black grimy boy. Vagabondism 
 had already set its mark upon me. I looked 
 so long and so earnestly in at the baker's 
 window that the baker — a lean, spiky Scotch- 
 man (whose name, McCorquodale, in lean, 
 spiky letters above his shop front looked like 
 himself) — appeared to think I was meditating 
 a bold border foray on his stock in trade, and 
 rushed at me so fiercely round his counter 
 witli a bread-tin, that I fled like a young 
 gazelle. I plodded down the Wandsworth 
 Eoad ; blushing very much as I passed people 
 in clean shirts and well-brushed clothes, and
 
 How I went to Sea. 147 
 
 pretty servant maids, dressed out in riblDons 
 like Maypoles, laughing and chattering in the 
 gardens, and at the doors of suburban villas. 
 
 By some circuitous route which took me, 
 I think, over Wandsworth Common, and 
 through Putney and Eoeharapton, I got that 
 evening to Kingston-upon-Thames. The sun 
 was setting as I leaned over the bridge. I 
 was tired and hungry ; but, dismissing the 
 idea of supper as something not sutHciently 
 within the range of possibility to be discussed, 
 I certainly began to feel anxious concerning 
 bed. Where or how was it to be ? Was it 
 to be barn, or hay-rick, or outhouse — or simply 
 field, with the grass for a pillow, and the sky 
 for a counterpane ? My thoughts were inter- 
 rupted by a stranger. 
 
 He was, like myself, a tramp ; but I think 
 I may say, without vanity, he was infinitely 
 more hideous to look at. Short and squat and 
 squarely built, he had the neck of a bull and 
 the legs of a bandy tailor. His hands were 
 as the hands of a prizefighter. They were so 
 brown and horny that where the wrists joined 
 on to his arm you might fancy the termina- 
 tion of a pair of leather gloves. His fiice was 
 burnt, and tanned with exposure to sun and 
 rain to a dull brickdust colour ; purple-red on 
 
 10—2
 
 148 How I went to Sea. 
 
 tlie cheek-bones and tips of the nose and chin. 
 Both hands and face were inlaid with a curious 
 chequer-work of dirt, warranted to stand the 
 most vigorous application of a scrubbing- 
 brush. His head was close cropped, like a 
 blighted stubble-field, and his flabby ears kept 
 watch on either side of it like scarecrows. He 
 had pigs' eyes of no particular colour ; no eye- 
 brows, no beard save a stubbly mildew on his 
 upper lip like unto the mildew on a pot of 
 paste, a ' bashed' nose, and a horrible hare- 
 lip. He had an indefinite jacket with some 
 letters — a W, I think, and an I — branded on 
 one sleeve, a pair of doubtful trousers, and 
 something that w^as intended for a shirt. None 
 of these were ragged, nor could they be called 
 patched, for they were one patch. Finally, 
 he had a bundle in his hand, a cap like a disc 
 cut out of a door-mat on his head, and some- 
 thing on his feet which I took to be a pair of 
 fawn-coloured slippers, but which I subse- 
 quently found to be a coating of hardened mud 
 and dust upon his skin. 
 
 He looked at me for a moment half 
 curiously, half menacingly ; and then said, in 
 a shrill falsetto voice that threw me into a 
 violent perspiration : — 
 
 * Where wos you a-going to ?' 
 iff
 
 How I weuf io Sea. 149 
 
 I replied, trembling, that I was going to bed. 
 
 ' And where wos you a-going to sleep ?' he 
 asked. 
 
 I said I didn't know. 
 
 He stroked the mildew on his lip and spoke 
 again : — 
 
 ' I s'pose, now, you'd be a young midship- 
 mite?' 
 
 I am certain that I must have looked more 
 like a young sweep, but I contented myself 
 with saying that I did not belong to Her 
 Majesty's service ; — yet. 
 
 ' What might you be a-doing of now ?' he 
 demanded. 
 
 It was a dreadful peculiarity of this man 
 that when he spoke he scratched himself, and 
 that when he didn't speak he gave his body 
 an angular oscillatory wrench backwards and 
 forwards from the shoulder to the hip, as 
 if he had something to rasp between his jacket 
 and his skin ; which there is no doubt he had. 
 I was so fearful and fascinated by his uncouth 
 gestures that he had to repeat his question 
 twice before I answered ; then, not knowing 
 how to describe myself (for I could not even 
 assume that most ambiguous of all titles, a 
 gentleman), I said, at hazard, that I was a 
 Tailor.
 
 150 How I ice lit to Sea. 
 
 ' Where wos you a-going to-morrow ?' 
 I replied, hesitatingly, to Portsmouth. 
 ' Ah ! to Portsmouth,' resumed the man, 
 ' to Portsmouth, sure/y ! Have you got 
 thruppence ?' 
 
 I replied, humbly, that I hadn't. 
 ' No more haven't I,' said the tramp, con- 
 clusively ; ' not a mag.' 
 
 There ensued an ambiguous, and, to me, 
 somewhat terrifying silence. I feared that 
 my companion was indignant at my poverty, 
 and that, on the principle of having meal if 
 he couldn't get malt, he would have three- 
 penn'orth of jacket, or three-penn'orth of 
 waistcoat, or three-penn'orth of blood. But 
 I was agreeably disappointed : the villanous 
 countenance of my companion cleared up ; 
 and he said condescendingly — 
 ' I'm a traveller.' 
 
 'And a very evil-looking traveller, too,' I 
 thought. 
 
 ' If you had got thruppence, and I had got 
 thruppence,' he went on to say, ' I knows a 
 crib down yonder where we might a snoozed 
 snug. But if you ain't got nuilin, and I ain't 
 got nuflin,' the traveller continued, quite in a 
 logical style, ' we must turn in at the Union. 
 Do you know what the Union is ?'
 
 How I went to ISea. 151 
 
 I liad heard of the repeal of the Union, and 
 the Union Jack, and one of our boys' fathers 
 was a member of the Union Club. I had an 
 indistinct notion, too, of an Union workhouse ; 
 but my fellow-tramp had some difficulty in 
 explaining' to me that the Union was a species 
 of gratuitous hotel ; a caravansary kept by the 
 Poor Law Commissioners for the special relief 
 of the class of travellers known in ordinary 
 parlance as tramps, and in the new Poor Law 
 Act as ' casual paupers ;' and where, in consi- 
 deration of doing an hour's work in the morn- 
 ing, I could be provided with supper and 
 bed. 
 
 We walked together to the house of the 
 relieving officer to obtain tickets of admission. 
 The functionary in question lived in a pretty 
 little cottage, with a shining brass door-plate 
 much too large for the door, and a fierce bell, 
 which, every time it pealed, shook the little 
 house to its every honeysuckle. The parochial 
 magnate was not at home ; but a rosy girl — 
 with an illuminated ribbon and a species of 
 petrified oyster as a brooch, and who was his 
 daughter, I suppose — came to a Jittle side 
 window in the wall in answer to our summons, 
 and, scarcely deigning to look at us, handed 
 us the required tickets. Ah me ! A twitch.
 
 152 How 1 went to Sea. 
 
 a transient twitcli came over me when I 
 thought that there had been days when Master 
 Somebody in a prodigious lay-down collar 
 with white ducks, had walked with young- 
 ladies quite as rosy, with brooches quite as 
 petrified, and had even been called by them 
 ' a bold boy.' 
 
 Misery, they say, makes a man acquainted 
 with strange bedfellows : but shall 1 ever 
 again, I wonder, sleep in company with such 
 strange characters as shared the trusses of 
 straw, the lumps of bread, and slabs of Dutch 
 cheese, that night, in the casual ward of 
 Kingston workhouse? There was a hulking 
 fellow in a smock-frock, who had been a navi- 
 gator, but had fallen drunk into a lime-pit 
 and burnt his eyes out : who was too lazy to 
 beg for himself, and was led about by a ragged, 
 sharp-eyed boy. There were two lads who 
 tramped in company ; they had been to sea, 
 and were walking from Gosport to London. 
 My fellow, the man with the wrench, had 
 been born a tramp and bred a tramp ; his 
 father was a tramp before him, and I dare 
 say his children are tramps now, 
 
 ' Yer see,' he deigned to explain to me, 
 after he had despatched his supper, ' I likes 
 change. I summers in the countr}', and
 
 IIoiu 1 2i:ei)( lo Sea. 153 
 
 winters in London. There's refuges and 
 " ressipockles " ' (by which, I presume, he 
 meant receptacles) ' in winter time, and lots of 
 coves as gives yer griih. Then comes spring 
 time ; I gets passed to my parish — the farther 
 off the better — and I gets a penn}^ a mile. 
 When I gets there I goes 'cross country on 
 quite another tack. I knows every Union in 
 England. In sonic they give you bread and 
 cheese, and in some broth, and in some skilly- 
 golee. In some they gives you breakfast in 
 the morning, and in some they doesn't. You 
 have to work your bed out. Here, Kingston 
 way, you wheels barrows ; at Guildford you 
 pumps ; at Itichraond you breaks stones ; at 
 rarnham you picks oakum ; at Wandsworth 
 they makes you grind corn in a hand-mill till 
 your fingers a'most drops off yer wristes. At 
 Brighton, now, they're a good sort, and only 
 makes you chop up firewood ; but Ports- 
 mouth's tlie place ! You're a young un,' he 
 pursued, looking at me benignantly, ' and 
 green. Now, I'll give you a wrinkle. Il' 
 you're a-going to Portsmouth, you manage to 
 get there on a Saturday night ; for they keeps 
 you all day Sunda}', and they won't let you 
 do no work ; and they gives 3'ou the j oiliest 
 blow-out of beef and taters as ever passed
 
 154 How I ice at to Sea. 
 
 your breastbone. The taters is like dollops o' 
 meal!' 
 
 With, this enthusiastic eulogium on the way 
 in which they managed matters at Portsmouth 
 the traveller went to sleep — not gradually, but 
 with a sudden grunt and jerk backward. The 
 blind navigator and his guide had been snoring 
 valorously for half an hour ; and the two sailor 
 lads, after an amicable kicking match for the 
 biggest heap of straw, soon dropped off to 
 sleep, too. There was an unsociable tinker in 
 the corner, who had smuggled in a blacking- 
 bottle full of gin, notwithstanding the per- 
 sonal search of the workhouse porter. He 
 gave no one, however, any of the surreptitious 
 cordial, but muddled himself in silence; merely 
 throwing out a general apothegm to the audi- 
 tory that he preferred getting drunk in bed, as 
 ' he hadn't far to fall.' He did get drunk, and 
 he did fall. I was too tired, I think, to sleep ; 
 but none of my companions woke during the 
 night save an Irish reaper, who appeared more 
 destitute than any of us ; but whom I watched, 
 in the dead of the night, tying up some gold 
 and silver in a dirty rag. 
 
 Next morning was Sunday — a glorious, sun- 
 shiny, bird-singing, tree-waving Sunday. They 
 turned us out at eight o'clock with a meal of
 
 How I icent to Sea. 155 
 
 hot gruel, and without exacting any work 
 from us. The hereditary tramp and I walked 
 tosrether from Kins^ston to Esher. The navi- 
 gator stopped in Kingston, having a genteel 
 begging walk in the environs ; and the Irish- 
 man sallied forth London-ward with a slip- 
 shod wife, and a tribe of ragged children, who 
 had slept in the women's casual ward. With 
 them went the two sailor lads ; one of whom, 
 with a rough kindness that would have made 
 me give him a penny if I had possessed one, 
 carried the Irishwoman's sickly baby. 
 
 'Why don't you chuck them ere shoeses 
 off?' asked my friend as we plodded along. 
 'They wouldn't fetch nothing to sell, and 
 they're only a bother to ^valk in, unless you 
 w^as to put some wet grass in 'em. Look at 
 my trotters,' he continued, pointing to his feet, 
 and tapping the sole of one of them with the 
 blade of his knife, ' they'se as hard as bricks, 
 they is. Go buff-steppered — that's the 
 game.' 
 
 Some remnants of Master Somebody's pride 
 in his neat Bluchers must have lingered about 
 me, for I declined the invitation to walk on 
 barefoot. 
 
 ' When shoes is shoes,' pursued the tramp 
 argumentatively, ' they'se good for those as
 
 156 How I loent to Sea. 
 
 likes 'em, wliicli I don't ; but when they're 
 " crab-shells," and leaky and gummy in the 
 soles, and lark-heeled, the sooner you get 
 shut of em the better. There's togs, too,' he 
 pursued, looking with proper pride at his own 
 attire, ' the sooner you peels off them clotli 
 kicksies the better. There ain't no wear in 'em, 
 and they'se no good, if you ain't on the Hash 
 lay. My jacket 's Guildford gaol ; my trousers 
 is Dartford Union ; and my flannel shirt is the 
 Society for the 'Ouseless Poor. When I can't 
 patch 'em no longer, and they gets all alive 
 like, I tears up. Do you know what " tearing" 
 up is ? A course yon don't. Well, I goes to 
 a Union one night, and I rips up into bits ever}^ 
 mortal bit I has upon me. Then they comes 
 in the morning, and the}^ puts me into a sack, 
 and they chucks me in a cart and takes me 
 afore the beak. Tearing up is twenty-one 
 days, and quod meals, which is, mind ye, reglar, 
 is good for a cove, and freshens him up,' 
 
 Here he sat down on a milestone ; and pro- 
 ducing a remarkably neat housewife case, pro- 
 ceeded to overhaul all parts of his apparel 
 with as much care and circumspection as if 
 they had been of purple and fine linen, catch- 
 ing up any stray rents and ' Jacob's ladders' 
 with a grave and deliberate countenance.
 
 lloio I iceut to Sea. 157 
 
 How long tliis man and I miglit have kept 
 company I am not prepared to say ; but we 
 soon fell out. He descried, or fancied that he 
 could descry, something in my face that would 
 be sure to attract the sympathies of the bene- 
 volent, and loosen their purse-strings : or, as 
 he phrased it, ' nobble the Hats ;' and he urged 
 me with great vehemence, not only to beg 
 pecuniary relief from all passers by, but also 
 to diverge from the high road, and go ' a 
 grub cadging' — I.e., to beg broken victuals at 
 small cottages and gentlemen's lodge-gates, 
 binding that I was too shamefaced, he felt 
 himself, I suppose, called upon to renounce 
 and repudiate me as unworthy his distin- 
 guished company and advice ; and, telling me 
 that I warn't lit for tramping nohow, he de- 
 parted in great dudgeon down a cross road 
 leading towards Reading. I never saw liim 
 aojain. 
 
 I walked that day — very slowly and pain- 
 fully, for my feet had begun to swell — to 
 Guildford. I was very hungry and faint when 
 I arrived, but could not muster courage 
 enough to beg. I had a drink or two of water 
 at public-houses going along, which was 
 always readily granted ; and I comforted 
 myself from milestone to milestone with the
 
 158 Hoio I loent to Sea. 
 
 thonglit of a supper and bed at Griiildford, 
 where my ex-mentor liad informed me there 
 was a ' stunnmg Union.' But, woful event ! 
 when I g'ot to Gruildford it was full nine 
 o'clock in the evening. The good people of 
 that pleasant market town were taking their 
 walks abroad after church-service ; good, easy, 
 comfortable, family folk — fathers of families 
 — sweethearts in loving couples — all, doubt- 
 less, with cozy suppers to go home to, and 
 snug beds — and knowing and caring nothing 
 for one poor, soiled, miserable tramp, toiling 
 along the highway with his fainting spirit 
 just kept breast high by the problematical re- 
 version of a pauper's pallet and a pauper's 
 crust. I soon found out the relieving officer, 
 who gave me my ticket, and told me to look 
 sharp or the Union would be closed ; but I 
 mistook the way, and stumbled through dark 
 lanes, and found myself, weeping piteously and 
 praying incoherently, in quagmires, and when 
 I did get at last to the grim, brick, castellated 
 Union-house, the gates were closed, and ad- 
 mission to the casual ward was-4«ipossible. 
 The porter, a fat, timid man, surveyed me 
 through the grate, and drew back again as by 
 the liy-lit of a lantern he scanned mv craunt, 
 hunger-stricken mien. He tlu'ust a piece of
 
 IIoio I ID en t to Sea. 159 
 
 bread to me between tlie bars, and recom- 
 mended me to seek the relieving officer again, 
 who, he said, would find me a bed. Then he 
 wished me good-night, and retreated into his 
 little lodc^e or den with the air of a man who 
 has got rid of a troublesome customer. 
 
 Good-night ! It began to rain, and to 
 menace a thunder-storm ; but I sat down in a 
 ditcli and devoured the bread. It was eleven 
 o'clock, and I was wet to the skin ; when by 
 dint of dodging up and down dark lanes, and 
 knocking up against posts, and bruising my 
 shins over milestones, I got to the relieving 
 officer's asrain. 
 
 CD 
 
 The relieving officer lived up a steep flight 
 of steps, and, as I approached the bottom, 
 thereof, was peeping out at the door to see 
 what sort of a night it was. He shook his 
 head, either at the dirty aspect of the weather 
 or at that of your humble servant, and was 
 just about closing his door when I ran up the 
 steps and caught him by the coat-tail. 
 
 'Dear-a deary me !' said the relieving officer 
 when I had explained my errand to him, 
 ' dear-a deary me !' 
 
 This was perplexing rather than encou- 
 raging ; and I waited some moments for a 
 more definite communication. But none
 
 160 Hoiv I went to Sea. 
 
 came, and tlie relieving officer kept staring 
 at me with a bewildered expression, twitching 
 nervously at a watch-ribbon meanwhile, and 
 then whirling it round as if lie intended 
 presently to sling tlie seals at my head ; 
 but I made bold to tell him what the 
 porter had told me about his finding me a 
 bed. 
 
 ' Dear-a deary me !' said the relieving officer 
 again, dropping the threatened missiles ; but 
 this time with a shake of the head that gave 
 solemn siirnificance to his words. ' Where am 
 I to find a bed ?' 
 
 This was a question that I could not 
 answer ; nor, apparently, could the relieving 
 officer. So he changed the theme. 
 
 ' There isn't such a thing as a bed,' he 
 remarked. 
 
 I don't think that he meant to deny the ex- 
 istence of such a thing as a bed, taken in the 
 liofht of a bed ; but rather that he intended to 
 convey the impossibility of there being such 
 an institution as a bed for such as I was. 
 
 * You must go further,' he said. 
 
 ' AVhere further ?' I asked desperately. 
 
 ' Oh, I'm sure I can't sa}^,' replied the 
 relieving officer ; ' you must go on. ' Yes,' he 
 repeated with another stare of bewilderment
 
 Hoio I went to Sea. 101 
 
 and clutch at his watch appendages, ' go on — 
 further — there's a good lad.' 
 
 Whatever I may have found inclination to 
 respond to this invitation, was cut short by 
 the relieving officer shutting the door precipi- 
 tately, and putting up the chain. So I did 
 go on : but not much further. I wandered 
 down to the banks of the canal, where I found 
 a coal-barge just unladen. It was very hard, 
 and black, and gritty ; but I found out the 
 softest board, and, in that barge, in spite of 
 all the rain and coal-dust, I slept soundly. 
 
 From Guildford to Farnham next day, 
 through Alton ; where, if I remember right, 
 the ale is brewed. My feet were terribly 
 swollen and blistered ; but with a sullen pride 
 I kept to my shoes. I have those shoes to 
 this day in a neat case. Such crabshells ! It 
 was just one o'clock when I walked into Farn- 
 ham ; but, I was so tired out, that, pending 
 the opening of my hotel, the workhouse, I 
 turned into a field, and slept there, under a 
 hedge, until nearly eiglit o'clock. 
 
 When I woke up I went straight to the 
 workhouse. Farnham did not boast an Union, 
 but had a workhouse of the old school. Tlie 
 master was a pleasant old man, with a large 
 white apron, and gave me a liberal ration of 
 
 11
 
 162 Row I went to Sea. 
 
 bread and cheese. I happened to he the only 
 occupant of the ward that evening; and, being 
 locked up early, I had time to look about me, 
 and select the cleanest and softest-looking 
 truss of straw. The whitewashed walls were 
 covered with the names of former tramps ; their 
 poetical effusions and their political sentiments 
 were scratched with nails or scrawled in char- 
 coal. John Hind had laboured hard to rhyme 
 ' workhouse ' with ' sorrow ■' but, although he 
 had covered some six feet of wall with his 
 efforts, he had not succeeded. Some anony- 
 mous hand had scrawled in desperate Eoman 
 capitals ' God help the poor ;' to which 1 said 
 ' Amen.' Mr. Jack Bullivant had recorded 
 in energetic but untranscribable terms, his dis- 
 approval of the quality of the cheese ; and 
 J. Naylor had given vent to his democratic 
 enthusiasm in ' Hurrah for uni ' — something 
 which looked like unicorn, but was intended, I 
 fancy, to mean '' universal suffrage.'' Chartism 
 was the great wall-cry in those days. Close 
 to the door was the sign manual of ' Paul 
 Sweeny, bound to London with Fore Kids.' 
 Motherless, pcrliaps. 
 
 There had been one ' casual ' in before me ; 
 but he was taken so violently ill immediately 
 alter his admission, that he had been removed
 
 IToio I went to Sea. 1C3 
 
 into another out -house, on to a truckle bed : 
 the rules of the establishment not permitting 
 his being transferred to the infirmary. The 
 poor wretch lay groaning piteously, as I could 
 hear with painful distinctness through the 
 thin wall that separated him from the casual 
 ward. His groans became at last so appalling 
 that they worked me into an agony of terror ; 
 and I clung to the locked door (in the centre 
 of which there was a largish grating) and beat 
 against it, to the great disgust and irritation 
 of the porter ; who, with a lantern at the end 
 of a pitchfork, came in to look at the moribund 
 occasionally, and who made a rush at me at 
 last as he would have done at a young bull. 
 ' It's all over with liim,' he said to me in 
 remonstrance ; ' so where's the good ? The 
 doctor's gone to a birth ; but we've give him 
 a bottle of stuff till he comes, and made him 
 comf'able. So lie down.' 
 
 Whatever the 'stuff was — doctors' stuff, 
 kitchen stuff, or household stuff— the miserable 
 man continued ' moaning of his life out,' as 
 the porter said querulously, until it was almost 
 morning. Then the doctor (a pale, over- 
 worked, under- paid young man with tight 
 trousers, and spectacles, alwa^'s in a chaise 
 and a perspiration) came ; and I heard him 
 
 11—2
 
 164 How I went to Sea. 
 
 tell the porter that the man would 'go off 
 easily.' He presently did. 
 
 They let nie out at eight o'clock — sick, 
 dizzy, and terrified. ' I told you so,' the 
 porter said with apologetic complacency, ' he 
 went off quite " comf'able." ' This was his 
 epitaph. Who he was or what he was — where 
 he came from or whither he was going — no 
 man knew, and it was no man's business to 
 inquire. I suppose they put him in the plain 
 deal shell, which I saw the village carpenter 
 tacking together as I turned down the street, 
 and so lowered him under ground. They 
 might have written * comf'able ' on his tomb- 
 stone, for any purpose a word would serve — 
 if they gave paupers tombstones ; which 
 they do not. 
 
 But this poor dead unknown man did me 
 a service. For, whether I was superstitious, 
 or whether my nerves were unstrung, or 
 whether repentance at my obdurate folly came 
 tardily, but came at last, I went no farther on 
 the way to Portsmoutli, but tliought I 
 wouldn't go to sea, just at present, and tramped 
 manfully back to Ealing, determined to take 
 all Mr. Bogr3^ne could give me, and be tliank- 
 ful. But I did not get what I expected and 
 what I deserved. I found anxious friends just
 
 IIow I went to Sea. 
 
 1G5 
 
 on the point of putting out bills of discovery 
 as for a strayed puppy ; I found a fatted calf 
 already slaughtered — kindness, affection, for- 
 giveness, and Home. 
 
 I have walked a good deal to and fro on the 
 surface of this globe since then ; but I have 
 never been to sea — on similar terms — since, 
 any more.
 
 VII, 
 
 NIAGARA IN WINTEE. 
 
 I HAD some thoiiglits, when I was staying 
 at the Clifton House in August, 1 864, 
 of appending as a foot-note to one of my letters 
 home the remark : ' There are some water- 
 falls hereabouts, which are said to be pretty.' 
 Or this : ' For a description of the Falls of 
 Niagara the reader is referred to the works of 
 Mr. Charles Dickens, Dr. Charles Mack ay, 
 Mr. Nicholas Woods, Mr. N. P. WilHs, Baron 
 Humboldt, Sir Charles Lyell, Professor 
 Agassiz, and ten thousand more or less accom- 
 plished tourists, savans, and sketch-writers.' 
 Understand, to begin with, that I abandon 
 any attempt at picturesque narrative, or at 
 striving to emulate that which has been done, 
 and done admirably, by a hundred famous men 
 of letters.
 
 Ningarn hi Winter . 167 
 
 Niao'ara was the first famous waterfall I liad 
 as yet seen ; for Terni and Lodore had not 
 been among the European lions I had visited, 
 and it was not until many months afterwards 
 that I was permitted to see the exquisitely 
 beautiful falls of Montmorency, near Quebec, 
 and the wonderful cascade of Regla, in Mexico. 
 My first trip to Niagara was made in the last 
 week of December, 18G3, and I had endea- 
 voured to saturate myself with an idea of what 
 the place was like by gazing on the Niagara 
 pictures of the admirable American artists. 
 Church and Gignoux. I had been, with an 
 esteemed English friend, making a rapid 
 Christmas tour througli Canada. We had 
 come from Montreal down to Toronto, a 
 distance of between three and four hundred 
 miles, and were thus nearing the river which 
 serves as a boundary-line between the British 
 provinces and the United States. 
 
 We halted on a raw, murky winter's even- 
 ing at Hamilton, distant about forty miles 
 from Niagara: and just one word is necessary 
 to explain the manner in wliich we were 
 travellincr. Throuirh the courteous kindness 
 of the authorities of the Grand Trunk Eailway 
 of Canada — to whose managing director, Mr. 
 Brydges, and to whose accountant-general.
 
 168 Niagara m Winter'. 
 
 Mr. Hickson, I owe my warmest acknowledg- 
 ments — there had been placed at our disposal 
 one of the most elegant and commodious 
 saloon-carriages it was possible to conceive. 
 In another place I have referred more in detail 
 to the construction of these locomotive palaces ; 
 but for my present purpose it will be sufficient 
 to observe that our car was the one which was 
 built for and occupied by the Prince of Wales 
 on his journey through Canada, and which is 
 now used by the directors of the Grand 
 Trunk on their periodical business trips. 
 With commendable modesty, the directors 
 had obliterated from their car all super- 
 fluous gilding and unnecessary symbols of 
 splendour ; but no amount of quakerization 
 could render the vehicle uncomfortable ; and, 
 with a lounging and drawing and smoking 
 room, two sleeping apartments, a kitchen 
 and pantry, plenty of books, an amply sup- 
 plied commissariat, and a civil French- 
 Canadian servant, all running on one set 
 of wheels, it may easily be imagined that 
 we had a 'good time' of it. We halted 
 then at Hamilton to look up her Majesty's 
 llifle Brigade, much renowned in those parts 
 for their urbane hospitality to pilgrims. There 
 we recuperated. We dined royally at mess.
 
 Niagara in Winter, 1G9 
 
 our hosts insisted on seein<^ us to tlie depot ; 
 and later in the evening there must have been, 
 I think, a kind of harmonic meeting in our 
 car. 
 
 It was just the grey of the winter's day 
 when our French-Canadian valet entered my 
 state room. ' No boots to-day,' I said, ' I will 
 wear moccasins.' ' It vas not de boots,' he 
 made answer ; * you are dere.' ' Where ?' I 
 asked, sleepily and querulously. ' At Niagara, 
 sare.' I sprang from my cot, and made a 
 toilette so swift that the circus-rider who 
 becomes in the space of five minutes a belted 
 knight, a kilted Highlander, a buy-a-broom 
 girl, General Washington, and William in 
 'Black- eyed Susan,' all the while careering 
 madly on one barebacked steed, might have 
 envied my celerity. I was at Niagara. Where 
 were the Falls? About a mile and a half 
 distant. How could I reach them ? There 
 were hack carriages in plenty at the Great 
 Western Eailway dep6t — for the G. W. had 
 kindly permitted the G. T. car to run over 
 their line — at the foot of the Suspension 
 Bridge. 
 
 I was enabled to secure a little ramshackle 
 ' one-horse shay ' of a curricle, with a horse 
 not much bigger than an Exmoor pony, and
 
 170 Niagara in Winter. 
 
 such a very tall and stout Irishman for a 
 driver, that I expected every moment, with 
 my superabundant weight, that the springs 
 would break, and the entire concern go to irre- 
 mediable ' pi.' The Irish driver was jocular and 
 loquacious, but appeared somewhat disgusted 
 with the world in general, and Niagara in par- 
 ticular. To every remark he made he added the 
 observation that it was ' a divil of a place.' I 
 asked if there were any tourists here ju^t now. 
 ' Begorra, there's nobody,' he replied. I asked 
 which was the best hotel. ' Begorra, there's 
 none,' he responded ; ' they're all shut up. It's 
 a divil of a place.' I was somewhat disconso- 
 late at the receipt of this information, so I 
 asked him if he knew where we could get some 
 breakftist. ' Divil a bit of breakfast is there 
 for love or money. It's a divil of a place ;' 
 but he added, with a glance of that sly humour 
 for which his countrymen are unrivalled, ' the 
 Falls are in ilUgant condition, and you may see 
 them all the year round for nothing! 
 
 He was driving me along the brink of a 
 steep and abrupt precipice — a mere ledge of 
 road, like the commencement of the Cornice at 
 Genoa. On the near side arose, not moun- 
 tains, but rows of naked larch and stunted 
 pollard. Beyond them were the ice-bound
 
 Niagara in Winter. 171 
 
 fields, with here and tliere clumps of the black 
 funereal pine, standing like mutes at the door 
 of one who had died in mid-winter. The snow 
 was all around, in lumps and nuggets — in 
 festoons, as though old Father Christmas had 
 huna: his trees with bundles of store-candles — 
 in great sheets, dense and compact, with the 
 thin layer of last night's frosty glaze upon 
 them. The sky looked thick and soft — a very 
 blanket-covering of snow that was to fall soon 
 and envelope us. The stark sa])lings came up 
 rigid and spiky through the ghastly mantle, 
 like the beard from the cheek of a dead man. 
 There was an evil wind blowing about a few 
 leaves, so brown and withered that tliey must 
 have belonged to the autumn before last. The 
 declivity of the precipice looked horrible, and 
 hundreds of feet down, so it seemed, rushed 
 along a black, swollen, and sullen river. 
 
 * Stop till I give him the bhutt,' cried the 
 Irish driver. The little horse had become 
 recalcitrant. He was sick, perhaps, of seeing 
 Niagara for nothing, and planting his stumpy 
 little legs very wide apart, refused to budge 
 any more. The driver reversed his whip, 
 shortened it, and with the ' bhutt,' or butt-end 
 thereof, proceeded to belabour the dorsal ver- 
 tebra) of the unhappy little animal till I
 
 172 Niagara in Winter. 
 
 threatened to alight and not pay him. The 
 very word ' bhutt' had, however, apparently 
 operated as an incentive on the Niagara- 
 Exmoor pony, and he started afresh. The 
 road made a slight curve. 'Begorra, there 
 they are !' cried the driver, pointing with his 
 whip. I strained my eyes, looked down, and 
 saw, so close upon me that I thought I could 
 have leaped into their midst, but they were 
 at least a mile distant — the Falls of Niagara. 
 
 How it was that the ramshackle shay, the 
 little horse, and the big driver utterly vanished 
 from my view and remembrance, I shall pro- 
 bably never be able to realize. I suppose I 
 must have got out of the chaise, somehow, and 
 given the man a dollar ; but of how it all came 
 about I have not the dimmest recollection. I 
 found myself standing on the very edge of the 
 precipice, straining with a dull stare of absorp- 
 tion at the two Falls — the American and the 
 Horseshoe — which were within my view. I 
 saw over against me the Niagara river run- 
 ning between steep and precipitous banks, 
 very much resembling those of Clifton Heights 
 in England ; and over tlie bank opposite to 
 me there was tumbling with almost mathema- 
 tical exactitude an enormous stream of water. 
 At the base a great cloud of foam and spray
 
 Niagara in Winter. 173 
 
 arose. This was the American Fall. Then 
 the bank stretched away, and I could see some 
 large and small houses, and an island thickly 
 wooded, at whose head was a lighthouse-look- 
 ing tower, approached by a causeway. This 
 was Goat Island with Terrapin Tower. Then 
 the lower bed of the river became a cul de sac, 
 a blind alley, its finial being curved in a great 
 wall of rock, and over this was precipitated 
 from the upper bed a much more enormous 
 stream of water, its edges raggeder than those 
 of the American Fall, with much more foam 
 at the bottom, and casting up not a cloud, but 
 a column of spray — a column like a water- 
 spout — like Lot's wife — like the Pillar that 
 went before the Israelites by day and night — 
 and rising many scores of feet above the level 
 of the cataract. This was the great Fall, the 
 Canadian Fall, the Horseshoe Fall. This 
 forms the half-circle from Goat Island to the 
 Canadian side of the river. Three parts of it 
 belong incontestably to Great Britain, and it 
 can only be seen to advantage from the British 
 side ; but our cousins are ver}^ ^i^gD^ that it 
 should be called the Canadian Fall, and claim 
 more than half of it as their own. Indeed, 
 when they go abroad, Americans are accus- 
 tomed to speak of the Falls of Niagara as being
 
 174 Niagara in Winter. 
 
 exclusively one of the glories of their magnifi- 
 cent country, and as much part and parcel of 
 the United States as Plymouth Rock or Bunker 
 Hill. The width of the Horseshoe Fall is said 
 to be 144 rods, and its perpendicular lieight 
 158 feet. It derived its name of Horseshoe 
 from its shape, of which some traces are still 
 visible; but it must have altered its form con- 
 siderably, as large masses of rock in its neigh- 
 bourhood fall every j^ear. Sir Charles Lyell 
 is of opinion that 1500 millions of cubic feet 
 of water pass over the Falls every minute. 
 ' I should think,' remarks one savant, 'that the 
 river would exhaust itself.' Yes, when Lake 
 Erie and all the upper lakes, with their vast 
 tributaries, ' give out,' Niagara will be no more. 
 These then were the famous Falls "I had 
 come so far to see j^ — 144 rods wide, 158 feet 
 high, 1500 millions of cubic feet of water 
 tumbling over a wall of rock every minute, a 
 column of spray xIOO — some say 300 — feet in 
 altitude. Well, I confess that as I stood staring 
 there came over me a sensation of bitter dis- 
 appointment. And was this all? You who 
 have seen the field of Waterloo, who have seen 
 the Pyramids, who have seen St. Peter's, bear 
 with me. Was this all ? There was a great 
 deal of water, a great deal of foam, a great
 
 Niagara in Winter. 175 
 
 (leal of spra}^ and a thundering noise. This 
 ions all, abating the snow where I stood and 
 the black river beneatli. These were the Falls 
 of Niagara. Thcij looked comparativeli/ small, 
 and the icater looked dingij. Where was the 
 grand efl'ect — the light and shade ? There was, 
 it is true, a considerable amount of efferves- 
 cence ; but the foaminess of the Falls, together 
 with the tinge of tawny yellow in the troubled 
 waters, only reminded me of so much unat- 
 tainable soda and sherr^^, and made me feel 
 thirstier than ever. 
 
 I found a wretched little place open, half 
 tavern and half Indian curiosity shop, but on 
 the roof it had a belvedere. I was permitted 
 to ascend to this, and a civil nee:ro servinsr-man 
 volunteered to accompan}^ me. There was a 
 good view from the belvedere, and I remained 
 staring at the Falls for another half-hour, the 
 negro remaining silent by my side. I asked 
 him, almost mechanically, whether the water 
 was continually rushing over at that rate. I 
 had spoken like a Fool, and he answered me 
 according to ni}^ foUj- 'I 'spect, massa,' he 
 said, 'they goes on for ebber and ebber.' Ee- 
 marks, as absurd and incongruous as mine, 
 have become historical amonc: the ana of Nia- 
 gara. A Swiss watchmaker observed that he
 
 176 Niagara in Winter. 
 
 was very glad 'de beautiful ting was going.' 
 He looked upon it as some kind of clockwork 
 arrangement, which would run down and be 
 wound up again. Everybody knows the story 
 of the 'cute Yankee who called it 'an almighty 
 water privilege.' It is one, and would turn 
 all the mill-wheels in the world. 'Here crea- 
 tion's done its d — dest,' remarked another; 
 and, quoth a fifth, 'I guess this hyar suckles 
 the ocean-sea considerable. ' 
 
 I went back to the railway depot, and found 
 my friend dressed, rosy, and clean shaven. I 
 told him gloomily that I had seen the Falls. 
 'Bother the Falls,' he remarked, blithely. 
 'Let's go out and forage for some breakfast.' 
 He was an old hand at Niagara, and was prin- 
 cipally concerned at the knowledge that, the 
 season for tourists being at an end, the Clifton, 
 the Cataract, and the International, the prin- 
 cipal hotels at Niagara, were all closed. We 
 crossed the Suspension Bridge, however, on a 
 voyage of discovery, and, after much hunting 
 about, found on the American side a third-rate 
 house open, where, for a dollar, we obtained 
 an indifferent meal. Then we started to do 
 the lions. Everything looked dreary and 
 dingy white, save the Shillibeer pines, and the 
 negroes, who were of an ashen liver hue. The
 
 Niagara in Winter. 177 
 
 roads were very slippery ; but fortunately we 
 wore cloth moccasins, or pedestrianism would 
 have been impossible. Beyond negroes, a few 
 hack-drivers, and the keepers of half a dozen 
 shanties for the sale of Indian curiosities and 
 ice-creams — ice-creams on the twenty-third of 
 December ! — there did not seem to be any 
 inhabitants at Niagara. There is a little strag- 
 gling village on the British and on the Ameri- 
 can side, but both have a most wobegone and 
 poverty-stricken appearance. The shut-up 
 hotels looked inexpressibly gaunt and spectral. 
 There were no guides or hotel touters about, 
 which was a blessing. 
 
 Being on the American side, we crossed a 
 smaller suspension bridge to Goat Island. We 
 wandered around its half-snowed- up lanes, 
 and then, so slippery was the ice, crawled on 
 our hands and knees along a stone causeway 
 to Terrapin Tower, and from its summit looked 
 upon the Falls. Then we went to see the 
 Eapids by the Cataract House, which appeared 
 to me a mass of intolerable suds, and put me 
 in mind of nothing half so much as a gigantic 
 washing-day. There was no colour, no light 
 and shade: nothing but water and foam, water 
 and spray, water and noise. And everything 
 dingy. We were lowered down an inclined 
 
 12
 
 178 Niagara in Winter. 
 
 plane in a species of horse-box on the American 
 side, and there found a ferry boat to convey 
 us across the Niagara river to Canada. From 
 the river there was a much better view of both 
 Falls. They looked considerably taller, but 
 they were still dingy. The boatman was a 
 most savage-looking person ; cursed us when 
 we paid him in paper instead of silver, and I 
 thought when we landed that he would have 
 dismissed us with a clout of his oar, as Charon 
 does in Gustave Dore's picture of the souls 
 crossing the Styx in the ' Inferno.' Then we 
 scrambled over stones, rimy with ice, and 
 slipped down glassy declivities, a la Montagne 
 Busse, and creeping close to the base of the 
 fall, right under the lee of Table Rock, peeped 
 at the masses of frozen spray and great blocks 
 and boulders of ice piled one atop of another— 
 a cold eruption of the Glacial Period. 
 
 We thus wandered about, talking very little, 
 until early hi the afternoon, when my friend 
 suggested lunch. We had ascended to the 
 river bank on the Canada side by this time, 
 and in the highway, close to Table Eock, 
 found, to our great joy, that Mr. Sol Davis's 
 well-known establishment was open. Mr. Sol 
 Davis sells Indian curiosities, and Lowther 
 Arcade and Eamsgate Bazaar nicknacks of
 
 Niagara in Winter. 170 
 
 every description ; and a very stiff price does 
 Mr. Sol Davis charge for those objects of 
 vertii. Mr. Sol Davis likewise sells cia-ars 
 and stereoscopic slides of the Fails ; and Mr. 
 Sol Davis has, to sura up his wealtli of accom- 
 modation for tourists, a bar in tlie rear of his 
 premises where exciseable articles are retailed. 
 Mrs. Sol Davis is a very comely and affable 
 matron, with a sharp eye to business ; and Miss 
 Sol Davis is very beautiful but haughty. 
 
 l\Ir. Sol Davis, junior, the fourth in this 
 worth}^ quartette, is a character. Said he to 
 me, when he became better acquainted with 
 me — 
 
 ' What might be your business, now ?' 
 Wishing to keep within the limits of the 
 truth, and at the same time not to be too 
 communicative, I replied that paper-staining 
 was my business. 
 
 * Ah ! paper staining. Do pretty well at 
 it?' continued Mr. Sol Davis, junior. 
 
 I said that I did do pretty well, considering. 
 
 * Ah !' pursued my interlocutor, ' you should 
 go in for felt hats. My brother-in-law went 
 out to San Francisco a year and seven months 
 ago, and he's made a hundred and fifty thou- 
 sand dollars, all out of felt hats. Think of 
 that !' 
 
 12—2
 
 180 Niof/ara in Winter. 
 
 I did think that, in case the paper-staining 
 business came to grief, I would follow the 
 friendly advice of Mr. Sol Davis, junior, and 
 go in for felt hats. 
 
 We lunched at Mr. Sol Davis's, in a very 
 cosy little back parlour, and an admirable 
 roast fowl and a capital bottle of Medoc we 
 had. Then my friend took a nap ; and then, 
 feeling somewhat relieved, with a fragrant 
 ' planter ' from Mr. Sol Davis's private box 
 between my lips, I strolled out to have another 
 view of the Falls. It was now about three 
 o'clock in the afternoon. I stood on the brink 
 of Table Rock and gazed once more on the 
 great, dreary, colourless expanse of water, 
 foam, and spray. And this was Niagara, and 
 there was nothing more. 
 
 Nothing ? With a burst like the sound of 
 a trumpet, the sudden Sun came out. God 
 bless him ! there he was ; and there, too, in the 
 midst of the foaming waters, was set the 
 Everlasting Bow. The rainbow shone out 
 upon the cataract; the sky turned sapphire; the 
 bright clarion had served to call all Nature to 
 arms ; the very birds that had been flapping 
 dully over the spray throughout the morning 
 began to sing ; and, looking around me, T saw 
 that the whole scene had become glorified.
 
 Niagara in Winter. 181 
 
 There was light and colour ev^er}- where. The 
 river ran a stream of liquid gold. The dark 
 hills glistened. The boulders of ice sparkled 
 like gems. The snow was all bathed in iris 
 tints — crimson, and yellow, and blue, and 
 green, and orange, and violet. The white 
 houses and belvederes started up against the 
 azure like the mosques and minarets of Stam- 
 boul; and, soaring high behind the Bow, was 
 the great pillar of spray, glancing and flashing 
 like an obelisk of diamonds. And it was then 
 I began, as many men have begun, perchance, 
 to wonder at and to love Niagara. 
 
 As I stood g-azino- on the sun and the rain- 
 bow, and the glittering spray and the sparkling 
 snow, and as the constant roar of the cataract 
 had become to me, through its even monotony 
 of sonorous continuity, quite soft and subdued, 
 the very oddest, the very absurdest, the most 
 incongruous thing it is possible to conceive, 
 happened. I am almost ashamed to set it 
 down here. I feel that Niagara should be 
 held as holy ground, and the mean and the 
 grotesque rigidly excluded from its precincts. 
 
 It was in this wise. Mr. Sol Davis is a 
 thrifty man, and keeps live stock. From the 
 rear of his premises there came gravely and 
 consequentially waddling towards me a certain
 
 182 Niagara in Winter. 
 
 domestic bird. This bird, it may be, flattered 
 himself that his plumage was white ; but, con- 
 trasted with the virgin snow over which he 
 sacrilegiously waddled, he had a dirty, tawny 
 hne. And the varlet thought, no doubt, that 
 he had red legs. Eed ! These, and his splay 
 web feet, were of a dingy cinnabar tint, like 
 unto the worn-out jacket of an untidy militia- 
 man. His bill was unbearable. He was the 
 ugliest biped I ever set eyes upon ; and yet I 
 dare say Mr. Sol Davis thought him in the 
 plum]3est of condition, and intended to send 
 him presently into the States, with a view to 
 the Christmas market. There, the truth must 
 out. He was a Goose, and this beast of a 
 bird waddled to the brink of Table Eock, and 
 stood beside me, gazing out upon Niagara. 
 
 It would be a mean and paltry thing, I 
 knew, for a strong man to kick a goose — or 
 rather a gander — over a precipice. It would 
 have been a cruel and dishonest thing to steal 
 Mr. Sol Davis's property, or wring its neck. 
 Yet something must be done, I felt. Why 
 didn't he fly away ? Why didn't he waddle 
 back ? No ; there he remained, ruminating, 
 and occasionally gobbling, to himself. Per- 
 haps he was indulging in asj^irations that the 
 sage and onion crop had failed, and that he
 
 Niagara in Winter. 183 
 
 would not be roasted until next Tlianksgiving 
 Day. I told him savagely to get out of that. 
 He turned his bill and his eye upwards to me, 
 stood on one leg, and hissed slightl}^ as though 
 to sa}^ ' Have I not as much right here as you, 
 brother? What do you think of the Falls, 
 any way ? As for me, I am bJnsL I am a 
 Goose. Men may come and men may go, but 
 I and tlie Falls go on for ever. More rain 
 drops from the heavens, and sinks into the 
 mountains, and gushes from the source, and 
 feeds the lakes, and flushes the river, and 
 rushes from Erie to Ontario, and tumbles over 
 these rocks, and is shattered into spray and 
 becomes vapour, and in time gathers again in 
 clouds, and falls once more in rain. More 
 goslings chip from the shell, more mother- 
 geese drive off with strong wing and angry 
 hiss the barn-door cat, more geese are baked 
 and roasted, or are set beibre fires, or caged in 
 coops and crammed that their livers may 
 swell, and the fatty degeneration be made 
 into pies. I am a Goose, and have gone on 
 for thousands of years. And you, brother ? 
 I was in Noah's Ark. I saved the Roman 
 Capitol. I once laid golden eggs. The 
 clodhopper thought he had killed me, but here 
 I am again. How old is the world, and for
 
 184 Niagara in Winter. 
 
 how many thousands of years has this cataract 
 been roaring, and I, or my brothers, who are 
 me, hissing and gobbling on the edge of the 
 precipice ?' I dechned to answer the impUed 
 questions he propounded. I left the abominable 
 thing in deepest dudgeon ; and for my part I 
 don't see anything cruel in the process of 
 preparing j»a/^5 de foie gras, or plucking geese 
 alive. 
 
 ' The goose had hung high' — I use a Yankee 
 locution — when I had first seen the rainbow. 
 Now it was hanging low indeed. To thicken 
 my gloom the sun went in, and all became, as 
 before, dingy, colourless, and shadowless. 
 Slowly and sadly I walked along the precipice 
 road towards the Suspension Bridge, when I 
 came on some one standing, as I had stood, 
 on the verge of a crag, and gazing on the 
 Falls. 
 
 He had his dog with him— a patient little 
 black fellow with ragged ears — a poverty- 
 stricken mongrel cur. Mange had marked 
 that dog for her own. He looked as though 
 he had been bred a turnspit, but, that branch 
 of business declining through the introduction 
 of bottle-jacks, had attempted the water- 
 spaniel line of business. Poor little beast! 
 He shivered and looked lamentably uncom-
 
 Niagara in Winter. 185 
 
 fortable in his sporting character, but was 
 quite meek and resigned. His master Avas 
 somewhat under the middle size, but was a 
 brawny, thickset fellow. The facial angles of 
 his countenance would not have been amiss on 
 a medal representing one of the Twelve Caisars, 
 for his nose was purely aquiline, his cheek- 
 bones high, his lips firmly set, and his chin 
 broad and massive ; but there his classicality 
 stopped. His forehead was low ; his eye, 
 though black and lustrous, small and sunken ; 
 and his head, so far as I could discern for the 
 fur cap he wore, thatched with long, coarse, 
 matted black hair — raven black, if you please, 
 but the sable of a raven who has fed on any- 
 thing but succulent garbage. He was very 
 dirty, very ragged, and very greasy. AVrapped 
 round him was a blanket coat, patched here 
 and there with scraps of leather; his loins 
 were girt with a wampum belt, but the beads 
 were broken and lustreless. There was some 
 shabby embroidery, too, on the canvas pouch 
 he carried at his side. His legs were swathed 
 in bandages of coarse linen, with criss-cross 
 ligaments, such as Italian brigands wear, and 
 such as you may note in the statues of the 
 Gauls of old. On his feet he wore moccasins, 
 and these offered a curious contrast to the
 
 1S6 Niagara in Winter. 
 
 poverty of the rest of his attire, for they were 
 of new black cloth, glowing with parti-coloured 
 passementerie, and, in their embroidery, quite 
 a marvel of bead-work. On one arm rested a 
 long duck-gun with bright barrel, and his 
 shot-belt and powder-flask hung on his hip 
 opposite the pouch. He had been out birding 
 — seeking, perchance, the ptarmigan or the 
 capercailzie, or more probably in quest of 
 smaller and prettier quarries, such as that 
 exquisite little blue bird of Canada which forms 
 a centrepiece to the feather fans made by his 
 race, and which are sold at an enormous 
 advance on their wholesale price by the 
 curiosity dealers with whom both sides of the 
 Niagara river abound. 
 
 There he stood, silent and motionless, con- 
 templating the raging waters. He was plainly 
 a poor devil, and the clothes he had on would 
 not have fetched two dollars and a half. His 
 gun was the most valuable part of his accou- 
 trements, and the stock of that weapon, even, 
 was worn and notched. He had been out 
 probably for many weary hours, and would 
 not gather more than fifty cents by his day's 
 work. He was, in Yankee estimation, a worn- 
 out ' cuss,' shattered, unclean, and oleaginous 
 — a creature to be * run-out ' or stamped down
 
 Niagara in Winter. 187 
 
 as though he were a 'possum or a skunk. And 
 even here, on British soil, he \vas looked upon 
 as a kind of bore and encumbrance, not, it is 
 true, to be absolutely maltreated or violently- 
 expelled, but so prevailed upon to ' move on,' 
 and generally wiped out, as early as the pro- 
 prieties of civilization would permit of that 
 process. This was clearly no place for him. 
 White hunters could be found to catch the 
 blue bird as well as he, and white women in 
 crinoline could make the fans as deftly as the 
 blanketed squaws of his feeble and scattered 
 race. Niagara was wanted for tourists and 
 excursionists, for hotel-keepers and guide-book 
 sellers. He was an anomaly and an ana- 
 chronism here. It was time for him to 
 clear out. Do we not read in the works of 
 the Yankee bard — 
 
 ' Here the wild Injun once did take delight, 
 Hunted the builaler, fished, fit. and bled; 
 Now the inhabitants are mostly white, 
 And nary red.' 
 
 Yes, this was a Eed Man. He was the first 
 North American Indian, in his own land, I 
 had seen. I am not about to get up any 
 spasmodic enthusiasm concerning the Noble 
 Savage. He is, I am aware, at a painful 
 discount just at present, and I confess that his
 
 188 Niagara in Winter. 
 
 nobility is, in the main, nonsense, and he 
 himselif a nuisance. I have seen a good deal 
 of him in Canada since my first meeting with 
 the bird-man with the duck-gun at Niagara. 
 I have seen him five million strong — whole- 
 blooded and half-blooded in Mexico, and I am 
 bound to admit that according to our ideas of 
 civilization — and they need not be quite in- 
 fallible ideas, after all — he is, at the best, but 
 a poor creature. I have nothing favourable 
 to say about the war paint, or the war path, 
 or the war dance. The calumet of peace has, 
 I know, been smoked to the last ashes. I give 
 up the Noble Savage morally. I confess him 
 to be a shiftless and degraded vagrant, who 
 does not wash himself — who is not at all 
 scrupulous about taking things which do not 
 belong to him — who will get blind or mad 
 drunk on rum or whisky whenever he has a 
 chance — who is not a much better shot than 
 a white man, and who has only one special 
 aptitude — that for playing at cards, at which 
 he will cheat you. But, fallen and debased as 
 he is, not much more picturesque than an 
 English gipsy, and quite as dishonest, nothing 
 can rob him of a certain dignity of mien, 
 a composure of carriage, and an imperturba- 
 bility of countenance, which the descendant
 
 Niagara in Winter. 189 
 
 of a hundred European kings might envy. 
 Nothing moves him, nothing excites his sur- 
 prise, nothing excites him to merriment. A 
 friend told me, that travelUng once in Nova 
 Scotia he came in an Indian village, where a 
 chief was being installed in olHce. He was 
 invited to take part in the festivities, and was 
 regaled at a grand banquet composed of one 
 dish. AVhat do you think it was? Conger 
 eel, cut into pieces about four inches long, 
 Indian corn and molasses ; yet the manner in 
 which the chief ladled out this horrible mess 
 from a tin slop-pail was, according to my 
 friend, the most dignified and imposing per- 
 formance he had ever witnessed since, in days 
 gone by, he had seen a Eoyal personage pre- 
 siding at a public dinner. 
 
 And so this Red Man stood grave and im- 
 mobile, surveying the Falls. His dress was a 
 mean and bastard compromise between the 
 past and the present; but in port and visage he 
 was the same Indian who, with unquivering 
 lip and unfaltering eye, looks upon the dying 
 Wolfe in Benjamin West's picture. There he 
 stood, statuesque and dumb, heeding me not, 
 heeding nothing, seemingl}^ but his own 
 thoughts. Of what may he have been think- 
 ing ? Perhaps in this wise : ' All this was
 
 190 Niagara in Winter. 
 
 once mine. The river and the Falls, the bank 
 and the brake, all belonged to the Eed Man. 
 In their bark canoes my fathers shot the 
 rapids more skilfully than the helmsmen of 
 that black boat which puffs smoke from a pipe 
 on its deck, and makes a noise like the whip- 
 poor-will in pain. All this belonged to me, 
 and now I am a vagrant and an outcast, and 
 the white man chaffers with me for the birds 
 I have slain.' Poor copper-hued child of the 
 wilderness ! Perhaps he was listening for the 
 Hatter of a wing, and keeping a sharp look-out 
 for the blue-bird of Canada. I went on my 
 way, and saw him no more. 
 
 But he, and the gander, and the roar of the 
 Falls haunted me for many winter nights. 
 Have you not experienced, landing from a 
 long sea voyage, the rocking, and tumbling, 
 and oscillating motion of the ship which ^has 
 brought 3'ou to your bourne, long after you 
 are free from that thraldom ? You are on dry 
 land; on carpeted floors, on smooth turnpike 
 roads, on paved streets — and yet you seem to 
 be rolling and pitching as in tlie days when 
 you strove to get your sea legs. So is it with 
 Niagara. Shut your eyes tightly as you will, 
 press down your fingers on the orbs ; but in 
 the eyes of your soul you will see the Falls
 
 Niagara in Winter. 191 
 
 still, plain and distinct as on the table of 
 a camera obscura. Stop your ears, stop them 
 with cotton, stop them with wax, as the 
 Heathen man of old stopped his, against the 
 AVantons of the Sea ; but in the ears of your 
 mind you will hear the dull, constant roar of 
 the Cataract. And I seem to see and to hear 
 it now. 
 
 ^Sxt^<^
 
 VIII. 
 THE WORMS. 
 
 IT is the last straw that breaks the camel's 
 back. I had been kneeling, metaphori- 
 cally speaking, in the court-yard of a caravan- 
 serai at Smyrna any time during six months, 
 meekly bowing the hump to the remorselessly 
 accumulated load. I had borne it all ; raw 
 silk, figs, dates, flax, hemp, mj^rrh, amber- 
 gris, opium, rhubarb, and magnesia — insult, 
 obloquy, reproach, misrepresentation. I had 
 endured quietly. I knew that I was a Camel, 
 and that it was my lot to be a carrier and not 
 to grumble. I cherished the hope of rising 
 anon, and, hearing the tinkling caravan bells, 
 and, after plodding for many a weary rood 
 through hot sand, finding myself at Mecca — 
 I mean at homo. I could have borne more 
 burdens even, had they been adjusted with 
 tolerable decency to this patient back. The
 
 The Worms. 193 
 
 oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 
 the insolence of office, the ferocity of hack- 
 drivers, the sulkiness of railway conductors, 
 the assaults of rowdies, the boys who sell 
 * fig and gum drops ' in the cars, the infernal 
 hotel gong, the hardness of the times, gloves 
 at three dollars twenty-five cents a pair, 
 champagne at seven dollars a bottle, cigars 
 at sixty cents apiece, the young lady next 
 door who was perpetually hammering at the 
 valse from Faust, and always breaking down 
 over the first bar, anything, in fine, you please 
 to mention — anything but this. But there is 
 a limit to human sufferance. There is a point 
 beyond which it is perilous to pile up the 
 agony of mortal man. I didn't bargain for 
 this. I never contracted to undergo the whole 
 seven plagues of Egypt concentrated into one 
 hideous and abominable nuisance. You will 
 naturally wish to know what the terrible in- 
 fliction I denounce is like. Stay but a moment 
 and you shall hear. 
 
 I was taking my walks abroad in Fifth 
 Avenue, one summer's morn, meaning harm 
 to no man, and with my heart full of sweet 
 and placid feelings towards the United States. 
 I loved pro tern, the Loyal League, admired 
 the Cabinet, and adhered to the Monroe doc- 
 
 13
 
 194 The Worms. 
 
 trine. Suddenl}' I saw, advancing towards me 
 with fierce and rapid strides, an Old Lady. 
 Now I am not afraid of ladies. In youth I 
 was wont to be alarmed at them all, the young 
 and the old ; but I can bear a great deal of 
 Woman by this time. She has ceased to 
 appal me ; she wouldn't have anything to do 
 with me when I yearned for sympathy ; 
 but now, when she has nothing to give, or I, 
 the rather, nothing to accept, she is kind. 
 This was, nevertheless, a very fearsome old 
 lady to look upon. She was tall and wore no 
 crinoline, and was crowned with a coal-scuttle 
 bonnet. She had spectacles, also, and a very 
 hard hickory -looking face beneath them. ' This 
 is an old lady from New England,' I mused. 
 ' I see it all. She is from the State of Massa- 
 chusetts. Eesidence East Bufium, profession 
 widow, sectarian proclivities Heterodox Con- 
 gregational. This is the old lady who is a 
 great hand at broiling shad, preserving cran- 
 berries, scrubbing floors, and making apple 
 pasties and berry pies. Her father was a 
 Deacon ; her uncle a Select Man ; she has 
 two sons, Zeke and Ike, whom she switches 
 frightfully, and her grandmother, one of the 
 * hunky girls ' of the '76, broke her china 
 teapot after the last family Souchong had been
 
 The Worms. 195 
 
 tlirown Into Boston Harbour and took never 
 another cup of the refreshing beverage until 
 the evacuation of New York by the Britishers.' 
 I drew aside to allow this respectable but for- 
 midable female to pass ; but to pass me was 
 apparently not her aim. She meant mischief. 
 Her eyes were inflamed with ire. Her lips 
 moved as though in wrath. She held in one 
 woollen-gloved hand a monstrous gingham 
 umbrella ; and with it she made as thougli 
 to strike me down. She brandished this 
 weapon of offence, this gingham Excalibur, 
 above her head. She swung it to the right 
 and the left. She brought it down, in the ' St. 
 George ' with a force and precision which had I 
 been stricken, must have cloven me from the 
 nave to the chaps. 
 
 She delivered the carte and the tierce and the 
 reason demonstrative. She was clearly cun- 
 ning of fence ; and T thought I would see her 
 blessed ere I fought with her. Her umbrella 
 was, at last, within an inch of my nose. The 
 hair of my flesh stood up. This old lady 
 had evidently sworn to have my blood. Con- 
 science makes cowards of us all. But who 
 was she ? A Woman's Eights Convention 
 delegate ? a Black Eepublican ? a manufac- 
 turer of chewing tobacco? a spiritualist 
 
 13—2
 
 196 The Worms. 
 
 medium? or an abolitionist lecturer? I bad 
 made up my mind for tbe worst, and was 
 preparing eitber to fly or to cast myself at 
 tbe feet of tbe vengeful old lady, and sue for 
 mercy. ' Transatlantic female,' I was on the 
 point of saying, 'spare me. I am very 
 sorry for it. I cave in. I acknowledge tbe corn. 
 I am not young, nor tender, but I am an 
 Orpban, and penitent. Spare me, for tbe 
 sake of your Banner in tbe Sky — of tbe Lone 
 Star wliicb sbines above tbe statue of tbe 
 Fatber of bis Country in Union Square — of 
 tbat great American eagle wbo, witb un- 
 tarnisbed wings, is flapping out tbe blear and 
 bloodsbot eye of Treason and Eebellion all 
 over tbis vast continent — from tbe dusty turn- 
 pikes of Todd's Tavern to tbe swampy sbores 
 of Bayou Sara. Spare me for tbe sake of our 
 common blood, our common language, our 
 common creed;, for tbe sweet sake of Sbak- 
 speare, wbo was our common Grandmotber — 
 of Spenser, wbo was our mutual Cousin- 
 german, only ninety-nine times removed — of 
 Milton, wlio, it is well known, came of a 
 reputable family, down to Salem, Mass., and 
 was educated at Harvard, and wbo was tbe 
 common Uncle of us all. Spare me for tbe sake 
 of Civilization, Humanity, and tbe Brotber-
 
 Tlie Worms. 197 
 
 hood and Sisterhood of Nations.' I was 
 rehearsing this Httle speech, the tropes and 
 flourishes in which are, I am free to confess, 
 culled from the vocabulary of Orator Pop, 
 when the old lady rushed by me, still wildly 
 w^aving her umbrella, but with singular cle- 
 mency, forbearing to knock my head off. And, 
 looking back, I beheld her still urging on her 
 wild career down Fifth Avenue, towards Tenth 
 Street, brandishing her gingham all the way. 
 Was she mad ? Was she in a spiritual ecstasy, 
 and speeding from a Eevival? No, a hasty 
 remark she made as she passed me at once 
 explained the mystery of her proceedings. In 
 a tone of dolorous agony she cried, ' Oh, them 
 Worms !' 
 
 Yes, those Worms. They are the Seven/- 
 Plagues of Egypt to which I adverted anon. 
 They are the bane, the scourge, the nuisance, 
 which, in the merry month of June, make a 
 man's life a torment to him. The side walks 
 of the streets of New York, faithful to their 
 Dutch origin, are bordered with trees, princi- 
 pally limes and elms. In joyous June, when 
 they are in full leaf, and their verdure has not 
 been burnt up by the white heat of the 
 summer sun, they are refreshingly umbrageous 
 and look very pretty. But these trees are.
 
 198 The Worms. 
 
 one and all, infested by a horrible little reptile, 
 known commonly as the ' measuring worm,' 
 the ' canker worm,' or the ' pace-maggot,' but 
 which, according to scientific authorities, has 
 quite as much right to be called the ' geo- 
 meter,' the ' arpenteur,' or the ' hindrometer.' 
 It is of a dusky olive in hue, with a tawny 
 head and a pea-green tail. It is about as long 
 as a bit of string, and as big as a piece of 
 chalk — stay, the length of the middle joint of 
 your little finger affords an apter standard of 
 measurement. I don't know whether it has 
 any eyes ; but, when touched, a hideous green 
 matter exudes from it. This worm swings by 
 an almost imperceptible cord or filament from 
 the branches of the highest trees, as of the 
 lowliest shrubs. As you walk along the street, 
 myriads of these worms are hanging motion- 
 less in the air. Suddenly they bob against 
 your nose, they slide down your shirt collar, 
 they enter your eye and sit on your lid. Open 
 your mouth, and a worm slides down your 
 throat. They light on your hands and your feet. 
 A lady comes home from walking with her 
 parasol tasseled, and the hem of her dress 
 fringed, by these beastly worms. When they 
 have munched their fill of the young leaves of 
 the trees, they spin out of their own depraved
 
 The Worms. 199 
 
 bodies a slack rope of gluten ; and down this 
 aerial bridge tliey slide till they are witliin a 
 distance of five feet Irom the earth. There 
 they ruminate, till, gorged with vegetable dirt, 
 these green leeches tumble down on the jDave- 
 ment, where they wriggle and wallow, and, 
 after a time, T trust, die. The flagstones are 
 so speckled with surfeited worms, that, on the 
 finest and most cloudless afternoon, you may 
 fancy it is just beginning to rain. As I have 
 said, they specially afi'ect to perform their 
 Blondin and Leotard performances on a level 
 with the faces of human beings walking erect, 
 and the only way to prevent their choking or 
 blinding you is to arm yourself with a stick 
 or an umbrella, and slash them away as you 
 travel. The old lady I had met was evidently, 
 and of old, aware of the worms, and of the 
 means to combat them. Hence her violent 
 and apparently hostile demonstrations with 
 the umbrella. 
 
 These detestable creatures are no mere petty 
 nuisance. They are destroying the finest trees 
 in the streets of New York. You might take 
 them to be pipe-layers, or log-rollers, or 
 lobbyers, or members of a municipal ' ring,' so 
 speedily and so completely do they devour 
 every green thing. Like every other social
 
 200 The Worms. 
 
 nuisance, the worms have then- friends, and 
 one enthusiastic student of natural history- 
 writes to the papers to claim for them 'a 
 certam amount of brains, or at least of instinct.' 
 He watched, it seems, a flock of birds light 
 upon a tree full of worms. The reptiles, 
 knowing" full well what the intent of these 
 early birds must be, hastily ' skedaddled ' down 
 their air-ladders, whence, like the showman's 
 kangaroo who took refuge down his own 
 throat, they doubtless (if worms can cachin- 
 nate) derisively guffawed at their baffled pur- 
 suers. The birds flew away, and then the 
 worms went back to gobble up more leaves. 
 The strangest circumstance about these dimi- 
 nutive ' cusses ' is that their appearance in 
 New York is a comparative novelty. Ten 
 years ago they were unknown, and they are 
 rarely seen in the streets of the New England 
 towns, which are bordered by the most beau- 
 tiful trees. Are they emigrants, I wonder? 
 Did they land at Castle Garden ? And, again, 
 it has been remarked that, by a grotesque 
 coincidence, the worms and the barrel- 
 organs come out together. You seldom see 
 these ' Alfred Le Measurers ' before the end of 
 May, you rarely hear an organ before the 
 beginning of June. By this time the first
 
 The Worms. 201 
 
 are squirming, and the last are grinding all 
 day long. To make the matter worse, these 
 most disgusting libels on the caterpillar tribe 
 are but in a chrysalis state. They turn out to 
 be, in the long run, not reptiles, but insects. 
 In a month or so they will cast their slough 
 of dusky olive, and blunder about the world 
 and the gas-burners as the large, uncouth 
 moths which, from the loose, white, flowery 
 pollen with which their wings are covered, are 
 known as ' millers.' 
 
 Allow me also to remark that the beautiful 
 summer nio-hts of New York are made hideous 
 by the disturbance created by an intolerable 
 little ruffian called a ' tree-toad,' a denizen 
 likewise of the street arboretum. I never saw 
 a tree-toad ; but I have been told that he is a 
 cross between a lizard, a cricket, and that 
 genuine article who is said to wear a jewel in 
 his head and doesn't. He begins about nine 
 o'clock in the evening, and comes to an end 
 about four o'clock in the morning, when the 
 flies relieve guard and drive you mad with their 
 buzzing. I can scarcely give an imitation of 
 his frightful chant ; but remembering the 
 precedent set by one Aristophanes in his cele- 
 brated ' Froggee ' chorus, I may note down 
 the song of the tree-toad somewhat in this
 
 202 The Worms. 
 
 wise — ' Chick, cliick, cluck, cluck, yuk, yuk, 
 deck, deck, chuck, scheuckli !' and so on, for 
 seven mortal hours. An American friend who 
 found language in everything — in the snortings 
 of locomotives, the puffings of steam tugs, the 
 jangling of bells, and the rumbling of wheels 
 — used to declare that he understood the 
 speech of these night-pests, and that it ran 
 thus : — " World six thousand years old, and 
 only a tree-toad. Education, civilization, and 
 refinement ; and only a tree-toad. Nothing 
 created without a Purpose, and Only a Tree- 
 Toad." 
 
 Then the flies : I have something to say 
 about them elsewhere. Then the mosquitoes: 
 I have written a chapter about them. And 
 the moths ! Really I must protest against the 
 moth — our old enemy the measuring-worm in 
 another form. He ate me up, so far as my 
 wardrobe was concerned, bodily in three 
 months. 
 
 Don't run away with the notion that allu- 
 sion to a petty nuisance means hatred to the 
 United States. I don't think the Cingalese 
 would have massacred Sir Emerson Tennent, if 
 he had gone back, for describing the countless 
 reptile and insect plagues of Ceylon — the 
 leeches that used to hang about his horse's hoofs
 
 The Worms. 203 
 
 in crimson tassels — the white ants that drove a 
 neat tunnel right through a set of the British 
 Essayists and the Waverley Novels. The 
 Americans can't help their moths, nor their 
 flies, nor their worms, nor their mosquitoes ; 
 and I am glad to remark, in conclusion, that 
 from two most noxious inflictions American 
 houses are singularly free. You scarcely ever 
 meet with a flea, or with that now objection- 
 able insect which I have seen somewhere 
 described as * a gentleman in brown.' The 
 traveller who put up at the inn at Stoney 
 Stratford would have had no excuse for his 
 non sequitur in the States. I have been in 
 scores of American hotels, and lived in fur- 
 nished lodgings, but fleas, or ' chintzes,' as 
 Mr. TroUope declared American euphuists 
 were wont to call the brown pests, never 
 assailed me. When I went to Cuba and 
 Mexico I was bitten half to death.
 
 IX. 
 
 SCHENECTADY. 
 
 IITE. ALFEED TENNYSON waited for 
 -L'-L tlie train at Coventry. He liung with 
 grooms and porters o'er the bridge. He 
 watched the three tall spires, and shaped the 
 city's ancient legend into an immortal rhyme. 
 I had to wait for a train an hour and forty 
 minutes at Schenectady, in the State of New 
 York, in August, '64, but how can the 
 humblest of prose writers hope to make 
 anything worthy of record out of that railway 
 leisure which the Laureate turned to such 
 glorious account ? There is a bridge at 
 Schenectady, constructed apparently from 
 lucifer matches and half-inch deals tied 
 together with twopenny twine, and very 
 dirty and ruinous, as most public works in the 
 States seem to be ; but there was little to be 
 got by hanging o'er it. Schenectady being — 
 with all respect I say it — but a one-horse kind
 
 Schenectadi/. 205 
 
 of a place, there were no grooms about ; and 
 as for the porters they were, ftiilini^ the arrival 
 of any travellers at Givens's Hotel, tranquilly 
 liquoring up and talking politics in the under- 
 ground bars of the city. I suppose Schenec- 
 tady is a city ; but, at any rate, it is but an 
 act of politeness to call it one. 
 
 There were no tall spires to watch. Sche- 
 nectady is not barren of ecclesiastical edifices, 
 but the majority are barn-like. The Basilica — 
 I don't know what persuasion it is dedicated 
 to — is of wood, and whitewashed. The 
 foundations are pine logs, and it could be 
 moved down town or into the next count}^ I 
 apprehend, within half a dozen hours. The 
 only steeple I saw was a wooden one, which 
 appeared to have begun architectural life as a 
 beanstalk, then to have made up its mind — 
 by breaking out in niches — to try the pigeon- 
 cote line of business, then to have striven 
 hard to be a factory chimney, failing which it 
 had gone into the church, and whitewashed 
 itself. As regards any ancient legends belong- 
 ing Schenectady, they must have faded out 
 with its aboriginal inhabitants. Here, within 
 two or three generations, perchance, there 
 were wigwams. The Sachem said, ' Let us 
 dig the hatchet and go forth and eat u^) that
 
 206 Schenectady. 
 
 nation ;' the young brave speared trout and 
 hunted moose, the medicine-man worked his 
 charms, the squaws woved baskets and em- 
 broidered moccasins, the calumet was lit, and 
 the war paint daubed on. It may have been 
 so, but I am perfectly ignorant as to the 
 period when Schenectady was ' organized,' and 
 the last Indian tribe was elbowed forth into the 
 wilderness, perplexed by the inventions and 
 distracted by the questions of that irrepres- 
 sible Yankee, who is always ' wanting to 
 know,' and always 'fixing up' new devices. 
 Legends there may have been in the old time 
 of ' stone canoes,' ' happy hunting grounds,' 
 and ' enchanted elks ;' but they have given 
 place, now, to placards and wall-stencillings 
 relating to Sozodont, to the Night Blooming 
 Cereus, the Bloom of a Thousand Flowers, 
 Kimball's Ambrosia, Van Buskirk's Stomach 
 Bitters, and other quackeries. Nothing is left 
 of the Cherokees, but disgusting mural adver- 
 tisements of ' Cherokee Medicines ;' and the 
 * Mohawk Bank of Schenectady,' a pert, spruce, 
 brown-stone building, with a plate-glass 
 window occupying nine-tenths of its facade, is 
 all that remains to remind you of the savage 
 Eedskins, who once owned the soil, and who 
 would have experienced infinite delight, I
 
 Schenectady. 207 
 
 should imagine, in bursting into the bank, 
 burning the bird's-eye maple fixings, scalping 
 the president, disembowelling the directors, 
 and sticking themselves all over with the 
 greenbacks in the till. For they will stick. 
 The Prussian soldiers say, tliat if you fling a 
 loaf of pumpernickel against a wall, the nasty 
 pasty dough will stick there ; and so, if you 
 press a ten or a twenty-five cent note on the 
 back of your hand, and breathe upon it, it 
 will, after a while, adhere as firmly as a 
 postage stamp ; so much glue, as well as 
 grease, has it picked up in its travels. 
 
 There was a very large refreshment-room at 
 the Schenectndy Station, where ' warm meals 
 at all hours ' were advertised. I looked over 
 the tariff, and found that ' boiled dinner ' cost 
 forty cents. What is a boiled dinner ? Soup, 
 fish, turkey and oysters, vegetables, and suet 
 dumplings, or merely corned beef and hominy? 
 Had I been hungry, or had the weather been 
 cooler, or had there been fewer flies about, I 
 would have ventured upon some boiled dinner ; 
 but with the white furnace heat, and the 
 maddening swarms of insects, dinner, either 
 boiled, baked, broiled, stewed, or fried, was a 
 thing not to be dreamt of. You home-staying 
 people, you can't know anything of active
 
 208 Schenectady. 
 
 entomology until you spend a summer in the 
 United States. The island of Cuba is pretty 
 fertile in things that flap with wings, and crawl 
 with an unchristian number of legs ; but the 
 heat in Havana is a quiet, drowsy heat, and 
 during the daytime, at least, the insects sleep, 
 and don't trouble you. I shall never forget find- 
 ing a scorpion, which is about the size of, and 
 looks very like, a young lobster unboiled, snugly 
 nestled, and sleeping the sleep of the just, in 
 a suit of white linen just come home from the 
 tailor's at Havana. There is another little 
 insect, too, which, if you are incautious enough 
 to cross the room barefooted, is given to bur- 
 rowing a hole in the ball of your great toe, 
 building a nest there, laying half a million of 
 eggs or so, and then slily vamosing ; but he 
 is the quietest little creature alive. You 
 notice not his coming or going, and you are 
 without signs of his presence for the best part 
 of a week, when your toe begins to swell, your 
 blood is poisoned, and unless you pay Don 
 Jose Sangrado y Sganarella, chief medico to the 
 Captain- General, many ounces of gold for 
 blood-letting, cathartic lemonade, and mint 
 tea — the only medicinal treatment I ever heard 
 of in the Fidelisma Isla — you will have spotted 
 fever, blue convulsions, tetanus, and die. Yet,
 
 Schenectady. 209 
 
 on the wliole, I think I prefer tlie insect 
 plagues of the West Indies to those of the 
 States. The Mexican mosquito, for instance, 
 is a gentleman. His trumpet buzz has the 
 purest Castilian accent, and he only comes at 
 night and takes you in cuerpo. The Northern 
 mosquito is a mean little ' cuss,' who stings in 
 the noonday as well as the night. He seems, 
 like a certain proportion of the people among 
 whom he dwells, to experience a continual need 
 for imbibing stimulants, and there is no end 
 to the blood cocktails he takes at your expense. 
 At Saratoga my travelling companion was 
 continually startling me with discoveries of 
 strange insects on the walls or on the furni- 
 ture. There was a dreadful though diminu- 
 tive monster, half beetle and half grasshopper, 
 with a hump on its back like a Lilliputian 
 buffalo. There was a frightful winged worm, 
 not much bigger than a ' small white,' but a 
 persistent nuisance. After all, the flies are 
 perhaps the worst. I don't think they care 
 for suo'ar, I have endeavoured to ward off 
 their attacks by suspending pieces of paper, 
 endued with honey and molasses, to the 
 ceiling of the room ; but they seemed to dis- 
 dain everything of the * catch-'em-alive-o ' 
 order, and preferred pork — that is to say, to 
 
 14
 
 210 Schenectady. 
 
 settle on human flesh. Lie down on a coucli, 
 and simulate sleep, and in two minutes you will 
 have select 23arties of flies congregated on your 
 forehead, your eyeballs, your chin, and the 
 bridge of your nose. I was never acquainted 
 with flies so thoroughly domesticated and 
 fond of the society of man. As I write 
 this I have a fly on each finger, and one com- 
 fortably perched on my pen, close to the point, 
 cooling his many feet in the black sea of 
 thought, and deriving moral benefit, I trust, 
 from that which I am writing. Burn him ! 
 can he read that, I wonder. I have striven to 
 drown him again and again by sudden dips into 
 the inkstand ; but he is artful, and only moves 
 further up the barrel of the pen. Beware of 
 shaking ofi" these inflictions too violently. 
 These insects are ferocious, although so small, 
 and even fly at you. They are not stupid, only 
 deceitful. They lie perdu during the night, to 
 avoid the bats and spiders ; but so soon as the 
 sun rises they are upon you. In this respect, 
 and as provocatives to early rising, they are 
 infinitely superior to alarums and to the 
 crowing of many cocks. 
 
 The citizen who kept the refreshment-room 
 at Schenectady and who had presumably passed 
 many years of flyblown existence, was wise in
 
 Schenedadi/. 211 
 
 his generation, and covered the wliole of his 
 line of counters, as well as his bottles, glasses, 
 and ice pails, with coarse yellow gauze ; but I 
 could see what cakes there were beneath this 
 napery. I know well enough, by this time, 
 the fare you find invariably in American re- 
 freshment-rooms. For a set meal, ham — ugh! 
 such salt, fatless, mahogany-looking ham — 
 and eggs ; the latter always fresh and good. 
 Then beefsteak, the toughest and most flavour- 
 less that any one not accustomed to chew 
 hippopotamus hide can imagine. In winter 
 oyster soup, and at all times coifee, which is 
 generally roasted rye, pure and simple, and 
 villanous black tea, with delicious milk. For 
 eirss and milk our cousins are without rivals. 
 Now and then you get a chicken, broiled to a 
 most rich and appetizing brown tint ; but as 
 no refreshment-room knife was ever known to 
 cut, and as the forks, which are of the rudest 
 iron, have usually but two prongs, an attempt 
 to get a mouthful off the fowl — there are just 
 five on an ordinary one — ends as a rule by its 
 ricocheting into the bosom of yom- next 
 neighbour, precisely as Mr. Edward Everett is 
 said to have sent the hot roast goose flying 
 into the lap of tlie lady in crimson satin at the 
 Boston dinner-table. ' Madam, I will trouble 
 
 14—2
 
 212 ScJiejiectadi/. 
 
 you for that goose/ the orator and philosopher, 
 in no wise discomposed, is reported to have 
 said. I make the reservation, for the story 
 has been told a hundred times of a hundred 
 different people, and in all probability dates 
 from the Temple of Hercules and the Book of 
 the Sixty. For a banquet such as this, and 
 which is called ' supper,' you are now charged 
 seventy-five cents. If you eschew * supper,' 
 and seek perpendicular refreshment at the 
 counter, you have first of all the bars where, 
 in the non-liquor-law States, you may obtain 
 poisonous whisky, brandy even viler, mawkish 
 lager beer, excellent PhiladeljDhia and Albany 
 ale, a wretched effervescing decoction known 
 as sarsaparilla — not unlike the coco the men 
 with the turrets behind them sell in the 
 Champs Elysees — and in New England cider 
 as good as any to be procured in Devonshire, 
 For eatables, these. Ice-creams. You have 
 ice-creams everywhere, and at all seasons. I 
 should not be surprised to learn that the 
 convicts in the penitentiary were regaled with 
 ice-creams on Independence Day, or that the 
 cows in winter gave ice-creams instead of 
 milk. In the filthiest, most tumbledown 
 village you will find a ' city saloon/ where 
 ice-cream is sold.
 
 Sch-enedady . 213 
 
 Next to ice-creams, you are sure to find 
 slabs of very greasy pound-cake. There was 
 wont to be a confectioner on Holborn Hill 
 who sold the largest Bath buns for a penny, 
 and the largest slice of pound-cake for three 
 halfpence, that human eyes had hitherto 
 gazed upon. The pound-cake was in hue a 
 most gorgeous yellow; but tlie confectioner 
 put too much saffron both into the cake and 
 in his buns. They pleased the eye, but tliey 
 nauseated the stomach. I wonder, did that 
 confectioner subsequently emigrate to the 
 United States ? The pound-cake at the rail- 
 way stations is almost as yellow as the 
 Holborn article ; but it is greasier. Our 
 cousins like rich food, although it by no means 
 makes them plump and shiny, as it did Master 
 Wackford Squeers. They are inordinately fond 
 of pound-cake, and consume vast quantities of it 
 at dessert. The celebrated Mr. Barnum once 
 told me an anecdote bearing on this fondness. 
 A gentleman went to a charity dinner — a kind 
 of banquet not very much patronized here. The 
 American Dives ' donate' without dining. 
 ' What'll ye have, sir ?' asked the negro waiter 
 towards the last stage of the banquet. ' What 
 is there?' 'Like some ham, sir?' 'Ham!' 
 ejaculated the gentleman, with infinite scorn
 
 214 Schenectady. 
 
 and wrath ; ' d'ye think I paid five dollars to 
 have ham ? Bring me some pound-cake and 
 ple7ity of butter with it' Then there are 
 ' crackers' or square butter-biscuits, good 
 with cheese, but somewhat dry to the mouth ; 
 sandwiches of which the less said the better ; 
 candies, or lollipops, of every conceivable 
 colour and shape, generally made of maple 
 sugar, and very sickly ; and gingerbread, the 
 which is soft, treacly, and hasn't any ginger 
 in it. But I have kept the honne houche for the 
 last. The bonne bouche ! say rather the evil 
 mouthful: the viand which is frausfht with 
 headache, heartburn, anxiety, dread, plethora, 
 swimming in the head, fulness after meals, 
 noises in the ears, motes or webs before the 
 eyes, tumbling, pains in the joints, and all 
 other symptoms of derangement of the diges- 
 tive organs so eloquently enumerated in the 
 advertisements of Drake's Plantation Bitters. 
 That maleficent thing, that handmaid to dys- 
 pepsia, and all other its attendant woes, is 
 Pie. I can see the Pie, in innumerable equi- 
 lateral triangles, gleaming with a ghastly 
 sheen beneath the yellow gauze. There it is ; 
 pumpkin pie, blackberry pie, whortleberry pie, 
 huckleberry pie— pie of all kinds, but always
 
 Schenectady. 215 
 
 of the same grinning, splay shape, and with a 
 foundation and border of Habby, indigestible 
 crust. Talk not to me of an inflated currency, 
 of Seranton coals at fourteen dollars a ton, 
 and tea at twenty-five cents an ounce ; of the 
 scarcity of nickel or copper cents, of measur- 
 ing-worms and Fourth of July fireworks, of 
 municipal jobs and railway monopolies ; the 
 real social curse of the Atlantic States is Pie. 
 In the West it is pronounced ' poy,' and the 
 backwoodsmen are fond of it ; but a man who 
 lives in a log-hut and is felling trees or toiling 
 in the prairies all day long can eat Pie with 
 impunity. It is in the North and in the East, 
 in cities and townships and manufacturing 
 districts, where dense populations congregate, 
 and where the occupations of men, women, 
 and children are sedentary, that an unholy 
 appetite for Pie works untold woes. There 
 the Pie fiend reigns supreme ; there he sits 
 heavy on the diaphragms and on the souls of 
 his votaries. The sallow faces, the shrunken 
 forms, the sunken eyes, the morose looks, the 
 tetchy temperament of the Northerners are 
 attributable not half so much to iced water, 
 candies, tough beefsteaks, tight lacing, and 
 tobacco-chewing, as to unbridled indulgence
 
 216 Schenectady. 
 
 in Pie. New England can count the greatest 
 number of votaries to this most deleterious 
 fetish ; but Pie- worship is prevalent all over 
 the North. In the State of Massachusetts, 
 for instance, you have pork and beans every 
 Sunday, but you have Pie morning, noon, and 
 night every day, and all the year round. I 
 daresay you have often observed what gross 
 feeders the professed teetotallers are, and how 
 unwholesome they look for all their abstinence 
 from fermented liquors. Set this down in 
 England to a ghoul-like craving for heavy 
 meat teas, greasy mufhns, Sally Lunns, and 
 hot suppers, and in the United States to an 
 overweening addictedness to Pie. Pie is no- 
 where spoken against in Scripture, as Jona- 
 than Wild's ordinary observed with reference 
 to punch. Thus you will find American 
 ministers of the gospel gorging pie till the 
 odium theoloyicum rises in their throats, and 
 they must curse their brethren or choke. Full 
 of pride and Pie, they wax bloated, and kick 
 at their apostolic mission. Plethoric with 
 Pie, they bellow forth denunciations from 
 their pulpits, and roar for blood. There is 
 nothing open and above board in Pie. It can 
 be eaten stealthily and in secret. A slice off 
 a cut pie is never miased. I have heard of
 
 Schcn ectaay. 217 
 
 young ladies wlio took Pie to bed with them. 
 I told you many montlis ago how angry the 
 Americans were witli Mr. Anthony Trollope 
 for sajang that the Uttle children in the States 
 are fed on pickles. He erred, but in degree. 
 There will sometimes intervene a short period 
 when there are no fresh berries to be had, and 
 when the preserved ones have * gin out.' Then 
 the juveniles are raised on pickles. At other 
 times their pabulum is Pie. The * Confessions 
 of a Pie-Eater' have just been published. They 
 are heart-rending. Through an unconquer- 
 able hunger for Pie, the wretched man who is 
 their subject often incurred in infancy the 
 penal visitation of hickory, and brought the 
 hairs of an aged grandmother with sorrow to 
 the grave. He wasted in gormandizing Pie 
 those precious hours which should have been 
 devoted to study ; and in the end, not only 
 failed to graduate at West Point, but even to 
 marry a niece of the late Daniel Webster. Pie 
 darkened his mind, stupefied his faculties, pa- 
 ralysed his energy. Pie forced him to abandon 
 a lucrative and honourable career for an un- 
 successful whaling voyage from Cape Cod. 
 Pie drove him into exile. Deadened to all 
 the finer moral feelings by this ungovernable 
 lust for Pic, he obtained, under false and
 
 218 Schenectady, 
 
 fraudulent pretences, a through ticket for Cali- 
 fornia by the Cornelius Vanderbilt line ; but, de- 
 tected in 'smouching-a-tom-cod' from the altar 
 of the Chinese temple in San Francisco, he 
 was disgracefully expelled the Golden State. 
 It was for purloining Pie — a digger's noon- 
 tide lunch — that he was subsequently ridden 
 on a rail out of the territory of Arizona. 
 Beggared, broken in health, he deserted his 
 wife and family, drew cheques upon wild-cat 
 banks, and voted on the Bell and Everett 
 ticket — all in consequence of Pie. At length, 
 after a course of ' shinning round the free 
 lunches' in quest of eleemosynary Pie, and 
 wolfing the hideous meal with Dead Eabbits, 
 Plug-uglies, and other unscrupulous politicians, 
 in the Fourth Ward, he was arrested in Phila- 
 delphia — being then located on Pine, two 
 blocks from Cedar — for passing bogus notes 
 on the Hide and Leather Bank, and was sent 
 to States Prison for ten years. All owing to 
 Pie. I tell the tale as it was told to me. It 
 may read very like a burlesque ; but there is 
 a substratum of sad truth in it. The late 
 illustrious Abernethy had a presentiment of 
 the ravages which Pie was making in the 
 American constitution, when he rebuked his 
 dyspeptic patient from beyond the sea with
 
 ■Schenectachj . 219 
 
 the gorging propensities of liis countrymen. 
 Mexico is said to owe her ruin to the game of 
 Monte ; and if Columbia does not abate her 
 fearful craving for Pie, the very direst future 
 may be augured for her. 
 
 I did not partake of Pie at Schenectady. I 
 thought I would take a walk about the city 
 instead. There was not much to be seen in 
 Schenectady. There is a terrible sameness 
 about American towns — a sameness which 
 very soon wearies, next appals, and finally 
 disheartens you from travelling backwards 
 and forwards in the States at all. Where is 
 the use, you ask, of halting at Utica or at 
 Syracuse ? Ciesar and Pompey are very much 
 alike ; so in the States are Cato and Dionysius. 
 When you have seen Utica you have seen 
 Syracuse, and Rochester is like both. Albany 
 is like Troy, and Troy like Albany. The 
 great cities, the metropolises, New York, 
 Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Chicago, New 
 Orleans, have something approaching a dis- 
 tinctive cachet and separate individuality ; 
 although, with the exception of the last-named 
 place, the side streets, branching from the 
 main thoroughfares, are distressingly alike ; 
 but the smaller towns seem to have been cast 
 in a mould, so much do they resemble one
 
 220 Schenectady. 
 
 another. The only thoroughly original city 
 I have yet seen north of Mason and Dixon's 
 line is Washington, and that is uninhabitable. 
 I suppose the native Americans, on the prin- 
 ciple of the shepherd who declared that he 
 knew every sheep in his flock, and that no 
 two had faces alike, are able to discriminate 
 between their towns, and that to them Spring- 
 field has a different type from Hartford, 
 Brooklyn from Jersey City, Newark from 
 Wilmington. That difference of type is to 
 me invisible. In our England, can you point 
 out two towns that are like one anotlier ? 
 W^ell, an American might declare that Man- 
 cli ester is like Oldham, and Oldham like 
 Preston ; that Bradford is like Leeds, and 
 Birmingham like Sheffield; but then they are 
 not to the manner born, and it is the shepherd 
 and sheep story over again. 
 
 Schenectady ! There are throughout the 
 North five hundred Schenectadys feeding like 
 one. A broad, dusty main thoroughfare, 
 bordered with trees and irregularly paved. No 
 three houses of the same size together ; but 
 tlie.same types of many-windowed factory, 
 tumbledown shanty, shingle villa white- 
 washed, and packing-case-looking shop of dun 
 brick, repeated over and over again ad nauseam.
 
 Schenedathj. 22 1 
 
 To the wliitewashed shingled villas green 
 Venetians. No knockers to the doors ; but the 
 bell-pulls and name-plates electro-silvered. At 
 some gates a ragged, dirty negress, dully 
 babbling with an Irish help — not ragged she, 
 but dirtier. High steps or ' stoops ' to the 
 private liouses, and towards evening the entire 
 family sitting, standing, or lounging there- 
 upon : the father, spectacles on nose, reading 
 the local newspaper, in which there is nothing 
 to read save advertisements, eight lines of 
 telegraphic despatches, mostly apocrj^phal, and 
 sixteen lines of editorial, setting forth that the 
 local's contemporar}^ — if it have one — is a liar 
 and scoundrel, and that its brother-in-law 
 suffered two years in the penitentiary for steal- 
 ing a horse; the young ladies, in grand evening 
 toilette, staring other young ladies who may 
 happen to pass out of countenance ; mamma, 
 grandmamma, and two or three maiden aunts 
 or acidulated cousins, knitting socks for the 
 Sanitary Commission ; and the younger 
 branches of the family yelling over contested 
 candy, beating upon drums, or — it" any of them 
 are girls, and above six years old — fanning 
 themselves and twirling their skirts in imi- 
 tation of their elders. I dare say, were you 
 rude enough to peep through the window at
 
 222 Sclienectady. 
 
 the table laid out for supper, you would find 
 there was Pie. To this add the jangling of 
 half a dozen pianofortes, and the familiar 
 strains of the waltz from Faust. In front of 
 the stores, on what should be the kerbstone, 
 but is in general only the boundary-line of the 
 gutter, there are at intervals posts and joists 
 extending to the first floors of the houses, and 
 intended to support awnings in hot weather. 
 It is only, however, the more liberal-minded 
 among the storekeepers who supply such 
 awnings for the benefit of the wayfarer. The 
 bare beams and uprights have a shabby and 
 comfortless look, but are eminently characte- 
 ristic of all American streets, giving to them a 
 mingled resemblance to the New Cut (Black- 
 friars end), London, the external Boulevards 
 of Paris, and the suburbs of Moscow. The 
 American streets have — I may have made the 
 observation before — a curiously Russian look. 
 This may be owing partially to so many of the 
 houses being built of wood, and next to the 
 multiplicity of signs. Signboards are generally 
 most prevalent among communities who can- 
 not read, and this is why the colonnades of the 
 Gostinnoi Dvors in Russian towns are so 
 profusely embellished with pictorial emblems 
 of the articles sold within. The unlettered
 
 Schenectady. 223 
 
 monjik knows at once, from the hat, or the 
 boot, or the tobacco-pipe painted on the door- 
 jamb, where to find the commodity of which 
 he is in quest. But every American can read 
 and write too ; whence, then, so many signs ? 
 First, I imagine, from old last-century English 
 habits — only look at the signs clustering in 
 Canaletto's picture of Northumberland House 
 — and the absence of any municipal restrictions, 
 in times more modern, forbidding the disfigure- 
 ment of the public way by unwieldy represen- 
 tations of handicrafts ; and lastly, from the 
 enormous and continuous German immigration. 
 The German, you know, can no more get on 
 without his sign than without his tobacco and 
 lager beer. At all events, in all the American 
 towns I have seen, everybody hangs out his 
 sicrn. The doctor has his : white letters on a 
 black plate, nailed to the wall of his place of 
 business. His consulting-room is called an 
 ' office.' I don't think he sees patients at his 
 own residence; it might shock his wife's nerves. 
 The lawyer puts forth a very big signboard 
 indeed. ' Jabez C. So-and-so, Attorney, No- 
 tary Public, and Counsellor-at-Law.' Another 
 practitioner's sign informs the public that he 
 is a 'justice of the peace,' and agent to boot 
 of an insurance company. Fancy Mr. Henry
 
 224 Schenectady. 
 
 or Mr. Knox doing a little business for the 
 West Diddlesex or the Anglo-Bengalee in 
 their spare time ! 
 
 But these are only the written signs. Their 
 name is legion. Everybody writes, or prints, 
 or paints up what he has to sell, in order that 
 there may be no mistake. ' Nails, spikes, 
 screws,' cries the ironmonger. ' Corn and feed,' 
 cries the cornchandler. ' Flour, pork, and 
 fish,' says another dealer. Odd trades com- 
 mingle. The butcher, who calls his store a 
 'meat market,' sells fruit and vegetables as 
 well as joints. The grocer transacts business 
 in whisky and rum, and in all likelihood has a 
 private bar in his back yard, or down in his 
 cellar. The druggist dispenses ' solace tobacco' 
 and 'Excelsior chewing gum, highly flavoured.' 
 You may buy bonnets at the bookseller's, and 
 sweetmeats at the dry goods store. Were 
 Mother Hubbard to come a-marketing to 
 Schenectady for that Dog who was always 
 wanting something, and doing something else 
 preposterous and incongruous when she came 
 home, the Dame would be puzzled, I think, to 
 find all her tradespeople as she wanted them. 
 Then come the signs which have form and sub- 
 stance, which are carved, and gilt, and painted. 
 Their name, too, is legion. Wooden watches,
 
 Sell en ectady. 225 
 
 five feet in diameter, and their hands always at 
 a quarter to twelve — or a quarter of twelve in 
 Yankee parlance ; monstrous jack -boots with 
 scarlet tops ; bonnets that might suit a maid 
 of honour to the Queen of Brobdingnag-; hats 
 of all colours, such as the Giant Bolivoracj 
 might wear ; padlocks and keys of preternatu- 
 ral size ; boluses and syringes, eye-glasses and 
 telescopes, all of abnormal proportions. Our 
 old friend Sir William Wallace, or Kob Itoy, 
 or Looney M'Twolter, or Saunders M'Gilli- 
 cuddy, you know ; the snuftshop Highlander 
 stands in front of the tobacconist's, his open 
 mull in one hand, the thumb of the other 
 poised in air, noseward, with that perpetual 
 pinch of sneeshing which he is never to snuff 
 up. The Scotchman is a relic of the old pro- 
 vincial times ; a closer local colouring is visible 
 at the rival tobacconist's, who has a life-sized 
 figure of the lovely Pocahontas, tall feathers 
 in her head, a bow and arrow in her hand, her 
 exquisite features very copper-coloured indeed, 
 and war-painted in the liveliest manner. These 
 big, uncouth, and grotesque effigies and objects 
 were irresistibly suggestive to me of the pro- 
 perty-room of a London theatre during the 
 run of a pantomime. 
 
 An Irish carman, driving a dray, with palings 
 
 15
 
 226 ^cheneciady, 
 
 to its edges, like a Smithfield pen on wheels ; 
 one of the two dandies of Schenecta.dy in a 
 trotting waggon so bright and shiny with 
 varnish, and whose big wheels revolve so 
 rapidly as to remind you of a cock-pheasant 
 getting np— whir! there is a blaze of splen- 
 dour, and then the astonishing vision is gone; 
 a knot of young town hobbledehoys, or 'gawks/ 
 in felt hats and grey suits, chewing, swearing, 
 and indulging in horseplay at the street corner ; 
 two young ladies, one apparently nineteen, the 
 other twenty, coming home from school, with 
 their satchels full of books and their japanned 
 tin lunch-boxes swinging to straps — they go 
 to school to a master, and he ferules them till 
 they are fourteen or fifteen ; the never-failing, 
 weasel-faced, ferret-eyed newsboy vending his 
 quires; many more hotels than you would 
 imagine there were guests for, all dirty, all 
 full, all with piazzas in front, in which are 
 seated men in their shirt- sleeves, loafing, read- 
 ing newspapers, and spitting, and with their 
 feet perched on the rails before them — a pair 
 of soles, in fact, looking out of every other win- 
 dow; the 'City Bakery,' where I observe they 
 sell wax dolls; the 'Photographic Hall,' to 
 judge from the frame in front of which every 
 inhabitant of Schenectady had had his or her
 
 Schenectadij. 227 
 
 portrait taken half a dozen times; the 'Daguer- 
 rian Rooms,' a rival establishment, with a life- 
 size photograph of the negro boy who carries 
 about the operator'sshow-boards — young Sambo 
 grinning hugely, as though in delight at being 
 photographed for nothing ; a wounded soldier, 
 on crutches; an idiot, more than half 'tight,' 
 who hangs about the bars and the railway- 
 station ; some flaming woodcuts, announcing 
 the approaching advent of a Hippotheatron — 
 in plainer EngHsh, a horse-riding circus — with 
 that admired equestrian and favourite, Miss 
 Carrie Smithers ; any number of white sten- 
 cilled laudations of 'Sozodont' and 'Plantation 
 Bitters,' 'Brandreth' and 'Herrick's' Pills, and 
 'Old Doctor Eagabosh, the world-celebrated 
 female's physician;' ice-cream saloons — in win- 
 ter devoted to the sale of oysters. This is 
 what I saw in an hour and forty minutes. 
 This is Schenectad}^, and any other American 
 town you like to mention. Qiienpensez-vous? 
 A word or two more. Milliners' shops are 
 far more numerous than they would be in a 
 town of the same extent in Europe ; and both 
 the newspapers and the coloured plates of the 
 fashions are brought down to the very latest 
 dates. Our cousins must know how the world 
 wags, how stocks rule, and how sleeves are 
 
 15—2
 
 228 Schenectady. 
 
 worn — or die. I cannot see any public build- 
 ings. The railway station is a scandalous 
 shed, the bridge is in a disgraceful state, and 
 this is the case pretty nearl}" all over the 
 Union. Liberal almost to lavishness in their 
 private transactions, the Americans are in 
 their corporate and municipal capacity most 
 laughably stingy. With the exception of the 
 whited sepulchres in Washington, and the 
 Girard Asylum in Philadelphia, there is not a 
 public building in any American city which 
 can cope with those in second-rate Mexican 
 towns; 'whQxe^^ private edifices of great mag- 
 nificence abound throughout the North. Our 
 cousins 'don't see' the fun of building for the 
 public weal or for posterity. That the Central 
 Park at New York should ever have been laid 
 out and the ornamental brido^es built is a marvel 
 which I should like Mr. Calvert Vaux to ex- 
 plain. Habitually our cousins wont spend a 
 cent to beautify their cities ; or, if any money 
 is voted or raised for such a purpose, some 
 ingenious lobbyer steals it ht medio, and the 
 scheme is dwarfed and dwindles down to the 
 meanest proportions. 
 
 As I trudge towards the station, I hear a 
 locomotive in the distance, screaming and bell- 
 ringing, — I see a railway train puffing and
 
 Sckcnectady, 229 
 
 sporting along tlie open street, with the chil- 
 dren playing almost underneath the wheels — 
 another characteristic of American towns. I 
 pass a mean little wooden building, which 
 miu'ht be the office of a wharfinojer in a small 
 way, or a steamboat ticket-collector, or a coal 
 agent. But a tattered American banner hangs 
 over the portal. There are the usual posters 
 up, 'Now, gentlemen, if you wish to join a 
 heavy artillery regiment, fall in.' 'Boys, 
 attention. Highest bounties given.' This is 
 an enrolment office and recruiting rendezvous. 
 Ensign Plume is within, sitting at a table, 
 twisting his ' goatee,' and chewing for want of 
 thought; and Sergeant Kite has just taken 
 two promising-looking 'boys' into an adjoining 
 grog-shop to drink. Even in this slow-going 
 little Schenectady we are not destitute of signs 
 of that America which is in the Midst of War. 
 
 ^"1^ 
 
 &#w
 
 X. 
 
 A POODLE AT THE PEOW. 
 
 T KNOW,' he seemed to say, 'that foiir- 
 leggedness is at a discount in this 
 amphibious place. I am aware that Lord 
 Byron is dead, and that nobody since his lord- 
 ship's time has ridden a horse along the 
 Eiva de' Schiavoni. I have been told by an 
 uncle of mine, that in the last century the 
 idea, in the superlatively sarcastic degree, of a 
 sinecure, was that of Master of the Horse to 
 the Chief of the late Eepublic. I apprehend 
 that the old lion on the pillar yonder, and on 
 the myriad bas-reliefs, brooches, and panels in 
 mosaic and fresco besides, was furnished with 
 wings through a preconceived conviction on 
 the part of his designers that legs could be of 
 no possible use to him. I grant that I might 
 be more welcome were I a dolphin or a 
 mermaid, or a Nereid, or a Triton, or some-
 
 A Poodle at iht' Proic. 231 
 
 thing scaly, or watery, or finny. At all 
 events, the force of circumstances has driven 
 me here. Let me put in a plea in favour of 
 the four-leggecl creation. You wont see many 
 quadrupeds during your stay in these parts. 
 I will walk on my hind-legs, if you insist upon 
 it, but don't utterly disdain my fore-paws. 
 Mayn't I come too ?' 
 
 There was no refusing a poodle so remark- 
 ably well-behaved and so scrupulously clean 
 shaven. He had an insinuating way about 
 him that disarmed objection. Grave yet 
 urbane, learned yet devoid of pedantry, polite 
 but not servile, he was a pattern to all possible 
 poodles. Pray understand, to begin with, 
 that he was not a Frenchman. I was rashly 
 about to address him as Monsieur, but haply 
 reflected, and, accosting him as Signore, asked 
 him when he was last at Bologna ? No grin- 
 ning, chattering, mopping, mowing Parisian 
 mountebank was he. His ears and tail gave 
 emphasis to the parlance of his eyes, but in 
 gesticulation he never indulged. There was 
 nothing theatrical, nothing tawdry in his ap- 
 pearance or demeanour. They have gotten a 
 dreadful habit in the French capital of stain- 
 ing their poodles all over with sky-blue or 
 rose-pink. Had this Italian poodle been
 
 .232 A Foodie at the Prow. 
 
 subjected to such an affront, he would have 
 died, I believe. Yes ; he was a scholar and a 
 gentleman. He took every morning, it was 
 easy to notice, his salt-water bath, then had a 
 douche of the warm soft fresh, and was 
 ultimately lathered with fine soap, and shaved. 
 His frills, and tuckers, and whiskers remaining 
 after the application of the razor, were not 
 crisped and pinched into impertinent and ob- 
 trusive gauffres, but hung in soft and flossy 
 curls, the Order of the Snowy Fleece, about 
 him. His shaven parts blushed with a deli- 
 cate, creamy carnation. He had never had 
 sore eyes. His nose only seemed to have 
 been tipped with a little patent blacking. 
 His nails were beautifully pared, filbert 
 fashion. For all ornament, he had a slender 
 collar of blue silk, fastened with a golden shell. 
 He had a gentle way of pattering about, and 
 hesitating when he found liis front paw on a 
 slippery part of the boat. He had a persuasive 
 way of wagging, or rather of mildly undulating 
 his tufted tail. No violence, no haste, no 
 irrational uncertainty, but a deliberate, well- 
 weighed expression of complacenc3^ Had the 
 old lion on the pillar wagged hh tail, he could 
 not have done it more majestically. At a 
 glance^ you saw this poodle to be intelligent.
 
 A Poodle at the Protc. 233 
 
 well educated, and refined — a poodle that had 
 seen men, if not cities, and marked their 
 ways. 
 
 He was larger than the ordinary run of 
 poodles, but an inch shorter than a remarkable 
 specimen of the breed in question I once knew 
 called Neno. He was from Bergamo. He 
 visited this country in 1859, but getting into 
 some trouble throuirh a wdiimsical habit of 
 pulling off people's hats in H3^de Park, and 
 throwing them into the Serpentine, he was 
 compelled to return to the Continent. He 
 subsequently joined the army, and has now, I 
 believe, the honour of marching at the head 
 of the Hundred and First Eegiment of the 
 Line. 
 
 I knew this present poodle to be an animal, 
 a brute beast, soulless and futureless ; at least, 
 my miserable human conceit taught me thus 
 to regard him. He had no reason, of course ; 
 only instinct. He could know no pleasures 
 beyond the gratification of his sensual ap- 
 petites. And yet, all brute as he was, he did 
 not look like a poodle that would over-eat 
 himself. He was, patently, a total abstainer 
 from intoxicating liquors. He was a brute, 
 but he didn't bark at passing strangers ; and 
 from the little I saw of him on dry land, he
 
 234 A Poodle at the Proic. 
 
 was not prone to association with low clogs. 
 It was very strange, and very irreverent, and a 
 vagabond kind of thought altogetlier, but the 
 more I considered him, the more I grew to 
 deem that, to be complete, he ought to have a 
 pair of gold-rimmed spectacles across his nose, 
 a neatly puckered frill with a diamond brooch in 
 his bosom, a snuff-box, or a golden-headed cane 
 in one paw, and a sprinkling of hair-powder on 
 his pate. Thus accoutred, he would have been, 
 to me, the image of a grave, wise, cultivated 
 physician of the old school — no solemn hum- 
 bug, no voluble quack, but a sapient, polished 
 medico. The allusion was enhanced by the 
 fact of there being at the corner of the canal, 
 where I took oars, a cool and shady chemist's 
 shop ; and I fancied that he had been writing 
 prescriptions in the Pharmacy, and had now 
 come out for a mouthful of the sea breeze, or to 
 see a patient at the Giudecca. He was not, 
 however, attached to the compounder of drugs. 
 He was the friend and Mentor of the boatman 
 I had just engaged. He, the boat, and the 
 boatman, belonged to each other, and made up 
 one Jiarmonious whole. As I have noted, he 
 appeared as a matter of courtesy, to ask my 
 permission to be of the party for a stroll on the 
 Canalazzo ; and, that being granted, he tripped
 
 A Poodle at the Prow. 235 
 
 blithely over the bulwarks fi-om the marble 
 landing-stairs to the carpeted keelson, and was 
 of us directly. 
 
 'Aid, ciui?' said the boatman. 
 
 Observe, that to the ' qui ' I have appended 
 a note of interrosration. The inflection of the 
 boatman's tone justifies me in the act. It 
 was not a brutal command — a savao-e ' come 
 here !' It was a kindly query as to where he 
 intended to sit. ' Qui ' meant the afterpart, 
 behind my cabin. The poodle did not shake 
 his head. Instinct did not go so far as that ; 
 but his tail deflected in the wag negative. He 
 elected to sit at the prow, and at that carved 
 and flddle-headed promontory he took his 
 station immediately over against the bench 
 where I was reclinino*. The boatman called 
 him ' Alci,' whence I conjectured that the 
 poodle's name was Alcibiades. 
 
 The Avater-side in England is associated 
 with noise, scurrilit}-, and extortion. The 
 waterman you have hired makes up his mind 
 to clieat vou. The Tom Tug's v^ho have failed 
 in securing you, curse their colleague and his 
 fare as the wherry pushes off'. You depart 
 from a shore of mud, ordure, broken bottles, 
 and fragm.ents of potter}'. Abroad even, I 
 have found the canotiers at Asnieres a rufiianl}'
 
 236 A Poodle at the Proio. 
 
 crew, and the red-sliirtecl and bearded Cliarons 
 who ferry you over the Neva little better than 
 savages. Here we went off in cheerful tran- 
 quillity. In a place where everybody must 
 take a boat, competition is robbed of its 
 feverish fierceness. If it be Giacomo's turn 
 this time, it will be Paolo's within five or ten 
 minutes. Extortion does not obtain to any 
 great extent. You cannot be ten minutes in 
 the city without somebody telling you that the 
 water-fare for the first hour (single-oared) is a 
 franc, and for every succeeding hour half that 
 sum, and that for five francs you may have 
 a boat and boatman for the entire day. As 
 for the extra gratuity, the 'buonamano,' a 
 couple of soldi will suffice, and a hundred soldi 
 go to a florin. The only little ' pull ' pos- 
 sessed by the boatman lies in the franc in these 
 latitudes being an imaginary coin, and in the 
 quarter florin, which he tells you is worth only 
 half a franc, representing about a third more. 
 Altogether, the financial state of things is 
 curious. You see in actual circulation nothino^ 
 but Austrian florins, zwanzigers, kreuzers, and 
 soldi ; but the accounts are all kept in francs 
 and centimes — the Italian lire and centesimi. 
 In adopting this mode of reckoning, perhaps, 
 the people cherish a mournful chimera that
 
 A Poodle at the Prow. 237 
 
 they liave still some kind of union vvitli tlie 
 beloved and distant land — the land beyond the 
 lag-unes and the Qudrilateral — the land where 
 human speech and action are free — the land 
 where Victor Emmanuel, the fighting- king v.ho 
 tells no lies, reigns by the grace of God and 
 the national will, over twenty-two millions of 
 Italians who can call their souls their own. 
 
 Back, then. I stretched myself upon the 
 cushions in full enjoyment of the long-desired 
 at last attained haven ; and the poodle sat 
 outside the door calmly contemplating me, his 
 wise head a little on one side. No Mordecai 
 in the gate he, full of minatory remonstrance ; 
 the rather a cheerful harljinger, a pleasant 
 cicerone, an obliging gentleman-usher, mur- 
 muring, ' Welcome to the wonderful city that 
 is moored on the bosom of the salt, salt sea.' 
 ' Poodle,' I said, ' you and the boatman shall 
 be my guides to-day, and I will have no 
 other.' 
 
 In this city of a hundred and seventy-five 
 thousand inhabitants I did not know one living 
 soul. Does it matter, when every instant you 
 can commune with millions of the mighty 
 dead ? In a churchyard you seldom feel lonely. 
 You can almost dispense with the clergyman's 
 white pony, quietly browsing on parishioners
 
 23S A Poodle at the Prow. 
 
 that have sprouted up into salad. The dead 
 by daylight are not such very bad company. 
 If their tombstones lie, you can gird at them 
 for their fibbing, and they have never a word 
 to answer. You can pick out some truthful 
 tombs now and then, of good old dames and 
 yeomen who in their lives-time you feel sure 
 were friendly, and merry, and single-hearted. 
 Beyond a poodle, you require nothing more 
 that has life in it, during your first day in 
 Venice. For a season turn away from the 
 quick. This place belongs to the dead. The 
 dead alive, the modern Venetians, have buried 
 their dead-departed — their history, their wealth, 
 their happiness, their love, in stately mauso- 
 leums of many - coloured marbles. These 
 sepulchres are not whited. They have the 
 reverent hue of age. Time has beaten upon 
 them with his wing, and the strong pinion has 
 worn down the sharp edges and blunted the 
 chisel's fine tracery; but the marble is, after 
 all, too hard for his scythe, and Time hacks at 
 the palaces in vain. 
 
 I lighted a cigarette, and was lazy, and not 
 ashamed of myself; activity would be almost 
 a crime in this voiceless city. Industry ! — 
 where was the use of being industrious? 
 People don't come here to work, but to idle.
 
 A Poodle at the Prow. 239 
 
 From the loom there hangs a gorgeous piece 
 of Venice stuff, cunningly 'broidered, shot with 
 o-old and silver thread. But it is a fragment, 
 rent and frayed. Warp and woof are tarnished 
 and faded. And the loom is motionless, and 
 the shuttle flies no more, and the weaver has 
 sickened and died. 
 
 Thus having comfortably settled myself, and 
 in reply to the boatman's inquiry as to whither 
 I wished to be conducted, having informed 
 him that my view did not extend beyond a 
 ' piccolo giro' of an hour's duration — in other 
 words, that he might go anywhere he liked 
 about Venice, w^hich he construed into a stroll 
 from the Palazzo Corner to the Eialto and 
 back again — I had full leisure to inspect the 
 apartment of which I had become a denizen. 
 Is there, can there be, anything new in the 
 way of description to be written about the 
 interior of a gondola ? The gondola is jomv 
 first acquaintance in Venice, and it is your 
 last. It brings you from the railway terminus 
 to your hotel on 3^our arrival, and it takes you 
 to the rail or the steamer when 3'ou depart ; 
 consequently the tourist is usually as minute in 
 his notes of its appearance and peculiarities as 
 of that of the packet-ship which conveys him 
 across the Atlantic.
 
 240 J Poodle at the Proic. 
 
 The outward gondola — tlie boat itself— it 
 would be impertinent to describe. See Turner, 
 see Eoberts, see Stanfield, see Cooke, see Hol- 
 land, see Pyne, see Carl Haag, see Finden's 
 tableaux, see Heath's Landscape Annual, see 
 the delightful pictures of Mr. John Eogers 
 Herbert, before he took to painting St. Lawrence 
 on the gridiron, and St. Bartholomew being 
 flayed alive. For the gondolas of the past, see 
 Canaletto. The only quarrel I have with the 
 admirable artists just named — always excepting 
 Antonio da Canal, who never gave vent to his 
 imagination, and if he saw dirt and ugliness 
 in Venice, painted the dirty and the ugly in 
 rude juxtaposition to the pure and beautiful — 
 is in the persistency with which they strive to 
 make stay-at-home Englishmen believe that 
 gay-coloured gondolas are at all common in 
 Venice. There never was a greater error. Mr. 
 Turner's gondolas were of all the colours of 
 the rainbow. It is true that he might have 
 excused himself on the score that their sides 
 are generally of polished wood, and that his 
 radiant hues were merely the reflection of the 
 sunrise and the sunset. But the tourist, who 
 looks for truth, knows that the pervading hue 
 of the Venetian gondola is deep funereal black ; 
 and tliat the mortuary appearance of the craft
 
 A Poodle at the Prow. 241 
 
 is lieiglitcned by the ebony-like carvings, by 
 tlie metal prow and ruUocks, wliicli liave an 
 odd guise of being made of coffin-plates beaten 
 out, by the brazen knobs and beads and plates 
 on the door, and by the serried rows of 
 black tufts, like sable ostrich plumes stunted 
 in their growth on tlie housing over the 
 tilt. 
 
 The boatmen who go out to sea, who coast 
 along the Adriatic seaboard, and sometimes 
 cross the gulf to the Turkish littoral, are 
 brightly clad enough, and delight in coloured 
 striped shirts, scarlet and sky-blue caps, sashes, 
 and other accessories of salt-water dandjdsm. 
 Picturesque and bizarre creatures they still 
 are, barefooted and open-chested, and they 
 lounge and sprawl and grovel in the most 
 romantic attitudes all about and over St. Mark's 
 Place, and the Mole and the Riva, and every 
 inch of quay or stairs that offers room for 
 lazing upon. They are often ragged, but in 
 justice I must admit that they are all very 
 clean, and have a manlier, worthier look than 
 the aquatic scamps who decorate the Chiaja at 
 Naples. Your gondolier is quite another 
 character. I was prepared for all kinds of 
 disappointments in Venice — from the romantic 
 point of view — and underwent, as it turned 
 
 IG
 
 242 A Poodle at the Prow. 
 
 out, very few ; for tlie real Venice is, to my 
 mind, twenty times more astounding than the 
 ideal one ; but I cannot avert the acknowledg- 
 ment that the actual gondolier is a sad de- 
 stroyer of illusions. He is not the least like 
 the personage you fondly imagined him to be. 
 His ordinary head covering is a felt hat of the 
 pattern known as wide-awake. He wears 
 no sash. He patronizes a shooting-jacket. 
 His pantaloons are by no means out of the 
 common. The sole romantic feature in his 
 attire is a negative one — the general absence 
 of shoes and stockings. My particular gon- 
 dolier — he of the poodle — was a dandy; but in 
 what did his dandyism consist? In a laced 
 front to his shirt — such a shirt as I could have 
 purchased for twelve francs fifty in the Passage 
 des Panoramas, Paris ; in a resplendent watch- 
 guard, and a bunch of charms. I was wofully 
 disappointed. I turned to the poodle, seeking 
 consolation. He flapped his tail against the 
 prow, with the wag mournful. ' What would 
 you have?' he seemed to ask. 'Venice is 
 not what it used to be.' I turned with a 
 sigh ; when a ray of relief shot through me. 
 The gondolier wore a pretty cameo in the band 
 of his wide-awake. That was something. 
 Presently I gave him a cigarette, and thanking
 
 A Poodle at the Protc. 243 
 
 me with the frank and clignifiecl courtes}- 
 Avliicli it strikes me favourably distinguishes 
 the Italians from the French, he inserted my 
 gift in a meerschaum tube with an amber 
 mouthpiece. I am afraid the tube was made 
 at Vienna ; but it bore the Lion of St. Mark 
 carved in the meerschaum, and that was some- 
 thing more. 
 
 Goethe, fifty years ago, Byron and Rogers, 
 forty years ago, noticed that the gondoliers 
 had ceased to sing. They are, indeed, songless. 
 I never heard, when in company with the 
 poodle or elsewhere, any barcaroles, any ritor- 
 nellas, any recitations from Tasso or Ariosto. 
 The gondolier is, however, by no means mute. 
 He is an exceedingly merry fellow, and for 
 centuries has been renowned as a wag. A 
 thick volume might be collected of the droll 
 sayings of these Hansom cabbies of the sea. 
 The stranger, it is true, does not understand 
 much of his facetia?, for he converses 
 mainly in the soft and flowing Venetian 
 dialect, which dulcifies ' padre' into ' pare,' 
 'madre' into 'mare,' and abbreviates ' casa' 
 to ' ca.' Then he has his professional gon- 
 dolier's language, the origin, structure, and 
 syntax of which must alike remain mysterious 
 to those who are not to the Venetian manner 
 
 IG— 2
 
 244 A Poodle at the Frow. 
 
 born. The most salient points in the vocabu- 
 lary seemed to me : 
 
 First. ' Ayehehi !' This is when he ap- 
 proaches the corner of a canal ; it is intended 
 as a warning to any unseen gondolier who 
 may be coming round tlie said corner. 
 
 Next. 'Tail' or 'Tahyi!' This is when 
 he has turned the corner, and is an aviso to 
 any comrade who is close on his heels. 
 
 Last. ' Allajevaismayfachayeh-eh-eh !' ad 
 libitum. This is a very complex and pro- 
 longed sound, like the sweep of an oar, and is 
 employed when a gondolier wishes to cut 
 through a group of boats collected together, 
 in order to land. As the cry is prolonged, 
 they divide, and allow him to pass. How 
 these sounds are spelt, or what they really 
 mean, I have not the remotest notion ; and I 
 question whether the gondoliers themselves 
 are much better informed. It is probable that 
 their forefathers have cried ' A3^chelii ' and 
 ' Tayhi,' and * Allajevaismayfachayeh-eh-eh,' 
 ever since the days of blind old Dandolo, if not 
 longer. 
 
 Fouling is almost unknown in the naviga- 
 tion of the canals. The gondoliers drive their 
 boats, if the term will be permitted me, with 
 exquisite skill and accuracy. When, in rare
 
 A Poodle at the Proio. 245 
 
 instances, a slight bump occurs, tliere is a 
 slangin<^ match of moderate intensity between 
 the gondoliers. There is one form of objur- 
 gation invariably and plentifully made use of. 
 
 It is ' Figlio di ' I need not particularize. 
 
 Have you never observed in what terms of 
 reverential affection foreigners are accustomed 
 to speak of their mothers ; and have you never 
 observed how ready they are to take away the 
 characters of other people's mothers when they 
 are quarelling ? 
 
 I was Cockney enough, just now, to speak 
 of the irondoliers as the Hansom cabbies of the 
 sea. When you have been to A'enice, my 
 hypercritical friend, and have gone through 
 your goivlola-apprenticesliip, you may arrive 
 at the confession that between the gondola 
 and the Hansom, the gondolier and the cabb}-, 
 there are many points of similarity. First, in 
 the good driving. Next, in the lact that you 
 don't see the driver, but occasionally hear his 
 witticisms behind you. Thirdly, in your 
 having a look-out straight ahead, and side 
 prospects from the two small windows. And 
 lastly, there will scarcely fail to come over you 
 the impression that the gracefully tapering 
 prow, of which the head, looked straight at, 
 seems no thicker than the blade of a carving-
 
 246 A Poodle at the Prow. 
 
 knife, forms, not the end of a boat, but the 
 head and shoulders of a fleet black horse, in- 
 telligent, obedient to the will of the charioteer. 
 Only, you never get the charioteer's whip in 
 your face, as is sometimes your misfortune in 
 a Hansom. 
 
 But the poodle at the prow is scanning me 
 reproachfully, and I leave exterior objects to 
 turn to the inside of my gondola. It is two 
 o'clock in the afternoon — I don't mean by 
 Venetian time, which seems to be regulated 
 anyhow — but by my watch, which is set by 
 the meridian of Munich, in Bavaria. It is 
 very hot. By-and-by, at sunset, the sea will 
 be of a deep purple, the sky of an intense 
 azure, but both are now as sheets of burnished 
 gold. But I am as cool as a cucumber inside 
 the gondola. The windows are slightly drawn 
 on one side, and hot as is the sun, a cool sea- 
 breeze comes stealina: throuofh. Ah ! that 
 breeze, how well I remember it a week after- 
 wards at Milan, howling in the agonies of the 
 toothache. The cabin of the gondola is a 
 httle black chamber with a high-coved ceiling. 
 It is panelled with rich carved work. There 
 is room in it for three persons to sit at ease on 
 the soft black leather cushions trimmed with 
 black lambswool ; Imt I desire no company.
 
 A Foodie at the Prow. 247 
 
 There are a couple of mirrors in carved ebony 
 frames, garnished with gilt bosses. The door 
 is a wonder of carved work. There are arm- 
 rests, and leg-rests, and ever}^ enticement to 
 be lazy. The transverse bencli has a raised 
 and sloping back, like an arm-chair, but the 
 space between that and the tilt is covered only 
 by the pendant portion of the black awning, 
 which you can lift at will, to converse with the 
 gondolier. In one instance only is the sable 
 rule departed from. The carpet, which extends 
 from stem to stern, is of a lively polychromatic 
 pattern. 
 
 In winter-time, of course, the cabin door is 
 shut, the curtains are drawn, a false panel is 
 inserted in the back, and all things are made 
 snug and comfortable. In summer, the black 
 awnin": forms the most deliirhtful of sun-shades. 
 But why is it black? Tell me, Venetian 
 antiquarians. Tell me, chatty correspondents 
 of Notes and Queries. I was always given to 
 understand that black absorbed heat, and that 
 white was the only wear for hot climates. I 
 stretched out my arm and touched the roof of 
 the cabin, but it was cool. J)o they put 
 saturated felt, or wet cloths, between it and 
 the awning? 
 
 Many travellers, on their first arrival in this
 
 248 A Poodle at the Froic. 
 
 enchanted town, and in tlieir eager impatience 
 to drink in its beauties, rush from the cabin, 
 and sit or stand in the open, in the forepart of 
 the boat, drinking up the glorious perspective 
 which surrounds them. That I think is a 
 mistake. The windows, the open-doorway, 
 form jncfure-frames, and in tliose frames are 
 set, in gentle succession, all the marvellous 
 pictures the world has been wondering at for 
 centuries. There is the Grimani Palace, there 
 the Pesaro, there the Yendramin, there the 
 Dogana, there Santa Maria della Salute ; there, 
 by Jove ! there's the Rialto, which is not 
 unlike the Burlington Arcade on arches. 
 
 ' Signor Antonio, many a time and oft ' 
 
 but Signor Antonio politely asks me whether 
 we shall turn back, and I say him 3'ea, and 
 bid him land me at the Mole. 
 
 All this time the poodle has been regarding, 
 now me, and now the panorama of panoramas, 
 on either side. The latter he inspects with 
 an air that is accustomed, but not stale. One 
 does not grow tired of Venice. In the cortile 
 of the Ducal Palace you may see the common 
 people eyeing every day, with reverent astonish- 
 ment ever fresh, the wonderful statues, and 
 friezes, and bas-reliefs. The poodle looked at 
 the palaces as though he were acquainted with
 
 A Pood/c at the Prow. 249 
 
 them all, but was as fond of them as when he 
 first set eyes on Venice and sat at the prow of 
 a gondola. Oh, poodle, how long? Did he 
 helonir to the mainland — was he ever at 
 
 Bologna ? AVas he ever no ; I spurii the 
 
 thono'ht. He could never have been an Aus- 
 trian poodle. The gondolier would have tipped 
 him into the sea, and held him down with the oar 
 till he was drowned, had the faintest suspicion 
 come across him that Alcibiades was a Tedesco. 
 The poodle, and I, and the gondolier came 
 slowly back to the Mole. And there I paid 
 the boatman a little more than his fare, and 
 left him pleased. I shook paws with Alci- 
 biades, and left him pleased, too, if the jocund 
 wag of his tail was to be accepted as evidence. 
 I felt that I had made a friend ; and solitary 
 travellers are always privileged to form two 
 kinds of friendships. To be on talking terms 
 with dogs and with little children you require 
 no letters of introduction. And then I traversed 
 the Mole, and finding myself between the two 
 great columns guarding the approach to the 
 Piazzetta, with the Doge's Palace on one side 
 and the Zecca on the other, I lost my senses 
 at once, and was whirled away into the midst 
 of Venetian life, and was as mad as a March 
 hare for the rest of the week.
 
 XI. 
 
 THE BLEEDINa DIAMOND. 
 
 TT was in tlie early part of the eighteenth 
 -^ century that the Grand - Duchy of 
 Schweinhundhausen, a territory situated as 
 you are aware, geographically accomplished 
 sir, to the north-eastward of the territory of 
 Weissnichtwo, had for its Sovereign Ludwig 
 Adolf the Seventy-fourth, surnamed the Ter- 
 rible. He was an awful tyrant. The total 
 number of his subjects amounted to about ten 
 thousand, all of whom, from the baby in arms 
 to the alms old woman of eighty, spinning at 
 the almshouse door, hated him with intense 
 cordiality. His family detested him with re- 
 markable unanimity. His eldest son. Prince 
 Ludwig, had been driven into banishment 
 many years before. Opinions were divided as 
 to whether his exile was due to his having 
 knocked down his father for kicking his
 
 The Bleeding Diamond. 251 
 
 mother, or to his papa having been detected in 
 sprinkling' some pretty white powder, which 
 glittered very much, over the Spartan ration 
 of sauerkraut, which formed the prince's daily 
 and solitary meal. At all events, he had been 
 comfortably tried for high treason in his ab- 
 sence, and executed in effigy ; while, to guard 
 against all contingencies, the whipping-post in 
 the market-place of Schweinhundhausen was 
 garnished with a permanent announcement 
 from the grand-ducal and paternal pen, offering 
 a reward of one hundred florins to whom- 
 soever should capture the condemned traitor, 
 Ludwig von Porkstein (the family name of the 
 Princes of Schweinhundhausen), dead or alive. 
 Friedrich Adolf, the second son, and usually 
 known as Arme Fritz, or poor Fred, had 
 merely been turned out of doors at the age of 
 sixteen, and was supposed to be serving as a 
 sergeant in the armies of the Kaiser. Dorothea 
 Adolfina, the eldest daughter, rendered despe- 
 rate by continual persecution, had run away 
 with Count Putz von Putzenburg, the penniless 
 younger son of a sovereign count, whose family 
 had for centuries been bitter foes to the house 
 of Porkstein. Ludwig Adolf the Seventy- 
 fourth had the fugitive and disobedient princess 
 duly cursed in the court chapel by Ober-Hof-
 
 25.2 The Weeding Diamond. 
 
 Precliger Dr. Bonassus, and liaving added his 
 paternal malison thereto, cut her picture to 
 shreds with a penknife, and forbidden her name 
 to be mentioned, under penalty of the pillory 
 and the spinning-house, by any grand-ducal 
 subject, felt comfortable. Of his large family, 
 then, there only remained at the Residenz of 
 Schweinhundhausen two young princesses, 
 who were fed on sauerkraut, kept in continual 
 terror, and whipped every Monday morning 
 by their governess, whether they deserved it 
 or not ; and a very small young prince, named 
 Carl Adolf, whom, somehow, his cruel father 
 did not dare to ill-treat, for he had his mother's 
 eyes ; and it was onl}' a week before his birth 
 that the poor grand-duchess (who died en 
 couches of little Carl) had looked with those 
 same eyes (after a horrible scene in the dining- 
 room of theEesidenz) uponLudwig the Seventy- 
 fourth, and gasped out : * You are my mur- 
 derer !' The ground-down population of 
 Schweinhundhausen used to say, that this tiny 
 younker was the only human being in the 
 grand-duchy who dared say that his soul was 
 his own. 
 
 Ludwig Adolf was a prince who did as he 
 liked, and nearly everything he had a liking 
 to was bad. Whenever he put on his yellow
 
 The Blcrduif/ Diamond. 253 
 
 stockings striped with black, it was a sign that 
 he meant mischief, and he put them on at 
 least three times a week. In his grand court 
 suit of yellow velvet, with the famous stock- 
 ings to match, his <^/(?o^-coloured ribbon of the 
 Grand-Ducal Order — pray observe the colour — 
 of the Pig and Whistle, and a monstrous white 
 periwig surmounting his swollen and violet- 
 stained countenance, he indeed merited his 
 sobriquet of the Terrible, and looked like a 
 gigantic wasp crossed with a Bengal tiger. 
 He had an army of one hundred and fifty men, 
 all clothed in flaming yellow striped with 
 black. He beat them unmercifully, but was 
 sometimes capriciously generous, and caroused 
 with them until imholy hours in the dining- 
 hall of the Residenz. He was very fond of 
 gambling, but woe be to the wretch who won 
 money of his Sovereign ! He was given to 
 deep drinking, but he had no mercy upon the 
 soldier whose eyes were inflamed, or whose 
 gait was unsteady on parade. To the halberds, 
 the picket, or the black-hole with him at once ! 
 He had invented a cat with thirteen tails for 
 the especial torture of his soldiers ; but a cane 
 was his famous instrument of correction. He 
 caned his lackeys, he caned his children (always 
 excepting little Carl), he caned the page who,
 
 254 The Bleeding Diamond. 
 
 with liis knees knocking together, presented 
 his mid-day beaker of Ehine wine to him ; he 
 caned the sentinel at tlie palace gate, who 
 always had the palsy when he presented arms 
 to Ludwig the Terrible, He would sally forth 
 in the morning with a well-caned aide-de- 
 camp, carrying horror and confusion vvdth him 
 all over Schweinhundhansen. The mothers 
 hid their children under the bed when his 
 saffron-coloured roquelaure was seen at the 
 end of the street ; the girls locked themselves 
 in their bedrooms ; the baker felt his oven 
 become icy ; the blacksmith shivered at his 
 forge. He would kick over the old women's 
 spinning-wheels and apple-stalls at the street 
 corners. He would burst into the taverns, 
 declare the measures were short, and cause all 
 the beer to be flung into the gutter. He 
 would invade the tribunals, thrust the Staats 
 Procurator from his seat, bully the Assessor, 
 and reverse the sentences, always on the side 
 of severity. A dreadful dumbness accom- 
 panied by a sinking of the heart into the 
 shoes, and a quivering of tlie lip took 
 place when he entered the schools and 
 bade the Magister point out to him the worst- 
 behaved boys. Then he would go home to the 
 Eesidenz and dine on spiced and fierj^ meats.
 
 The Bleeding Diamond. 255 
 
 oftentimes flinging the pLites and dislies at 
 the heads of the servants, or kicking his 
 secretary's and chamberhiin's shins under the 
 table. He ate like a shark, drank like a 
 hippopotamus, bellowed like a bull, swore like 
 a trooper, and then, until it was time to have 
 a carouse with his yellow-clad warriors, snored 
 like a pig. In short, Ludwig Adolf the Seventy- 
 fourth was an absolute monarch, and there were 
 a great many mouarchs as trumpery and as 
 tyrannical as he on these charming Ehine banks 
 in the early days of the eighteenth century. 
 
 He was very rich. In fact, when one is 
 absolute and has a good private revenue, aug- 
 mented by the power of taking what does not 
 belong to one ; and, moreover, when one takes 
 a good deal, wealth is a matter of course. 
 How many barrels full of gold Ludwigers, to 
 say nothing of thalers and florins, there were 
 in the cellar of the Residenz, I have never 
 heard ; but it was universally agreed that Lud- 
 wig Adolf was rich enough to buy all Putzen- 
 burg and Weissnichtwo, to say little of the 
 adjoining electorate of Kannnichtsagen, out- 
 and-out. 
 
 "When the British Parliament resolved upon 
 calling the illustrious House of Brunswick to 
 the throne of Great Britain, Prance, and Ire-
 
 25G The Bleeding Diamond. 
 
 land, and. when, on the death of Queen Anne, 
 the illustrious Kurfurst or Elector of Hanover 
 became George the First of England, mighty 
 dreams of ambition began to course through 
 the heated brain of Grrand-Duke Ludwis^. He 
 was on friendly terms with the Elector King. 
 He had drank deep, and played deeper still, 
 with him. His majesty had said all kinds of 
 flattering things to him ; why not, through 
 that august influence, now powerful in Ger- 
 mania, should not he exchange his duchy for 
 an electorate, for a kingdom ? or rather, why 
 should he not create one by aggrandizing him- 
 self at the expense of his neighbours — Putzen- 
 burg, and Weiss nicht wo, and Kannnichtsagen ? 
 
 ' It must be,' cried Ludwig Adolf, twist- 
 ing his red moustaches — I forgot to tell you 
 that a pair of red eyebrows, one of red eye- 
 lashes, and one of red moustaches, flamed be- 
 neath the white periwig — ' I have said it ; I 
 must send my brother of England the Grand 
 Cross of my order of the Pig and Whistle !' 
 
 ' Indeed, a sagacious, generous, and truly 
 grand-ducal thought,' murmured Mr. High 
 Chamberlain Rappfeugel, who was compelled 
 to come every evening to smoke a pipe and 
 drink strong waters for some hours in the 
 Presence, although tlie poor man drank no-
 
 The Bleeding Diamond. 257 
 
 thing stronger than barley-water at home, and 
 the mere odour of tobacco gave him hideous 
 quahns. 
 
 Ludwig Adolf could swallow any amount of 
 flattery, yet he frowned at this compliment 
 from the chamberlain. ' Grand-ducal, grand- 
 ducal,' he grumbled between his teeth, ' why 
 not kingly warum nicht, oh Grand-Duke of 
 Donkeys?' 
 
 Dr. Ober-Hof-Prediger Bonassus, who sat 
 on the other side, and who really liked his 
 pipe, was a better courtier. In a discreet under- 
 tone he characterized his sovereign's ideas as 
 * truly imperial.' He would have been safe 
 for a bishopric, had there been any episcopate 
 in Schweinhundhausen. 
 
 Ludwig Adolf was appeased. ' Yes,' he 
 continued, 'I shall send my master of the 
 ceremonies and introducer of ambassadors' — 
 (no diplomatists were ever accredited to the 
 grand-duchy, but that did not in the least 
 matter) — ' Von Schaffundkalben, to London, 
 with the gift to my brother Konig George. 
 But that you, oh chamberlain, are an incorri- 
 gible ass and dunderhead, I would confide the 
 mission to you.' 
 
 Mr. High Chamberlain bowed. ' Your 
 Mansuetude,' he ventured to remark, ' will 
 
 17
 
 258 Tlie Bleeding Diamond. 
 
 doubtless send the mnch-prized decoration in 
 gold/ 
 
 * In gold !' thundered Ludwig the Terrible. 
 *Cow, idiot, blockhead. Thinkest thou I am 
 a pauper, a miser? I shall send it in bril- 
 liants. The centre shall be composed of the 
 great Schweinsfleisch diamond. Let Abime- 
 lech Ben Azi, the Court Jew, be sent for, to 
 present himself here the first thing on the 
 morrow morning, or it will be the worse for 
 him.' 
 
 At the mention of the great Schweinsfleisch 
 diamond there was a buzz of amazement 
 mingled with terror among the courtiers. The 
 poor grand duchess, deceased, had brought this 
 celebrated gem as part of her wedding por- 
 tion. She had been a princess of Kaltbraten 
 Schweinsfleisch, hence the name of the jewel, 
 which was supposed to be the largest diamond 
 not alone in Grermany, but (as the Schwein- 
 hundhauseners fondly believed) in all Europe. 
 The surprise, therefore, of the court when they 
 heard that this priceless heirloom was to be 
 sent as a present to a foreign sovereign, may 
 be easily imagined. Their terror may be ac- 
 counted for when it is mentioned that the 
 Q-reat Schweinsfleisch diamond had ever been 
 held as a jewel of evil omen, bringing mis-
 
 Tlie Bleedhifj Diamond. 259 
 
 fortune upon all who were in any way con- 
 cerned with it. 
 
 Although Schweinhundhausen was a very 
 small town, it had, like most other Germanic 
 capitals at that epoch, its Jews' street, or 
 Judengasse. There dwelt the few Israelites who 
 contrived to shuffle through existence without 
 being skinned ahve by the exactions of Lud- 
 wig Adolf; and in the smallest, dirtiest house 
 of the whole Judengasse lived certainly, next 
 to the grand-duke, the richest man in Schwein- 
 hundhausen, Abimelech Ben Azi. He dealt 
 in old clothes, watches, money, china, tea and 
 coffee, snuff-boxes, anything you please ; but 
 he was also a most expert and accomplished 
 goldsmith and jeweller, and by virtue of the 
 last-named qualihcations had been promoted 
 to the rank of Court Jew. Ludwisr Adolf 
 was, on the whole, very gracious to Abimelech 
 Ben Azi, condescending to borrow a few thou- 
 sand florins from him at nominal interest from 
 time to time, not because he wanted the 
 money, but in order to let the Court Jew 
 know that he was, in his normal condition, a 
 person to be squeezed. 
 
 On the morrow morning, Abimelech, having 
 been duly summoned by a Court page, made 
 his appearance, not without fear and trembling, 
 
 17— z
 
 260 Tlie Bleeding Diamond. 
 
 at the Eesidenz ; for if tliere be one thing 
 more disagreeable than being called upon by 
 an absolute monarch, it is having to call upon 
 him. He was received by the high cham- 
 berlain, who, as he was in the habit of borrow- 
 ing his quarter's salary in advance — and 
 Ludwig Adolf always kept his courtiers three- 
 quarters in arrear, and made it high treason to 
 ask for cash — from the Court Jew, was tolerably 
 civil to him. In due time he was ushered 
 into the presence, and made the numerous and 
 lowly obeisances required by Schweinhund- 
 hausen etiquette. A cold chill, however, per- 
 vaded the spinal marrow of Abimelech Ben 
 Azi when he saw peeping from beneath the 
 dressing-gown of His Mansuetude (flame- 
 coloured taifety embroidered with crimson) 
 those direly renowned yellow stockings which, 
 whenever donned, were assumed to mean mis- 
 chief. 
 
 For a wonder, however, the terrible potentate 
 seemed unusually placable. Little Prince 
 Carl was playing at his feet, quite unmoved by 
 the sight of the flaming legs, and ever and 
 anon Ludwig Adolf would bestow a grin of 
 affection on his youngest born, which would 
 have been positively touching, had it not too 
 closely resembled the leer of a hyicna over
 
 The Bheding Diamond. 2G.I 
 
 some especially toothsome morsel of a shin- 
 bone of beef. 
 
 ' Mr. Court Jew,' said His Mansuetude, 
 ' what is the course of exchange ?' 
 
 Abimelcch Beu Azi began to falter out 
 something about thalers, florins, and marks 
 banco, making up his mind that he had been 
 bidden to the presence for the purpose of being 
 squeezed, when Ludwig Adolf stayed him 
 with a gracious movement of his hand. I say 
 gracious, because this prince seldom lifted his 
 hand, save to throw something, or to hit 
 somebody. 
 
 ' Mr. Court Jew,' he pursued, ' I have a 
 task for you to perform. That, if you fail in 
 performing it to ni}^ satisfaction the skin will 
 be removed from the nape of your neck to the 
 sole of your foot, is, I flatter myself, a sufficient 
 guarantee for your zeal and industry. Dog ! 
 it is my desire that j^ou set the great 
 Schweinsfleisch diamond forthwith as a centre 
 to the Grand Cross of the Order of the Pig 
 and Whistle.' 
 
 To hear, in all matters of business with 
 Ludwig the Terrible, was to obey. Abimelech 
 Ben Azi took away the great diamond with 
 him, not Avithout some remonstrances from 
 little Prince Carl, who wanted to play with it.
 
 262 The Bleeding Diamond, 
 
 and hiding the precious bauble beneath the 
 lappet of his gaberdine, returned to his house 
 in the Judengasse. He had been instructed 
 to spare no expense as to the gold for setting, 
 and some minor gems to encircle the great 
 diamond. He was to make it a truly imperial 
 gift. When he reached home it was dinner 
 time, and his wife and seven children forthwith 
 abandoned their mess of millet and oil, and 
 swarmed round him to gaze upon the wondrous 
 sheen of the great Schweinsfleisch diamond. 
 Jochabad Spass, his long journeyman, saw 
 the diamond too, and grinned an evil grin. 
 
 Jochabad Spass had served his apprentice- 
 ship at Swederbad, the capital of the princi- 
 pality of Mangel- Wurzelstein. Eather or 
 mother he had none. He had an unlovely 
 manner, a cruel eye, and an evil grin ; but he 
 was a capital workman, and the right-hand 
 man of Abimelech Ben Azi. 
 
 ' "What a pity that such a beautiful 
 diamond should be sent to the beef-eating 
 Englanders,' said the long journeyman. 
 
 * Ah ! 'tis a pity, indeed,' said the Court Jew. 
 
 'Not only a pity, but a cruel shame,' 
 exclaimed Esther, his wife ; an opinion re- 
 echoed by the seven children, who had all 
 loved diamonds from their youth upwards.
 
 The Bleeding Diamond. 203 
 
 * What a pity, too/ resumed Jocliabad, ' tliat 
 even while here it should lie hidden in the 
 treasury of a cruel old tyrant, instead of 
 making the fortune of two honest merchants/ 
 
 ' Hush, hush !' cried Abimelech ; ' you are 
 talking treason, mein lieher! But still he lent 
 a greedy ear to what his journeyman said. 
 
 ' The stone is w^orth two hundred thousand 
 florins,' remarked Jochabad. 
 
 ' So much ?' 
 
 'And diamonds, the bigger the better, are 
 so esLSj to imitate by those to whom the real 
 secret has been revealed. Did I not learn 
 it from old Father Schink before I came 
 hither, three j^ears since ?' 
 
 ' Ac/i / Himmel /' cried the Court Jew, in a 
 fright. ' Do you want to ruin us, Jochabad 
 Spass ?' But he listened to the tall tempter 
 nevertheless. 
 
 He listened and listened until the two 
 agreed together to commit a great crime. 
 The secret of counterfeiting diamonds by means 
 of a fine vitreous paste was then very Httle 
 known ; indeed, it is questionable whether 
 ever artisan attained so great a proficiency in 
 the sophisticatory craft as Jochabad Spass, the 
 pupil of Father Schink. So well did Spass 
 consummate his fraud, that when he showed
 
 264 The Bleeding Diamond. 
 
 the false diamond to his accoraiDlice, the Court 
 Jew was himself for a moment deceived, and 
 thoughtthat he was gazing on the veritable gem. 
 The Schweinsfleisch diamond itself was placed 
 in an iron casket, and carefully concealed 
 beneath the flooring of the workshop, the two 
 rogues agreeing to wait until Ludwig Adolf 
 the Seventy-fourth died, or was assassinated, 
 or until they could slip away from his do- 
 minions, and sell the stolen jewel in some one 
 of the great European capitals. 
 
 In due time the Grand Cross of the Pig 
 and Whistle, with a blazing imposture, glis- 
 tening with all the colours of the rainbow in 
 its centre, was completed, and taken by 
 Abimelech Ben Azi, not without certain inward 
 misgivings, to the Eesidenz. But Ludwig 
 Adolf suspected no foul play. It could not 
 enter into his serenely absolute mind that any 
 mortal would dare to play any tricks with him. 
 He was, on the contrary, delighted with the 
 decoration ; and was pleased to say that he 
 never thought the great Schweinsfleisch 
 diamond could have looked so well. Thence- 
 forward was the Court Jew in high favour, 
 and was even given to understand by the high 
 chamberlain, that, as a mark of His Mansue- 
 tude's gracious bounty, he might be permitted,
 
 The Bleediiicj Diamond. 2 Go 
 
 on His Mansuetude's next Lirthday, to leave 
 the Judcngasse, and purchase for twenty 
 thousand florins an old tumbledown house in 
 the Hof-Ivirche-Platz, of whicli the grand- 
 duke happened to be proprietor. 
 
 On the twenty-fourth of August, 1 7 — , In- 
 troducer of the Ambassadors and Master of the 
 Ceremonies Schaflfundlvalben was despatched 
 on his mission. He was graciously permitted 
 to pay his own travelling expenses, but was 
 promised the second class of the Pig and 
 Whistle at his return. As the subjects of the 
 grand-duke had a curious habit of not coming 
 back when they once got clear of the grand- 
 ducal dominions, Ludwig Adolf took the pre- 
 caution, for fear of accidents, to place Von 
 Schaffundkalben's estates under temporary 
 sequestration, and furthermore to lock up his 
 daughter snugly and comfortably in a com- 
 munity of Lutheran canonesses. How^ever, 
 impelled by loyalty and fidelity, quickened, 
 perhaps, by these little material guarantees, 
 the introducer of ambassadors made his bow 
 again at the Residenz within four months of 
 his departure. He brought the warmest and 
 most grateful acknowledgments from King 
 Georq-e the First of Enirland, contained in a 
 letter couched in very bad French, and be-
 
 266 Tke Bleeding Diamond. 
 
 ginning- ^Monsieur mon cousin J and was, 
 besides, tlie bearer of two exquisitely hideous 
 Dutch pugs, an assortment of choice china 
 monsters, a chest of tea, and a dozen of York 
 hams, as a present from the Majesty of 
 England to the Mansuetude of Schweinhund- 
 hausen. Ludwig Adolf was slightly wrath 
 that the royal hamper did not contain a brace 
 of Severn salmon and a few barrels of Col- 
 chester oysters, and was with diflQ.culty ap- 
 peased at the representation of his emissary, 
 that those piscine delicacies would have lost 
 somewhat of their freshness in the journey 
 from England. 
 
 It is necessary, for a moment, that the 
 scene of my story should be transferred to the 
 cold and foggy, but highly respectable, island 
 I have just named. About that time, in the 
 Haymarket of London, there was an Italian 
 Opera House called the King's Theatre. His 
 Majesty King George contributed a tliousand 
 guineas every season in order to encourage his 
 nobility towards the patronage of that splen- 
 did but exotic entertainment. During the 
 winter season of 17 — , the principal Italian 
 singing woman at the King's Theatre was the 
 famous Lusinghiera. Her real name was, I 
 believe, Bobbo; but she was justly entitled to
 
 The Bleedi/if/ Diamond. 2G7 
 
 her sobriquet of tlie Lusingliiera, for none 
 could flatter the great, or twist them round 
 her little finger, as she could. I detest scan- 
 dal, and it is therefore sufiicient to say that 
 La Lusinghiera found favour in the eyes of 
 King George, who, if you remember, had left 
 his lawful wife in Hanover, and was not, 
 owing to that unfortunate Konigsmark aflliir, 
 on the best of terms with her. Now, La 
 Lusinghiera was exceedingly fond of money, 
 likewise of monkeys, and of maccaroni ; but for 
 diamonds she had a positive passion. I believe 
 that, had she tried her best, she would have 
 flattered King George out of the crown jewels, 
 although, constitutionally speaking, they were 
 not his to give away ; but she chose to take 
 into her capricious head a violent longing for 
 that part of the Order of the Pig and AVhistle 
 which consisted of the great Schweinsfleisch 
 diamond. The king often wore it in private — 
 although the gross Euglanders laughed at 
 it — for he loved everything that reminded him 
 of Germania. The Lusinghiera plainly told 
 him that she would give him no more par- 
 tridges and cabbage — of which dish he was 
 immoderately fond — for supper, unless he 
 made her a present of the much-coveted deco- 
 ration. He expostulated at first, on the score
 
 268 The Bleedincj Diamond. 
 
 of the courtesy due to his cousin of Schwein- 
 hundhausen ; but La Lusinghiera lauglied at 
 him, and at Ludwig Adolf and his grand- 
 duchy, and the end of it was that the fatuous 
 king satisfied her greed. 
 
 Partial as the Italian singing woman was 
 to diamonds for their natural beauty, she did 
 not also disdain them for their intrinsic value. 
 Her curiosity to know how much the great 
 Schweinsfleisch diamond was worth in hard 
 cash had speedily an opportunity of being 
 gratified. It chanced that she wanted some 
 ready-money — say a couple of thousand 
 guineas. As King Greorge happened to be at 
 Hampton Court, and she had been tugging 
 somewhat violently at the royal purse-strings 
 lately, La Lusinghiera condescended to seek 
 temporary assistance from a financier who was 
 always ready to grant it on the slight con- 
 dition of some tangible security, worth at least 
 three times the amount, being deposited with 
 him. In fine, she stepped into her chariot, 
 and was driven to Cranbourne-alley, to the 
 shop of Mr. Tribulation Triball, pawnbroker. 
 There, producing the Order of the Pig and 
 Whistle from its grand morocco case, whereon 
 were emblazoned the united arms of England 
 and Schweinlmndhausen (' like the fellow's
 
 The Bleeding Diamond. 209 
 
 impudence,' King George had muttered, when 
 he first opened his cousin's gift), she dwelt on 
 the beauty of the great Schweinsfleisch dia- 
 mond, and demanded the sum of which she 
 stood in need. 
 
 Mr. Tribulation Triball was a discreet man, 
 who asked very few questions in business. 
 He would have lent money on the great seal 
 of England, or on the Lord Mayor's mace, had 
 either of those valuables been brousrht to him 
 by ladies or gentlemen of his acquaintance. 
 He examined the decoration very carefully ; 
 pronounced the setting to be very pretty; but, 
 with a low bow, regretted his inability to ad- 
 vance more than fifty pounds on the entire 
 ornament. 
 
 ' Fifty pounds !' screamed the Lusinghiera 
 in a rage. ' What do you mean, fellow?' 
 
 * I mean, honoured madam,' replied the 
 pawnbroker, with another low bow, ' that 
 fifty pounds is very nearly the actual value 
 of the gold and the small stones ; and for 
 fashion, as you are well aware, we allow 
 nothing.' 
 
 ' Al Diavolo, your fashion !' exclaimed La 
 Lusinghiera ; ' I have sacks full of gold 
 brooches and small stones at home. 'Tis on 
 the pietra grossa, the great diamond, that I 
 want two thousand guineas.'
 
 270 TJiC Bleeding Diamond, 
 
 'Wliicli sum I sliould be botli proud and 
 liappy to lend/ observed tlie pawnbroker, 'but 
 for the unfortunate circumstance that the great 
 centre stone happens to be not worth sixpence. 
 It is false, madam — false as a Brummagem 
 tester.' 
 
 'False ! ' yelled La Lusinghiera. 
 
 'False,' repeated Mr. Triball. ^ A marvel- 
 lous good copy, I grant you, but it will not 
 deceive such an old hand as I am. It must be 
 one of the famous paste imitations of Father 
 Schink. However, your ladyship must not go 
 away empty-handed. Let us see whether we 
 cannot arrange a small loan on a note of hand.' 
 
 I don't know what sum La Lusinghiera ma- 
 naged to borrow from Mr. Tribulation Triball, 
 but it is certain that she did not leave the 
 great Schweinsfleich diamond with him in 
 pledge. She went home in a rage, and as soon 
 as his Majesty came back from Hampton Court, 
 she had with him what is termed in modern 
 parlance an 'explication.' A terrible one it 
 was. I don't know which suffered most — his 
 Majesty's feelings or his periwig. However, 
 a reconciliation, very costly to royalty, followed, 
 and La Lusinghiera gave back the worthless 
 Order of the Pig and Whistle. 
 
 Let us now return to Schweinhundhauscn.
 
 The BJeed'iDg Diamond. 271 
 
 It was on the twenty-fourth of August, 1 7 — , 
 precisely twelve montlis from the day when the 
 Introducer of Ambassadors Von Schaffund- 
 kalben had started on his mission, that an 
 English courier arrived at the Eesidenz, and 
 handed a packet to the high chamberlain, who 
 in turn handed it to His Mansuetude. Lud- 
 wig Adolf received it with a smile, and ordered 
 the courier to be sumptuously entertained in 
 the buttery. He came from his cousin of 
 England, and the grand-duke felt certain that 
 he must be the bearer of at least the British 
 Order of the Garter. 
 
 Ludwig the Terrible opened the packet, 
 perused a letter which it contained, and was 
 soon afterwards seen to turn blue. Then he tore 
 open the inner envelope of the packet and 
 turned crimson. Then he cast something upon 
 the ground and trampled it beneath his heel. 
 Then he ordered his yellow stockings. Then 
 he began to curse and to kick his pages. Even- 
 tually he turned to the high chamberlain, flung 
 him the letter, and thundered forth, 'Read 
 that.' 
 
 The missive was not from the King of 
 England, but from his Majesty's princijDal 
 Secretary of State for Foreign Afl'airs, who, in 
 terms of contemptuous frigidity, 'begged leave
 
 272 The Bleeding Diamond. 
 
 to return the spurious jewel sent to his Bri- 
 tannic Majesty, and had the honour to 
 remain.' 
 
 By this time Ludwig the Terrible was foam- 
 ing at the mouth. ' Spurious/ he gasped, 'spu- 
 rious ! I see it all. Eascal, robber. Quick, 
 twelve halberdiers, and let Abimelech Ben Azi, 
 and the dog who is his journeyman, be brought 
 hither.' 
 
 It was about twelve at noon that Jochabad 
 Spass was smoking his after-dinner pipe — they 
 dined at eleven in Schweinhundhausen — at the 
 door of his master's shop in the Judengasse. 
 He looked up the street and down the street, 
 when suddenly round the corner which gave 
 on to the Hof-Kirche-Platz, he saw two of the 
 yellow and black halberdiers make their ap- 
 pearance. The Court Jew's house was just at 
 the other extremity of the street, and as soon 
 as Jochabad saw lialberdiers one and two suc- 
 ceeded by halberdiers three and four, then 
 Jochabad Spass, who, if he were indeed a dog, 
 was a very sly one, slipped round the corner 
 of the opposite extremity of the street. 
 
 'Good-by to Schweinhundhausen,' he said 
 philosophically, running meanwhile as fast as 
 his legs would carry him. ' There is a storm 
 brewing. It will be a bad day for the house-
 
 The Bleeding Diamond. 273 
 
 father. What a pity I had not time to secure 
 the casket.' 
 
 The twelve halberdiers arrived at Abimelecli 
 Ben Azi's house, seized upon that unfortunate 
 Israelite, and, notwithstanding the entreaties 
 of his wife and children, bound his hands 
 tightly behind his back. It was the invariable 
 jn-actice of the ministers of the grand-ducal 
 justice, whenever they paid a domiciliary visit, 
 to leave marks of their presence by eating and 
 drinking up everything on the premises. This 
 traditional ceremony was gone through while 
 the wretched Abimelech writhed in his bonds 
 and moaned in terror ; and then the guards, 
 placing him in their midst, playfully prodded 
 him up the Judengasse, across the Hof-Kirche- 
 Platz, and so through the avenue of linden- 
 trees to the Eesidenz. 
 
 But he was not received in the Hall of Audi- 
 ence. No; the Hall of Justice was the destina- 
 tion of the wretched man. As a preliminary 
 measure he was taken into the guard-room and 
 loaded with heavy fetters, and then he was 
 dragged down a couple of flights of slimy stairs 
 into this so much dreaded Hall of Justice — a 
 gloomy, underground apartment, supported by 
 massive stone pillars, and illumined only by 
 two grated windows on a level with the pave- 
 
 18
 
 274 The Bleeding Diamond. 
 
 ment of the courtyard. The place was very 
 dark and damp, and if it had been situated in 
 an English mansion, and not in a grand-di^cal 
 residence, would have most probably gone by 
 the name, not of a Hall of Justice, but of a 
 coal-cellar. 
 
 At the upper end of the hall sat Ludwig the 
 Terrible, in a great crimson arm-chair. Facing 
 him, a few paces distant, was another chair, 
 empty, and behind it stood, mute and grim, a 
 swarthy man in a blacksmith's apron, and with 
 his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, whom the 
 unfortunate Ben Azi knew well to be Hans 
 Dummergeist, sworn scourger, headsman, and 
 tormentor to the grand-duke. 
 
 'Good-day, Mr. Court Jew,' said Ludwig 
 Adolf, with affected courtesy, as the prisoner 
 was brought in tottering between two halber- 
 diers. 'What is the course of exchange, Mr. 
 Court Jew ? ' 
 
 The miserable man's lips moved convul- 
 sively, but he could articulate nothing. 
 
 ' What is the price of Diamonds?' the grand- 
 duke continued, his voice rising to a yell of 
 derision. ' How stands the great Schweins- 
 fleisch diamond quoted in the market ?' 
 
 The Court Jew made a desperate effort : 'The 
 great Schweinsfleisch diamond,' he faltered ;
 
 The Bleedinf/ Diamond, 275 
 
 ' did not your Highness entrust it to me to set, 
 and did you not send it as a centre-piece of the 
 Grand Cross of the Order of the Pig and 
 Whistle to his Majesty the King of England?' 
 
 * Oh, inconceivably mangy and thievish dog/ 
 roared Ludwig Adolf, now losing all command 
 of himself, ' behold and tremble.' And he 
 thrust beneath the nose of the unhappy Court 
 Jew an open leathern case, in which he saw 
 lying, in confused fragments, the decoration he 
 had made, and in its midst, winking with 
 delusive glitter, the spurious diamond. 
 
 ' Court Jew,' continued Ludwig Adolf, with 
 a growl like that of a hungry bear, ' you and I 
 will pass the afternoon together. But first, 
 egregious and impudent knave, where is the dia- 
 mond — the real diamond — the great Schweins- 
 fleisch diamond you have robbed me of?' 
 
 In vain did Abimelech Ben Azi jDrotest that 
 he knew nothing about it, that he had set the 
 real stone as he had been ordered to do, that it 
 must have been taken out, and a false one 
 substituted for it in England ; that he was as 
 innocent as the babe unborn. He was, by the 
 command of the grand- duke, bound down in 
 the great arm-chair lacing that tyrant, and, to 
 extort confession, the dreadful infliction known 
 as the Osnaburg torture was applied to him. 
 
 18—3
 
 276 TIte Bleeding Diamond. 
 
 For a long time he held out ; but after three 
 applications of the torture — after the boots had 
 been applied to his legs and the thumbscrews 
 to his fingers, his fortitude gave way, and in 
 scarce audible accents he confessed his guilt, 
 and described the place beneath the flooring of 
 his workshop, where, in its iron casket, the 
 great Schweinsfleisch diamond was to be found. 
 
 The fury of Ludwig Adolf was still further 
 heightened, when, commanding Jochabad Sj^ass 
 to be brought before him in order that he, too, 
 as with grim facetiousness he expressed it, 
 might make ' a journey to Osnaburg,' he was 
 informed that the long journeyman had escaped. 
 How he managed it was never known, but 
 from that day Jochabad Spass was never seen in 
 Sell weinhundhau sen. 
 
 Another detachment of halberdiers accom- 
 panied by the high chamberlain, was de- 
 spatched with chisels and sledge-hammers to 
 the Judengasse, and during their absence 
 restoratives were forced down the throat of 
 Abimelech Ben Azi, who remained still bound 
 to the arm-chair, Ludwig Adolf glaring upon 
 him like a boa-constrictor upon a rabbit. 
 
 In half-an-hour's time the messengers re- 
 turned with an iron casket, which with their 
 united strength they had not been able to
 
 Tlie Blecdhicj Diamond. 277 
 
 break open. The deplorable Court Jew, how- 
 ever, made signs that the key would be found 
 hung round his neck. Search being made, 
 this proved to be the case, and at length the 
 long-ravished gem was placed in the hands of 
 Ludwig the Terrible. 
 
 I have heard that the tyrant kissed it, and 
 fondled it, and called it by endearing names ; 
 then, that, taking the true diamond in one 
 hand and the false one in the other, he thrust 
 each alternately beneath the nose of his cap- 
 tive, crying, ' Smell it, Mr. Court Jew, smell 
 it.' I have heard that all the tortures the 
 Avretched creature had already undergone were 
 repeated over and over again in sheer wanton- 
 ness ; that the false diamond was heated in a 
 brazier, and held between pincers, forced into 
 the prisoner's naked flesh. His screams Avere 
 appalling. Two of the halberdiers fainted. 
 Even the sworn tormentor was heard to mutter 
 ' Es ist genug.' On being called upon for 
 an explanation, he replied that he did not 
 consider the patient could endure any more 
 without Nature giving way. 
 
 ' It is enough, then,' Ludwig Adolf the 
 Seventy-fourth acquiesced, with a darkling 
 scowl. 'Mr. Sworn Headsman, be good enough 
 to fetch your sword this way.'
 
 278 The Bleeding Diamond. 
 
 At the mention of the word sword, Abime- 
 lech Ben Azi, who had been in a semi swoon, 
 set up a horrifying yell. In the most piteous 
 terms he besought forgiveness. He essayed to 
 drag himself towards his persecutor, as though 
 to embrace his knees, when, in his frantic 
 efforts, he lost his balance, and the heavy chair 
 fell over on the top of him, as he, still bound 
 to it, grovelled at the feet of Ludwig the 
 Terrible. ' Set him up again !' thundered the 
 merciless prince ; * and, headsman, despatch. 
 I'll teach him to steal my diamonds !' 
 
 The last dreadful deed was soon done. The 
 headsman brought his long sharp sword — a 
 double-handed one with a hollow blade filled 
 with quicksilver, which, as the point was de- 
 pressed, ran downwards from the Jiilt, giving 
 increased momentum to the blow. The heads- 
 man was as expert as those generally are who 
 serve absolute monarchs. Grasping the hilt of 
 his weapon with both hands, and inclining his 
 body backwards and laterally, he swept off 
 with one semicircular blow the head of 
 Abimelech Ben Azi. Again the body with its 
 chair fell forward at the feet of the tyrant — 
 the head rolled many paces away, and a cascade 
 of blood sprinkled the fiices and dresses of the 
 terrified beholders.
 
 The Blced'uif/ Diamond. 279 
 
 It is said that one blood-drop from tins 
 shower fell upon the great S(rii\veinsfleisch 
 diamond, wliicli tlie Grand-Duke, as though 
 loth to part with it, still held in his hand. With 
 a horrid laugh he licked the gout from the 
 surface of the stone, and spurning the body of 
 the Court Jew with his foot, stalked upstairs 
 to carouse with his ruffians. When he stag- 
 gered into his bed-chamber late that night, he 
 put his hand in his pocket to take forth the 
 diamond. It felt wet and clammy, and when 
 he brought it to the light it was dabbled in 
 blood. 
 
 On the twenty-fourth of August in every 
 year that has elapsed since that frightful scene 
 in the Hall of Justice at Schweinhundhausen 
 — ^from sunrise until sunset — a drop of blood 
 stands on that fatal diamond. It has gone 
 through strange vicissitudes, jDassed through 
 many hands, been an heirloom in many fami- 
 lies ; but that drop of gore has never failed to 
 make its appearance on the great Schweins- 
 fleisch diamond on the anniversary of the 
 murder of Abimelech Ben Azi, the Court Jew, 
 by Ludwig Adolf the Seventy-fourth, of 
 Schweinhundhausen, surnamed the Terrible.
 
 XII. 
 A VISIT TO BEDLAM. 
 
 /^NE very gloomy Saturday afternoon in 
 ^-^ October, a hansom cab bore the instant 
 narrator from the London Bridge terminus of 
 the South Coast Kailway, to the portals of 
 Bethlehem Hospital. At Brighton, an hour 
 and a half before, I had left beautiful autumn 
 weather; graceful Amazons curveting along 
 the cliffs, pretty little amber-haired children 
 paddling with their tiny toy-spades among the 
 sand and shingle, or staring at the porcelain 
 acrobats and india-rubber balloons in Mr. 
 Chassereau's shop. Between this Eairy land 
 and Babylon the Grreat were but a roar and 
 a rattle, a few tunnels and thirteen shillings to 
 pay. Then the fog took possession of the train 
 and its inmates. Then came shimmering in 
 pellicles almost visible on the brumous bosom, 
 the raw rime that rusts beards and moustaches;
 
 A Visit fo Bedlam. 281 
 
 and we felt in all its inflexibility the grim, ■un- 
 compromising, marrow-chilling, mind-depress- 
 ing London October weather. A fit day, 
 indeed, for a visit to Bethlehem. 
 
 We stood (I had a companion) before the 
 great iron entrance-gates and looked on to a 
 vast smooth lawn, of which tlie close shaven- 
 ness olfered some fantastic analogy, to my 
 mind, of a rigidly-cropped madman's head. 
 The grim perspective ended with that sweep- 
 ing facade and stately cupola familiar as to its 
 exterior to most London-bred men, but the 
 secret of whose interior is as unknown to the 
 majority of dwellers in the great city as the 
 inside of Temple Bar or the White Tower. 
 Many a time, as a child, have I wondered 
 wliether they kept the mad folks in that lofty 
 dome — they making the roof ring with, their 
 shrieks. Not, therefore, was it without an 
 indefinite feeling of perturbation that I 
 awaited the response to our summons on the 
 gate-bell. An answer soon came, however ; 
 and a comely matron admitted us to the pre- 
 cincts of London's oldest and most important 
 lunatic asylum. We were permitted to pass 
 along the gravelled walk skirting the lawn, 
 and anon found ourselves beneath the peristyle 
 of the hospital. The entrance-hall and stair-
 
 282 A Visit to Bedlam. 
 
 case are of noble proportions, and remind one 
 far more of the vestibule of a West End club 
 than of the lobby of a mad-house. In vain, too, 
 did I look for Gibber's famous statues; but 
 my companion informed me that as a last 
 vestige of the dark, coercive Bedlam days, 
 they had been banished the hospital, and 
 removed, as mere relics, to the South Ken- 
 sington Museum. In their stead, I saw on 
 the staircase a vigorous though unfinished 
 painting of * The Cxood Samaritan ' by an 
 afflicted artist who has been for years a patient 
 on the ' Government side ' of the hospital. 
 
 Pending the arrival of Dr. Hood, the skilful 
 and benevolent physician to Bethlehem Hos- 
 pital, to whom we were accredited, and to 
 whom we had sent our cards, we were ushered 
 into a spacious apartment overlooking the lawn, 
 and serving as a board-room for the governors 
 of the institution. Over the chimney there is 
 a geometrical-looking portrait — I should say 
 a Holbein, or an excellent copy from that 
 master, of the eighth Harry. Then there is 
 a portrait of Sir Peter Laurie. Sir Peter was 
 the beloved president of the hospital ; and all 
 round the walls arc the armorial bearings 
 blazoned on convex bosses, with frames elabo- 
 rately carved and gilt, of the several presidents
 
 A Visit to Bedlam, 283 
 
 of the Royal hospitals, from the Tudor's times 
 to those of our gracious Latl}^ Queen Victoria. 
 But we have still some little time to wait, and 
 there cannot be a better time than this, I 
 think, to interpolate a few remarks bearing on 
 the historical antecedents and actual organiza- 
 tion of this remarkable charity. 
 
 Simon Fitz-Mary, sheriff, gave a.d. 1246, 
 certain lands in St. Botolph-without-Bishops- 
 gate, for the foundation of a priory of canons, 
 brethren, and sisters of the order of the Star 
 of Bethlehem. Simon the founder's lands 
 were on the spot afterwards known as old 
 Bedlam, now Liverpool Street, Moorfields. It 
 is described as an hospital, and was taken 
 under the protection of the City in 1 546, and 
 in the same year Harry of the six wives, 
 having in vain endeavoured to sell the free- 
 holds of the lands and tenements to the Cor- 
 poration, made a virtue of necessity and gave 
 them in ' frankalmaigne ' — a free gift for ever. 
 Hence I presume the obese benefactor over 
 the marble mantel in Bethlehem's council 
 chamber. The hospital had been an asylum 
 for lunatics since 1402. 
 
 These Hospital Priory buildings escaped 
 the Great Fire, but becoming dilapidated, were 
 in 1675-6 demolished, and a new Bedlam built
 
 284 A Visit to Bedlam. 
 
 on ground (leased by the governors of the 
 Corporation) on the south side of Mooriields. 
 It was somewhat of a grand affair, architec- 
 turally; was designed by Eobert Hook, and 
 cost 17,000/. The posterns of Hook's Bedlam, 
 gates were surmounted by those stone figures 
 sculptured by Gabriel Gibber, of which I have 
 already spoken. In George the Second's time 
 two additional wings for incurable patients were 
 erected. The average number of inmates was 
 150, and the hospital is described as consisting 
 chiefly of two immense galleries, one above 
 the other, divided in the centre by two iron 
 gates — the male patients on one side, the 
 females on the other. There were also some 
 out-patients or pension ers^, demented, but not 
 raving, and known as ' Tom o' Bedlams,' who 
 wore metal plates on their arms, and were 
 suffered to wander about the streets and beg. 
 Furthermore, to the shame of the eighteenth 
 century, be it confessed that Bedlam Hospital 
 was, till the year 1770, one of the lions of 
 London. The public were admitted for a 
 wretched fee, which yet brought in a con- 
 siderable revenue, to see the madmen 'all 
 alive/ just as they were enabled to see the wild 
 beasts in Exeter Change, or, as a few years 
 before, the bucks and men about town used
 
 A Visit to Bedlam. 285 
 
 to make up parties of pleasure to see the women 
 floiTired in the court-room at Bridewell. 
 
 In 1799 the hospital (which had been built 
 on the shifting rubbish of the City Ditch, and 
 in the short space of sixteen months) was 
 reported to be desperately unsafe. It tottered 
 on, however, till 1810, when the site was 
 exchanged for eleven acres in St. George's- 
 fields ; the first stone of the present building 
 was laid in 1812, and new Bedlam was com- 
 pleted in 1815. Two wings, for which the 
 Government contributed 25,144/., were built 
 for the criminal lunatics, of whom the gover- 
 nors of the charity have the unwelcome 
 charge. More new buildinofs and the dome 
 were added between 1838 and 1845 ; and the 
 present structure is three storeys high, and 
 897 feet in length. The dome is 150 feet in 
 height from the ground. The improved sys- 
 tem of management was introduced in 181 G; 
 the system, indeed, mainl}^ inaugurated at the 
 Bicetre and Charenton during the First Empire, 
 by the benevolent Pinel. The new system of 
 manaq-ement did not come in before it was 
 needed. The treatment of the insane up to 
 the period named had been almost incredibly 
 disgraceful. A narrative, even in outline, of 
 the atrocities daily and hourly committed on
 
 286 A Visit to Bedlam. 
 
 the helpless patients in the Hospitals of Bed- 
 lam and St. Luke — outrages only surpassed, 
 if surjDassed they could be, by those wreaked 
 on the miserable wretches confined in private 
 asylums — would pollute this page. It is con- 
 soling to know that this new building in St. 
 George's-fields has never been the scene of 
 horrors similar to those recorded in the dismal 
 and obsolete blue-book I speak of. I am glad 
 to quit the ugly theme, to find myself once 
 more in the board-room, with its evidence of 
 the present, its furniture of the past, and this 
 time with Dr. Hood at our elbow, and ready, 
 not to gratify an idle curiosity, but to assist 
 me in the performance of a steady and serious 
 task. Quidnuncs and sightseers are by no 
 means welcome as visitors to this abode of the 
 saddest sorrow with which the Almighty, in 
 his mysterious wisdom, has visited his crea- 
 tures. The visitors admitted to inspect the 
 establishment, by favour of the governor, 
 treasurer, president, or physician, or by order 
 from the Secretary of State, rarely exceed a 
 yearly average of five hundred, and a large 
 proportion of these consist of distinguished 
 foreigners, statesmen, scientific men, and the 
 like. There must be, indeed, something very 
 worthy of inspection, and much from which
 
 A Visit to Bedlam. 2S7 
 
 hints may be taken, in the present condition 
 of Bethlehem ; for the uncompromising statis- 
 tics of the Eegistrar-General tell us that here 
 the average mortality is seven per cent. In 
 other asylums the patients die at from thirteen 
 to seventy-two per cent. 
 
 It is to be borne in mind, that Bethlehem 
 is not strictly a pauper-lunatic asylum. The 
 inmates are either criminal or unfortunate ; 
 the objects of a special care or of a special 
 mercy : and while the slightest evincement of 
 a wish for healthy employment is cheerfully 
 met by the authorities, there does not seem to 
 exist that feverish desire to utilize the patients 
 — to make them ' worth their salt,' as it were, 
 which is painfully palpable in some county 
 institutions. In Bethlehem, those who are 
 able and willing, are supplied with light and 
 pleasant occupation about the house. A 
 patient whose terrible attempt twenty years 
 since all the world has heard, is the cleverest 
 painter and grainer in the whole establish- 
 ment, and a general ' handy man ;' but no 
 attempt is made to force the inclinations of 
 the patients, or to set them irksome tasks j 
 and a sedulous, though to them invisible, 
 supervision takes place, to avert the occm-- 
 rence of accidents from the dangerous tools
 
 288 A Visit to Bedlam. 
 
 and implements they may use while working 
 at their trades or in the gardens. 
 
 I purpose describing the female before the 
 male gallery, as it is in many respects more 
 interesting, and exhibits in a more remark- 
 able degree the benefits derived from the 
 absence of coercion, and the substitution of 
 amusements and light enjoyments for a dull 
 and rigorous restraint. The first female ward 
 I visited was occupied principally by patients 
 who were approaching convalescence, and it 
 was easy to discern an approach towards 
 sanity, not only in the elegance and cheer- 
 fulness of the decorations, but also in the 
 recreations and the occupations of the denizens 
 of the place. There is nothing absolutely re- 
 pulsive in the rooms devoted to the most 
 refractory patients ; but there is a marked and 
 indispensable difference between their abode 
 and the gallery of which I am now speaking. 
 
 The long vista is crowded — though not in- 
 conveniently — with little trifles and knick- 
 knacks of comfort and refinement. Flowers, 
 artificial or natural, are to be found on 
 every table. Further ornamentation has been 
 resorted to in the way of climbing and trail- 
 ing plants, and in the interval between each 
 window is either a bust, or a print neatly framed
 
 A Vmt to Bedlam. 289 
 
 and glazed, or a cage containing a singing- 
 bird. The quantity of handsome busts and 
 engravings distributed through the whole of 
 the wards is as surprising as their presence is 
 satisfactory. The engravings are the gift of 
 the late Mr. Graves, the eminent publisher of 
 Pall Mall. The authorities of Bethlehem 
 Hospital cannot be too highly commended 
 for this introduction of an artistic element 
 that mitigates and well-nigh nullifies the 
 depressing influences of the place. The very 
 whitewash necessary for health and cleanliness 
 is tempered to a cheerful hue, and picked out 
 here and there by streaks of red or blue. 
 Verily, this was the last place where I should 
 have expected to have seen in beneficial 
 operation the prismatic canons of Mr. Owen 
 Jones. In the centre of the gallery wall there 
 is a complete aviary full of joyously carolling 
 birds ; and these little songsters seem to 
 possess much power in raising the sometimes 
 drooping spirits and soothing the troubled 
 minds of the unhappy persons wdio dwell here. 
 Heaven knows to what green fields, what 
 sparkling streams, what chequered shades of 
 brake and thicket, the silver notes of the birds 
 take back their poor wool-gathering minds ! 
 Heaven knows what dim and confused 
 
 19
 
 290 A Visit to Bedlam. 
 
 memories — reminiscences without a beorinninsr 
 or an end, or perchance with a middle 
 and no commencement or termination — are 
 awakened by the sight of these pictures and 
 birds ! 
 
 From the side facing the line of windows, 
 lead at intervals the sleeping apartments. The 
 doors of these rooms are kept locked during 
 the day, in order that the patients may not 
 be for one moment exempt from the kind and 
 sisterly vigilance of the attendants. 
 
 One figure of which we caught sight advanc- 
 ing along the female gallery requires a few 
 words at our hands. She is a patient, and 
 is hastening to the dining-room, bearing 
 some little delicacy of extra diet which has 
 been ordered by the physician for one of her 
 companions. 
 
 At a glance the spectator is impressed with 
 the hurried and preoccupied object which 
 characterizes her, and with the anxious and 
 almost agonized expression which pervades her 
 countenance. This poor young woman labours 
 under the impression that she is approaching 
 the table of the Lord, that she will be too 
 late, and that in consequence her soul will be 
 lost. Whenever she sees the physician, or a 
 stranger, she assails him with questions and
 
 A Visit to Bedlam. 291 
 
 entreaties, all bewildered and senii-incolierent, 
 but all bearing on that awful errand and that 
 dreadful doubt. Of every figure in this varied 
 scene some strange characteristic trait might 
 be given, some stranger anecdote related ; but 
 I am bidden to forbear. Let me hint, however, 
 that the majority of the females have been 
 either g-overnesses or maid-servants. Over- 
 study with the former, religion — or rather 
 religious hysteria and love — with the latter, 
 have been the proximate causes of their 
 malady. Seven years since the galleries of 
 Bethlehem presented a very different appear- 
 ance to that which they now do. There was 
 kindness, and there were comforts and 
 necessaries ; but there were none of those 
 little luxuries and elegancies which are now so 
 conspicuous and so beneficial in their influence. 
 In this particular gallery, now so prettily 
 painted, so well carpeted, cheerfully lighted, 
 and enlivened with prints and busts, with 
 aviaries and pet animals, the walls were simply 
 whitewashed ; the furniture was meagre ; the 
 windows were so highly pitched that the 
 patient had only the dreary look-out of the 
 London sky. In those days there were no 
 cheerful stoves nor ornamented chimney-pieces, 
 and the sleeping apai-tments were lighted only 
 
 19 — 3
 
 292 A Visit to Bedlam. 
 
 by small circular hccarnes liigli above the reacli 
 of tlie occupant. In fact, tliat which was 
 once a prison-cell has now become a cheery- 
 domestic room. The sleeping apartment of a 
 docile female patient is furnished with a neat 
 little bedstead with snowy drapery, a toilet- 
 glass, a dressing-table, a cushioned easy-chair, 
 and often much pretty decoration in the way 
 of needlework d'oyleys and antimacassars. 
 The reader will doubtless and with some 
 astonishment contrast the description of Beth- 
 lehem with the accounts he has been accus- 
 tomed to listen to. 
 
 The changes for the better in Bethlehem 
 Hospital within the last seven years have been 
 truly marvellous. One excellent and amiable 
 man deserves much praise for the social 
 revolution within the walls of this whilom 
 mansion of misery. To the liberality of the 
 Governors, with Sir Peter Laurie and Mr. J. 
 S. Johnson at their head, and the energy of 
 Dr. Charles Hood, must be ascribed the 
 admirable and highly useful improvements 
 that have taken place. To his artistic taste 
 the patients owe the innocent ornamentation 
 of their former gloomy abode, which is now to 
 them a source of solace and delight ; and since 
 the advent to the position of ph3'sician resi-
 
 A Visit to Bedlam. 293 
 
 dentiary of Dr. Hood, this kind and wise 
 labourer in the field of mercy has, together 
 with his skilful and indefatigable assistant, 
 Dr. Helps, done more to alleviate not only the 
 physical pangs, but the mental woes, of the 
 afflicted beings under his charge, than has 
 perhaps been effected by any medical practi- 
 tioner in any asylum for the insane throughout 
 the country. Dogmatism and fanaticism are 
 alike out of place in Bethlehem. Suavity, 
 cheerfulness, patience, good -humour, are the 
 best doctors. The patients, with all their 
 comforts, luxuries, and amusements, by the 
 very fact of their tremendous and awful 
 deprivation, are already and must be miserable. 
 The waters of Lethe flow over the head of 
 Idiocy, but not of Insanity. Save only when 
 in an access of frenzy, I believe that all mad 
 people are conscious of, and possessed by, a 
 sense of the unutterable wretchedness of their 
 lot — of their doom to seek and search for 
 continually that which, God help them ! they 
 seldom find on this side the grave — their wits. 
 It is a characteristic of the sage and patient 
 policy that now reigns in Bethlehem, that 
 wdiile there is a chapel and a good and pious 
 chaplain, and while the consolations of religion 
 are always at the command of the patients.
 
 294 A Visit to Bedlam. 
 
 they are never teased with religion — they are 
 never worried with misplaced sermons. 
 
 The reward of Dr. Hood is pleasurably 
 manifest to every visitor that passes through 
 the w^alls of Bethlehem. You see it in the 
 patients who throng round the kind physician 
 to press his hand, to ask his advice, and whisper 
 — Heaven knows what rambling nonsense 
 sometimes — in his ear. Even the paralytic 
 and bedridden nod and smile as the doctor 
 passes — not with a vacant leer, but with a 
 grateful meaning. 
 
 Scattered and scanty as are their poor senses, 
 they know that the doctor is their friend; 
 that he comes not with o-ajrs and fetters and 
 scourges, but with tidings of help and comfort ; 
 that he comes to soothe and heal ; and we all 
 know that he is on his Master's business, that 
 he is doing that which shall be done to him 
 on the great day of reckoning : yea ! a thou- 
 sandfold and a millionfold of talents of im- 
 perishable gold and silver for every twopence 
 which the good Samaritan left at the inn for 
 the wounded man wdio had gone down to 
 Jericho and fallen among thieves. 
 
 It is no easy and no immediately thankful 
 task for a man of education and refinement to 
 abandon his beloved pursuits, the intercourse
 
 A Vwit to Bedlam. -95 
 
 of society, the comforts of Lome, and the 
 relaxations of literature almost, aud devote 
 himself to the perpetual peramhulation of this 
 via dolorosa — for ever pacing up and down 
 these corridors, unlocking wickets with his 
 master-key, and doomed to be called up at any 
 hour of the night, to have his ears filled from 
 noon to night with Avhimperiugs and croonings, 
 with moans and hysteric laughter. How he 
 must cling to a strange face, shipwrecked as 
 he is in this ocean of vacuous countenances ! 
 We see such men as Dr. Hood and Dr. Helps 
 patiently, cheerfully resigning themselves to 
 follow this thorny path. We know that they 
 have many brethren in their calling — scholars, 
 gentlemen, philanthropists — equally patient, 
 cheerfully laborious in the good work ; and it 
 is a reassuring and ennobling thing to know 
 that vacancies among these knights of the 
 Order of Mercy are always filled up — that there 
 are always men ready and willing to take up 
 their cross and follow the behests of Him who 
 wept for our sufferings and suffered for us all. 
 It would be unjust in this case to omit a 
 cordially favourable mention of the male and 
 female attendants at Bethlehem Hospital. 
 None of the cynical sternness of the hired 
 nurse can be imputed to them. They do their
 
 296 A Visit to Bedlam. 
 
 spiriting very gently, and use their patients, 
 not as though they were repulsive burdens, 
 but in a brotherly and sisterly fashion. Some 
 of these attendants have been in the asylum 
 for twenty -two years, during which time not 
 one accusation of misconduct has been alleged 
 a2:ainst them. 
 
 The onerous nature of their duties may be 
 imagined, when we reflect that lunatic patients 
 are often as feeble, as helpless, as exigent and 
 perverse and fractious as children. 
 
 When Dr. Hood pays one of his cheerful 
 visits to the ladies' work-room — fitted up with 
 exquisite taste, and where convalescent and 
 docile patients amuse or employ themselves in 
 embroidery, fancy work, and flower painting in 
 water-colours — it is by no means an uncommon 
 occurrence for him to be asked by one of the 
 inmates for permission to go out ' for a day's 
 pleasure.' Think not this is one of the vain 
 and hopeless requests preferred by the maniac 
 pining in his dismal captivity. If the patient 
 be 'well enough' permission is readily granted; 
 and the Soho Bazaar, tlie Pantheon, or friends 
 and relatives, are visited. I confess that few 
 things surprised me more during my sojourn 
 in this remarkable institution than the calm 
 intimation that there was scarcely a place of
 
 A Vuil to Bedlam. 297 
 
 amusement in tlie metropolis to wliicli Dr. 
 Hood had not sent liis patients, and that the 
 great majority of them had participated in this 
 privilege. To which I must add a more note- 
 worthy postscript, that on no occasion has the 
 physician had to regret the extension of such 
 an indulgence. 
 
 The male gallery is of the same dimensions 
 as the principal gallery, and is fitted up in a 
 style similar, but not exactly identical, to that 
 employed on the female side. There are fewer 
 flowers and similar elegancies, but the comforts 
 are the same, and there is the same fondness 
 manifested for pet birds and animals, cats, 
 canaries, squirrels, &c. The patients amuse 
 themselves with games of bagatelle, cards, 
 painting, reading, &c. In one corner of the 
 apartment is a party playing chess ; others are 
 killing time with music, or with that great 
 consolator the tobacco-pipe. Still, many of 
 the patients take no pleasure in any kind of 
 amusement, but for hours will sit or stand 
 alone, wrapped in thought, some in the attitude 
 of listening, some with sunken heads and hands 
 clasped behind them, others with their arms 
 pinned to their sides like recruits in the pre- 
 sence of the drill-sergeant. Others pace the 
 long gallery incessantly, pouring out their
 
 298 A Visit to Bedlam. 
 
 woes to those who would listen to them, or if 
 there be none to listen, to the dogs and cats, 
 or just as frequently to the air. 
 
 The Long Grallery gives access to a very 
 excellent library. The leading journals and 
 periodicals of the day are to be found on the 
 tables, and on the bookshelves is a capital 
 collection of the standard works of modern 
 literature. The library is always well fre- 
 quented. Many of the patients are well 
 educated and accomplished men ; more than 
 one have been celebrated in intellectual pur- 
 suits. I need not remind those that are familiar 
 with asylum interiors, that one may be for a 
 long period in conversation with a lunatic who 
 will in all respects behave as a rational being 
 till you touch on the subject of his delusion. 
 Pursuing the plan I proposed to myself at the 
 commencement, I will not particularize the 
 hallucinations that came under my notice. 
 This is no journal of psychological medicine; 
 and to make the special delusions of a madman 
 a topic for picturesque essay-writing is only 
 pandering to a morbid curiosity. Of course, 
 there are kings and emperors and pontiffs 
 among the patients. So there have been, I 
 dare say, for centuries, and so there are in 
 every mad-house in the world. As a fact very
 
 A Visit io Bedlam. 299 
 
 important as evidence in favour of a system 
 not only of non- coercion, but of positive in- 
 dulgence, let it be recorded that books or 
 periodicals being wantonly torn or defaced are 
 unknown in the institution. It would seem 
 that the mad folks are wiser in their genera- 
 tion than the human monkeys roving at large 
 who tear and smear periodicals, or who, the 
 scandal of this age, have been lately outraging 
 books and maps in the reading-room of the 
 British Museum. 
 
 With a brief allusion to two remaining and 
 most noticeable features of the ' new system ' 
 of management, my brief survey of Bethlehem 
 Hospital must be brought to a conclusion. 
 The two corresponding saloons at the extremity 
 of the wings, and which are of spacious dimen- 
 sions, and lighted by large louvre windows, 
 contain, the one a billiard-room, much fre- 
 quented b}'- the male patients in the evening ; 
 the other, a ball-room. The latter is on the 
 female side, and during the autumn and winter 
 months balls are constantly given to the 
 inmates, both male and female, who appear 
 thoroughly to appreciate the enjoyment pro- 
 vided for them. Both Doctor Hood and Doctor 
 Helps join the patients at these entertainments. 
 Refreshments, consisting of home-made wines.
 
 n r 
 
 00 A Visit to Bedlam. 
 
 and ale, cake, biscuit, and fruit, are handed 
 down at intervals. Many of tlie patients 
 remain seated the whole evening, silent, moody, 
 and abstracted, taking no interest in the ex- 
 citement of the dance. At eleven o'clock, 
 ' God save the Queen ' is sung, and the poor 
 creatures go to bed — the majority amused and 
 pleased. 
 
 I have said that the more docile often see 
 the outside world, and mingle in the recreations 
 of the people who are not quite mad enough 
 to be received into Bethlehem — I mean your- 
 self, myself, and the rest of the ladies and 
 gentlemen who are so conceited about their 
 sanity. In wet weather, the vast extent of 
 the galleries affords no mean opportunity for 
 exercise. For fine weather, there are spacious 
 and well-laid-out gardens, with lawns and 
 parterres, at the rear of the edifice ; in which 
 gardens, under the care of the attendants, some 
 patients take exercise, some smoke, some run 
 and leap, some stand immovable for hours, 
 gazing at the sky, the shrubs, or the ground. 
 No patient looks at his neighbour. But neither 
 passionists nor quietists ever do the slightest 
 injury to the trees, or shrubs, or flowers. 
 
 The last of the doors was unlocked, and my 
 tour was at an end. We went back to Doctor
 
 A Visit lo Bedlam, 301 
 
 Hood's study, and I looked tlirougli an album 
 of photographs taken from patients in their 
 accesses of mania, and in their lucid moments. 
 I glanced at reports and balance-sheets, and 
 learned that the hospital, though not plethoric 
 with wealth, enjoyed an adequate revenue, 
 administered with a wise liberality and discre- 
 tion. I learned that the improvements were 
 carried out at a great cost ; and I thought that 
 he who would grudge one penny of a sum, 
 however liberal, towards such a merciful pur- 
 pose must be a crooked-hearted curmudgeon, 
 only fit to farm pauper children, and make a 
 profit out of them. 
 
 I left Bethlehem Hospital with tlie convic- 
 tion that it was the noblest, and yet the least 
 pretentious, of England's many noble but 
 often ostentatious charities. I came out in the 
 October world, and found it as cold, and foggy, 
 and muddy as usual. I dined, and went to the 
 play and the club ; but I had dreamt of 
 Bethlehem, sleeping and waking, for days. I 
 mused on what I had seen ; I was haunted by 
 what I had heard. I thought of the luxuries 
 and comforts, the plants and the pet animals, 
 the books and the periodicals, the billiard and 
 the ball-room, the skill and tenderness of the 
 physician ; but all these, to my mind, would not
 
 303 A Visit to Bedlam. 
 
 fill up the vast abyss of human mental misery 
 3-awning beneath the lofty dome in St. G-eorge's- 
 fields; and, with an inward groan, I murmured, 
 ' Let me be crippled, deaf, blind, paralytic, 
 mutilated, even to half obliteration of human 
 form, if such be Thy will, but not mad, 
 Lord, not mad !' 
 
 Note. — Both Dr. (Sir Charles) Hood and Dr. Helps are dead.
 
 iS^Sf^g 
 
 ^m^i^J>'~^^<.-r_u--t>i=,-^^^^ 
 
 XIII. 
 
 MADAME BUSQUE'S. 
 
 TJESIDENT in Paris some time ago, I had 
 ■^^ dined well — very well, once, perhaps 
 twice in a way : and began to recognise the 
 necessity of mediocrity in dining. No more for 
 rae were the golden columniated downstairs 
 saloons of the Palais Poyal. Gold and columns 
 and plate glass I could have in the upper apart- 
 ments of that palace of gastronomy, and at a 
 very moderate price; but the good meats, 
 good sauces, good wines — they remained below. 
 ' Prix fixe ' stared me in the face. Dinners 
 at a fixed tariff of prices and a fixed tarift" of 
 badness. I could have six courses for one and 
 eightpence, but what courses ! Gloom began 
 to settle upon me. I saw visions of dirty 
 little restaurants in back streets ; of biftecks 
 like gutta-percha ; of wine like pyroligneous 
 acid, with a dash of hemlock in it to give it
 
 304 Madame Bifsques. 
 
 body ; of sour bread in loaves of the length 
 of a beefeater's halberd ; of winy stains on the 
 table-cloth ; of a greasy waiter ; of a pervading 
 odour of stale garlic ; of having to ask the 
 deaf man with the asthma and the green 
 shade over his eyes yonder, for the salt. Better, 
 I said, to buy cold halves of fowls at the 
 roasters' shops, and devour them in the soli- 
 tude of my fifth floor ; better to take to a 
 course of charcuterie or cold pork-butchery ; 
 Lyons sausages, black puddings, pigs' feet, 
 polonies with garlic, or sparerib with savoury 
 jelly. Better almost to go back to the Arca- 
 dian diet of red-shelled eggs, penn'orths of 
 fried potatoes, fromage de Brie, and ha'porths 
 of ready-cooked spinach — of which, entre nous, 
 I had had in my time some experience. I was 
 meditating between this and the feasibility of 
 cooking a steak over a French wood fire at 
 home (a feat never yet accomplished, I believe, 
 by mortal Englishman) ; I had almost deter- 
 mined to subscribe for a month to a boardino-- 
 house in the Banlieue, where the nourishment, 
 as described on the public walls, was ' simple 
 but fortifying,' when the genius of for- 
 tuitous good threw Madame Busque in my 
 way. 
 
 Through the intermediary of a friend, be it
 
 Madame B usque s. 305 
 
 understood. He and I had dined well, tlie 
 once, twice, or thrice in a way at which I have 
 hinted. He mentioned at the conclusion of 
 our last repast that he must reall}^ dine at 
 Madame's to-morrow. 
 
 I don't know what time in the afternoon it 
 was, but it was getting very near dinner-time. 
 A certain inward clock of mine that never 
 goes wrong told me so unmistakably. It was 
 very cold, but we were sitting outside a cafe on 
 the Boulevard ; which you can do in Paris till 
 the thermometer is all sorts of degrees below 
 zero. We were sitting there of course merely 
 for the purpose of reading the latest news 
 from America ; but in deference to received 
 cafe opinion, we were imbibing two petits 
 verres of absinthe, which is a delicious cordial 
 of gall, wormwood, and a few essential oils, 
 and which mixed with a little aniseed and 
 diluted with iced water will give a man a 
 famous appetite for dinner. And thereanent 
 I ventured to propound the momentous ques- 
 tion : ' Where shall we dine ?' 
 
 ' Well,' said my friend, ' I was thinking 
 of — of a crib — well, a sort of club in fact, 
 where I dine almost every day when I am in 
 Paris.' 
 
 I su2:2:ested that he miiiht have some diffi- 
 
 20
 
 30 G Madame B usque s. 
 
 cult}' in introducing me, a stranger, to the club 
 in question. 
 
 '"Why, no,' he answered; 'because you see 
 it isn't exactly a club, because it's a sort of 
 " creamery ;" and, in fact, if you don't mind 
 meeting a few fellows, I think we'd better dine 
 there.' 
 
 I suggested that we had better go home and 
 dress. 
 
 'Oh,' exclaimed my friend, 'nobody dresses 
 there. To tell the truth, it's only at Madame 
 Busque's ; and so I think we'd better be off 
 as fast as we can, for nobody waits for anybody 
 there.' 
 
 I confided myself blindly to the guidance of 
 my friend, consoling myself with the convic- 
 tion that whatever the club or 'creamery' might 
 be, the dinner could be but a dinner after all, 
 and amount to so many francs on this side a 
 napoleon. 
 
 We went u}3 and down a good many streets, 
 whose names I shall not tell you ; for, unless 
 I know what sort of a man you be, and what 
 are your likings and dislikings, I would not 
 have you go promiscuously to Madame 
 Busque's, and perchance abuse her cookery 
 afterwards. At length, after pursuing the 
 sinuosities of a very narrow street, one of the
 
 Madame Basque s. 307 
 
 old, genuine, badly-paved, worse lighted streets 
 of Paris, we slackened our footsteps before a 
 lordly mansion — a vast liotel, with a porte- 
 cochere and many-barred green shutters. My 
 heart sank within me. This must be some 
 dreadfully aristocratic club, I thought, and 
 still mentally I counted my store of five -franc 
 pieces, and wondered tremblingly whether 
 they played lansquenet after dinner. 
 
 ' Is it here ?' I faltered. 
 
 ' Not exactly,' answered my companion, ' but 
 next door — behold !' 
 
 He raised his hand and pointed to a little 
 sign swinging fitfully in the night air and the 
 light of a little lamp j and I read these 
 words : — 
 
 ' Specialite de Pumpkin Pie.' 
 
 ' Enter,' said my friend. 
 
 We entered a little, a very little shop, on 
 whose tiny window-panes were emblazoned 
 half-eifaced legends in yellow paint, relative to 
 eggs, milk, cream, coffee, and broth at all hours. 
 A. solitary candle cast a feeble light upon a 
 little counter, where there was a tea-cup and 
 an account-book of extreme narrowness, but of 
 prodigious length. Behind the counter loomed 
 
 20—2
 
 30S Madame Busque's. 
 
 in tlie darkness visible some shelves, with many 
 bottles of many sizes. Some tall loaves were 
 leaning up in a corner, as if tliey were tired of 
 being the staff of life, and wanted to rest them- 
 selves. A spectre of a pumpkin, a commentary 
 of the text outside, winked in the crepuscule 
 like a yellow eye. There were no eggs, broth, 
 cream, or coffee to be seen ; but there was a 
 pleasant odour of cooking palpable to the 
 olfactory nerves, and this was all. 
 
 ' Push on,' said my friend. 
 
 I pushed on towards another little light in 
 the distance, and then I became sensible of a 
 stronger and yet pleasanter odour of cooking ; 
 of a cheery voice that welcomed my friend as 
 Monsieur Tompkins (let us say), and of another 
 calmer, softer, sweeter voice, that saluted him 
 as her ' amiable cabbage ' — both female voices, 
 and good to hear. 
 
 Pushing still onwards, I found myself in a 
 very small many-sided apartment, which, but 
 for a round table and some chairs, seemed fur- 
 nished exclusively with bottles. There were 
 bottles here and bottles there, bottles above 
 and bottles below, bottles everywhere, like the 
 water round the ship of the Ancient Mariner; 
 but the similarity stopped there, for there were 
 many drops to drink. At the round table,
 
 Madame Basque s. 309 
 
 more tluin three parts covered with bottles, sat 
 five men with beards. They were all large in 
 stature and in beard, and were eating and 
 drinking vigorously. Pasted on the walls above 
 were several portraits in chalk, among which I 
 immediatel}' recognised those of the five bearded 
 cuests. Nobody spoke, but the live beards 
 were bowed in grave courtesy : the clatter of 
 knives and forks relaxed for a moment, to re- 
 commence with redoubled ardour ; and two 
 additional places were found for us at the 
 round table with miraculous silence and promp- 
 titude. Then the proprietor of the cheery 
 voice, a rosy-cheeked country girl, with her 
 handkerchief tied under her chin, whicli at 
 first suggested toothache, but eventually became 
 picturesque, placed before me bread, butter, a 
 snowy napkin, a knife and fork, and a bottle 
 of wine. Then the calm, soft, sweet voice 
 became a presence incarnated in a mild woman 
 with a grey dress and sad eyes, who addressing 
 me as ' dear friend of Monsieur Tompkins,' 
 suggested potage — in which suggestion I 
 acquiesced immediately. 
 
 The round table was of simple oak, and there 
 was no table-cloth. The chairs were straw- 
 bottomed and exceedingly comfortable. The 
 floor was tiled and sanded. A solitary but
 
 310 Madame Busqiies. 
 
 very large wax-candle burnt in an iron candle- 
 stick. The salt-cellar (to prevent any one 
 asking or being asked for it) was neatly poised 
 on the top of a decanter, and was visible to 
 all. Pepper was a superfluity, so excellently 
 seasoned were the dishes. At intervals hands 
 appeared, very much in the White Cat fashion, 
 and tendered sardines, olives, the mild cheese 
 of Brie, the pungent Roquefort, and the porous 
 Gruyere. ' 
 
 I don't mean to say that I had any ortolans, 
 quails, forced asparagus, or hot-house grapes, 
 at Madame Busque's (though I might have 
 had them too, by ordering them), but I do 
 mean to declare, that I had as good, plentiful, 
 clean, well-dressed a dinner as ever Brillat- 
 Savarin or Dr. Kitchener would have desired 
 to sit down to. Wines of the best, liqueurs 
 of the best, coffee of the best, cigars of the 
 best (these last at the exorbitant rate of a 
 penny apiece), and, above all, conversation of 
 the very best. 
 
 For you are not to suppose that the five 
 bearded men were silent during the entire 
 evening. Dinner once discussed, and cigars 
 once lighted, it turned out that the proprietor 
 of one beard was a natural philosopher; 
 another an Oriental linguist ; a third a news-
 
 Madame B usque s. 311 
 
 paper correspondent ; a fourth a physician ; a 
 fifth a vice-consul : — that all liud travelled 
 very nearly over Europe, had ascended Vesu- 
 vius, had smoked cigars in the Coliseum, had 
 taken long walks in the Black Forest. Travel, 
 anecdote, science, literature, art, political dis- 
 cussion, utterly free from personality or pre- 
 judice — all these, with a good and cheap 
 dinner, did I find haphazard at Madame 
 Busque's. 
 
 Nor perhaps was this the only good thing 
 connected with the ' creamery.' I have since 
 found myself the only Englishman among 
 sometimes not five, but fifteen subjects of a 
 one time Great Eepublic, three thousand miles 
 away ; and up to this moment I have never 
 heard the slightest allusion to guessing, calcu- 
 lation, gouging, bowie-knifeing, repudiation, 
 lynching, locofocos, know-nothings, ' Hard- 
 shells,' alligators, snags, or sawyers, or any of 
 the topics on which oiur Republican cousins are 
 supposed almost exclusively to converse. More 
 than this, the much-to-be-abhorred questions 
 of dollars or cents are never broached b}'- any 
 chance. 
 
 I need not say that I dine very frequently 
 at Madame Busque's. I like her ; her 
 cookery ; her guests ; her good-humoured ser-
 
 312 Madame Busques. 
 
 vant Florence, and lier Pumpkin Pie, for 
 which she has a speciahty, and the confection of 
 which was taught her by the vice-consul. I 
 am not going to tell you how cheap her 
 dinners are, or where they are to be had, till 
 I know more of you ; but if you will send me 
 certificates of your good temper and citizenship 
 of the world, I don't mind communicating 
 Madame Busque's address to you, in strict 
 confidence.* 
 
 * Madame Busque, I rejoice to say, realized, mainly through 
 the patronage of Americans visiting Paris, a handsome com- 
 petence, and removed from the Rue de la Michodiere to more 
 pretentious premises in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroi.
 
 XIV. 
 
 THE CLEAN VILLAGE OF BEOCK. 
 
 |NE of the wittiest things that perhaps 
 ever appeared in the pages of Punch was 
 a brief commentary on an advertisement with 
 which some pertinacious upholsterer used, 
 years ago, to worry the public well-nigh to 
 death : — 'To Persons about to Marr3\' 
 * Bout' said celibatarian Punch. It is not 
 unlikely that the bachelor-cynic may liave 
 changed his opinions by this time ; for matri- 
 mony, like learning to dance, is the thing 
 which most people begin b}" sneering at, and 
 end — as their fathers ended before them. In 
 a similar spirit Albert Smith used to wind up 
 a long string of hints addressed to intending 
 continental travellers, by advising them to 
 stay at home ; while, as you know, the hand- 
 books of games which profess to teach you all 
 that can be learnt about whist and loo, cribl^age
 
 314 The Clean VUlage of Brock. 
 
 and all-fours, usually contain, on the title-page, 
 a brief caveat ao-ainst touchinsr cards at all. T 
 have all this ghostly counsel in my mind when 
 I apj)roach the subject of my present chapter, 
 and I begin by saying to you earnestly, frankly, 
 23athetically, ' Don't go to the clean village of 
 Brock.' 'And why,' you may ask, 'being 
 at Amsterdam, should we not pay a visit to a 
 place to which all the world has been?' I 
 answer, very plainly, ' Because the village of 
 Brock is a bore, and a delusion, and a sham, 
 and isn't half so clean as Shepherd's Bush.' 
 
 I know you wont follow my advice. I know 
 that so soon as ever you are installed at Brock's 
 Hotel in the Dodenstraat or the ' Oude Bible' 
 in the Warmocostraat, and have done your 
 Het Palais and your Trippenhuis, you will 
 charter a carriage and be off to Brock ; and 
 that my warning voice will be, once heard, no 
 more remembered than the ' don't touch any 
 champagne' of the doctor to the recent invalid 
 who is going to dine at Francatelli's and is 
 addicted to dry sillery. At the principal 
 show-house in the clean village — I shall con- 
 tinue, for mere conformity's sake, to call it by 
 its usurped and unmerited name — there is a 
 woman with a face, like unto that of one of 
 the highly- trained steeds in the Elgin Marbles.
 
 The Clean Village of Broch. 315 
 
 ' Mozzoo, Mataame P this dreadful person will 
 cry, in tones much more closely resembling a 
 neigh than the human voice divine, ' Mozzoo, 
 Mataame, regardez lihre! You will look at 
 the book, which is as big and as dirty as a 
 parish registry, and find it a kind of Court 
 Director}^ of all nations. It bulges wide as a 
 church door with visiting cards. People have 
 come from all parts of the world to inscribe 
 their names in this monstrous ledger. The 
 four, the five quarters of the globe are all 
 represented here — the Creole Don and the Cir- 
 cassian Prince, the Moldo-Wallachian Boyar, 
 and the Croatian Ban ; your doctor, your 
 lawyer, and your tailor; the Bishop of your 
 diocese; the Marquis of Parintosh, Mr. and 
 ]\Irs. Podsnap ; General Tom Thumb, Madame 
 Malibran, Victor Hugo, Sir Edwin Landseer, 
 the Sheriff of Middlesex, Miss Carolina Wil- 
 helmina Skeggs, and the Lord No Zoo — all 
 have deposited their glazed or ivory pasteboard, 
 their copperplate names and addresses. 
 
 All this, nevertheless, resolves itself into 
 one fact. Being at Amsterdam, you will 
 naturally go to Brock. I know you will, (jio, 
 then, and get your eyes couched. If you are 
 mulct in a dozen guilders, why shouldn't the 
 rest of the tourist world pay as much or more
 
 316 The Clean Village of Brock. 
 
 for the operation ? Oculists must live. Let 
 us continue, then, paying them their fees, even 
 unto the Third Cataract, and then find our- 
 selves as blind as seven-day puppies. Even 
 Bolander admitted that a visit to the dear 
 village of Brock was a perfectly remunerative 
 outla}' of cash. ' Zaandam is cleanerer,' says 
 Bolander. ' Twenty village I take you to, 
 not cost a stuyver, is cleanerest. But what 
 can man do ? It like not going up de Eighi, 
 not going up de Pyramid. Not worth de 
 money. Tire you to death. Yet, must go. 
 What they say in England if you not go ? 
 Carriage ready, sure at ten o'clock to-morrow. 
 Must start early ; take four hours to do Brock 
 comfortable.' 
 
 Thus Bolander: ' What will they say in 
 Enyland?' Ay, there's the rub. It inspires 
 the warrior in distant climes to deeds of des- 
 perate valour ; but it likewise goads the silly 
 tourist to do as other simpletons have done 
 before him. 
 
 So I gave myself over, sciemment, as the Code 
 Napoleon has it, into the hands of Bolander ; 
 and that tormentor took me, on perhaps the 
 most bitterly nipping and cheerless morning 
 that was ever known to occur in an}^ month of 
 December, to the tavern of the Nieuwe Stad's
 
 The Clean VilJafje of Brocl: 317 
 
 Herborg, which is a kind of Dutch Fox-uncle r- 
 the-Hill, supported on piles, of course, in the 
 middle of the Ij. Here I waited half an hour 
 in the cold for a ferry-boat, and was entertained 
 by Bolander with anecdotes of defunct tourists. 
 Bolander is a little man in a very long- snuff- 
 coloured coat, very trustworthy, highly re- 
 commended by the guide-book, and is to be 
 heard of at Brack's in the Dockenstraat. He 
 is immensely old, but very dry in appearance ; 
 at the which I am glad, for a double reason — 
 first that there should be anything chy in this 
 damp metropolis ; next, that as Bolander has 
 now reached the mummified stage, he will 
 probably last an indefinite number of years 
 longer. Bolander was Albert Smith's guide, 
 and accompanied him up the Ehine. He 
 speaks very affectionately of him ; but is given 
 darkly to insinuate that he and not A. S. wrote 
 the major part of the Mont Blanc entertain- 
 ment, and that but for him — Bolander — the 
 Egyptian Hall would have been nowhere. 
 Bolander also wrote Murray's ' Guide-book to 
 Holland and Northern Germany,' and took 
 that admirable series of photographs of Egypt 
 and Nubia which were published, I believe, by 
 Messrs. Negretti and Zambra — at least he was 
 there when somebody else did. In this
 
 31 S The Clean Village of Broch. 
 
 modesty of self-assertion lie reminded me of a 
 communicative gentleman who officiated as 
 oher-kellner at an hotel at Berlin some eight 
 years ago, and who told me that his late 
 Majesty King Frederick William IV. had 
 been until four in the morning at the Carnival 
 Ball at the Opera House. I stared somewhat 
 at this announcement. ' Yes,' said the candid 
 oher-kellner, ' the King have supper in his box, 
 and I wait upon him.' 
 
 Bolander is the most travelled guide I have 
 met with. He has been at it for fifty years. 
 ' I know my Egypt,' he says, ' I knov/ my 
 Spain, my Swisserland, my Eome (three 
 times), my Medicarameans, my Yarmany, and 
 my Eussias ; and I have been backward for- 
 ward to Brock four time in one day, each time 
 take different nation.' I asked him if he ever 
 took a holiday. ' Once,' he responded, ' I go 
 mit all my family by Eotterdam steamer to 
 London for eight day. Ah ! it was delightful 
 time. We buy one little book, and we go 
 about all de eight day and see de sights — de 
 Tower, de Mint, de Bank, St. Paul, the Britons' 
 Museum, de Madam Waxwork in Baker 
 Street — every ting. ' 
 
 The ferry-boat, which was remarkably like a 
 very large tub with the washhouse boiler in
 
 The Clean Villat/e of BrocL :319 
 
 the middle, and had a full cargo of cabbages — 
 vegetables which, in a raw state and in winter 
 time are but chilly and uncomfortable objects 
 to look at — arrived at last, and conveyed us to 
 the south point of Waterland, one and a half 
 mile from Buiksloot. Hence you can see the 
 provinces both of North and South Holland, 
 likewise the' Zuyder Zee ; and you have a well 
 laid out and not uninteresting panorama of the 
 great city of Amsterdam capped by the domes 
 of the Palace and the Lutheran Kerk. It is 
 a panorama worth looking at. It rather takes 
 away your breath to think that these two 
 hundred and sixty thousand human beings, 
 these palaces, churches, prisons, hospitals, 
 merchants' counting-rooms, shops, warehouses, 
 dwellino-s — have no surer foundations than the 
 trunks of trees stuck in the mud ; that nothing 
 but a few planks keeps them from the all- 
 swallowing sea. ' A ship is a prison, with the 
 chance of being drowned,' says the sneering 
 moralist. For how many centuries have these 
 brave Hollanders lain in a watery gaol, and 
 yet how stubbornly free they are ! 
 
 There is another tavern at Waterland where 
 you hire the carriage which is to convey you 
 to Brock and back again, a distance say, of ten 
 miles. For this you have to pay six guilders
 
 320 The Clean Village of Brock. 
 
 witli anything- you please to the driver, who, 
 of course, receives the smallest donation with 
 thankfulness, but appears profoundly ignorant 
 of the existence of any coin lower in denomi- 
 nation than a guilder. This ignorance is 
 common with all persons in any way connected 
 with the clean village. Everything costs a 
 o'uilder that doesn't cost two. The cowherds 
 and the tavern-keepers, the dairymaids and 
 the hostlers who wash the horses' mouths out, 
 all have a lively and cheerful faith in one-and- 
 eightpence, but they are exceedingly sceptical 
 with regard to any smaller currency. 
 
 It did not tend much to enliven one's spirits 
 to perceive that the steeds harnessed to the 
 rickety little britschka we had chartered were 
 those paunchy, hollow-backed, arch-necked, 
 weak-kneed animals of sable hue and flowing 
 manes and tails which in England are ordinarily 
 attached to the stuffy hackney coach smeared 
 with black varnish, in which, accoutred in a 
 hideous masquerade dress of crape and bomba- 
 zine, you follow to Kensal-green the remains of 
 our dear brother departed. I suppose the mourn- 
 ing-coach horse came over to England with 
 William III., but his family has not decreased 
 in Holland. Every livery-stable keeper here 
 seems, from his stud, to do ' black work,'
 
 The CI can VUlafjc of BrocJc. 3.21 
 
 While tliesc funeral prancers, who, like their 
 brethren at home, had a great deal of action 
 and nothing else, were being harnessed to the 
 britschka, Bolander suggested that I should 
 inspect the vast line of dams thrown up of late 
 years, to check the influx of the sea at high 
 tide into the Ij. Tlie dam-keeper's little hut 
 was visible, and his money-taker's box, whence 
 he dispenses tickets at a guilder a head for the 
 privilege of walking over the embankments. 
 I declined patronizing this entertainment, 
 saying that I would see the dams — cut first. 
 Upon my word I think the Dutch would ex- 
 hibit the remains of their great grandmothers 
 preserved in schiedam for money. 
 
 We passed numbers of summer-houses jutting 
 out on piers into the muddy water, where in 
 fine weather the mynheers come to smoke and 
 drink, and sniff the refreshing gales of the 
 odoriferous slush and the spicy ooze. Bolander 
 pointed out a spot in the middle of the Ij 
 where, in the revolutionary war, the Dutch 
 fleet lay, and wliere, the river being frozen, it 
 was captured by a division of French cavalry 
 and flying artillery. But I have heard more 
 wonderful stories than that, Bolander. Did 
 not Colonel Fremantle tell us once of a Yankee 
 gunboat in the Eio Grande which, under the
 
 O .1 .-) 
 
 •J o. .~J 
 
 The Clean Villa(je of Brock. 
 
 broiling heats of July, was caj)tured b}" a 
 squadron of Texan dragoons ? 
 
 The road to Brock runs through the fattest 
 of polders by the side of the Grreat Ship Canal 
 of North Holland — a surprising work of hy- 
 draulic engineering, and extending upwards of 
 fifty miles, right down to the Texel. By its 
 means ships of the largest size and burthen 
 can come iTp to Amsterdam. The canal and 
 port dues are, however, very heavy, and a 
 decided preference is shown by shipowners for 
 the roomy Eotterdam, with its so easily acces- 
 sible Boomjes. We saw one, a huge English 
 barque, coming up the canal, and threatening 
 our britschka with her terrible bowsprit. Just 
 one gleam of home irradiated this dreary dun 
 Dutch landscape as the Charmi'ng Sallij, of 
 Great Grimsby, sailed in a stately manner 
 across our carriage window. I could see the 
 burly English captain, pea-jacketed and red- 
 comfortered, pacing the deck stamping and 
 thrashing his broad chest with crossed arms, 
 to keep himself warm ; his English wife — he 
 must have had good-natured owners — in plaid 
 shawl and black bonnet, knitting by the capstan, 
 a fat baby-boy sprawling and playing like a 
 kitten witli a ball of worsted at her feet ; the 
 great black ship's dog, like a lion couchant,
 
 Tlie Clean Villar/c of Brock. 323 
 
 with his paws hanging idly over the taffrail — 
 a sagacious supercargo he, knowing all about 
 the CkcmiiWfj Sally, her tonnage, rating, charter- 
 parties, bills of lading, and policies of insurance, 
 and holding himself — that good and faithful 
 servant — responsible for all, even for the 
 barlving at that little rascal of a cabin-boy 
 when he does not behave himself. Little 
 cabin-boy is just visible in the aperture of the 
 companion-hatch, where he sits mending his 
 trousers. Forward, a short-legged boatswain, 
 witli terrific whiskers and mahogany visage, is 
 swearing at Jack or Tom in the rigging for a 
 lazy lubberly son of a sea-cook. I cannot hear 
 his voice, but I am sure he is swearing, and that 
 those are the words, with slight additions, he 
 is using ; he would not be a boatswain else. 
 Fouette cocker I There is notbintr on the held 
 of vision now but willows and windmills ; and 
 so God speed the Charming Sally of Great 
 Grimsby on her voyage. 
 
 The carriage pulls up at the door of an ugly 
 wooden cottage, before wliich are collected a 
 number of pairs of wooden shoes, as though 
 this had been some inn at whicli the guests 
 were in the habit of going to bed in the day- 
 time. Is this Brock? No, says Bolander, 
 but it is a dairy farm which everybody is 
 
 21—2
 
 3.24 The Clean Villafje of Brock. 
 
 expected to see. We alight, and passing the 
 threshold find ourselves in what appears to 
 me to he a remarkably dark, dirty, and ill- 
 ventilated cowhouse. The cows seem in the 
 reverse of g^ood condition, and are huddled 
 together in a manner which in England would 
 provoke the criticism of the Grovernment in- 
 spectors of nuisances. It is true that the 
 tiled floor is made out here and there in a 
 grotesque pattern, and that the cross-beams 
 are smeared with coarse scroll work and gaudy 
 hues, as though some mountebanks were about 
 to give a performance. ' You should come in 
 summer,' the dairy farmer says, with a depre- 
 catory smile, seeing, I suppose, anything but 
 admiration expressed in my countenance. I 
 can understand as much Dutch as that amounts 
 to ; and in his deprecatory smile I read the 
 whole mystery of the Brock imposture. The 
 cows, then, are to be got up as a show iii 
 summer, for the visitors to stare at. In winter 
 time they may wallow in this filthy lair. Of 
 course I did not expect to see electro-plated 
 mangers, or an alabaster drinking-tank, or rose- 
 wood buckets, or a small-tooth comb, an ivory- 
 handled hair-brush, a pot of glycerine, and a 
 bottle of cau de Cologne provided for each cow; 
 but, after the tremendous fuss that has been
 
 The Clean Villa r/e of Brock, 325 
 
 made about these dairy farms in countless books 
 ©f travel, I certainly did expect to find some- 
 thing more trim and coquettish than a murky 
 den abounding in bad smells. The story about 
 tlie cows' tails being tied up with blue ribbon 
 I had long dismissed as an idle fable, although 
 I should not be in the least surprised to hear 
 that the show-people did resort to this mode 
 of ornamentation during the summer season, 
 when the visitors come ; but I am free to 
 confess that from one end of the stable to the 
 other there does run a gutter ; that above it, 
 over each stall, a hook is fastened to the ceiling, 
 and that the cows' tails, in order that they 
 may not dangle in the dirt, are tied up to 
 these same hooks. I doubt, however, whether 
 it is worth coming all the way to Brock 
 to verify this not very important fact. ]\Iy 
 general impression on quitting this much- 
 vaunted cowshed w^as that, at a not very 
 remote period, it had been the property of a 
 certain Mynheer Van Augeas, and that the 
 work of the eminent sanitary reformer, Van 
 Hercules, was not yet half concluded. The 
 whole place would certainly have been much 
 the better for a few buckets of cold water. 
 
 The farmer and his family lived under the 
 same roof, and were separated only by a thin
 
 326 The Clean VilJafjc of BrocJc. 
 
 partition from the cowhouse. The kitchen 
 came first, then a kind of best parlour or 
 supping-room. Then a couple of cupboards — 
 they were nothing more — with beds in them. 
 These beds — with half a dozen mattresses, 
 chintz curtains, gilt poles, quilted silk counter- 
 panes, and coverlets of sham Brussels lace — 
 were evidently couches of state ; so that I was 
 much puzzled in my mind to know where the 
 family actually slept. On the floor ? in some 
 friendly cockloft? or among the cows? To 
 show the exquisite cleanliness in which the 
 furniture was kept, and to verify the saying 
 about ' eating your dinner off the deal boards,' 
 the mid-day meal of which the family was 
 partaking, and which I trust had not been 
 hastily improvised, so soon as our carriage- 
 wheels had become audible, was set forth on 
 the table without any cloth, plates, or dishes. 
 A very nasty mess that mid-day meal seemed 
 to be, consisting, so far as a hasty glance 
 could show, of bits of stale bread and tablets 
 of bubble-and-squeak which had been subjected 
 to hydraulic pressure and tlien fried. I did 
 not see any knives, forks, or spoons, and from 
 this, and the fact that the family champed 
 their jaws over their viands in a cheerless and 
 mechanical manner, I was led to surmise that
 
 The Clean Villac/e of B rode. 327 
 
 this mi^lit be, after all, not a real dinner, but 
 a theatrical or pantomime meal, provided in 
 pasteboard by the resident ' propert}^ man,' 
 and made believe to be eaten whenever visitors 
 came to Brock. 
 
 We were glad to pay a guilder and get 
 away from this ' gaff' — as sheer a gaff as any 
 I ever paid a penny to see in the Whitechapel- 
 road. Then we drove on to Brock itself, and 
 had to leave our carriage at a little inn at the 
 entrance, there beino; neither horse nor cart 
 thoroughfare through the clean village. The 
 common room of the inn was very like one in 
 an American village, bare and comfortless — 
 the table slopped with beer and gin, and the 
 floor fertile in evidences that the citizens who 
 came here were in the habit of smoking, and 
 of expectorating a good deal w^hen they smoked. 
 There was a big billiard-table, covered with a 
 cotton cloth ; and this cloth — Bolander having 
 neglected to say we were coming — the}' had 
 neglected to wash. Or perhaps the inn at 
 Brock is not one of the show-places of the 
 clean village. An old woman was asleep 
 over a spinning-wheel in one corner ; the 
 hostess was swabbing her glasses in a little 
 bar ; an idle dog was trying to balance himself 
 on the stump of his tail, and continually
 
 828 The Clean Village of Brock. 
 
 falling in the attempt ; and, squatting on a 
 couple of joint-stools, two boors were playing 
 a rude kind of backgammon, smoking sbort 
 pipes with metal tops, and swilling beer. 
 Presently these gentry fell out over their cups, 
 and one proposed to ' cave' the other's head in 
 with a flagon ; the old woman at the spinning- 
 wheel woke up ; the hostess began to shriek 
 over her glasses ; the idle dog barked furiously ; 
 a girl who was making cheese in the next room 
 popped a gilt-scalped head through the half- 
 opened door ; and the landlord, who had such 
 long legs and such wide shoulders, and such a 
 great unkempt stooping head that he looked like 
 a cow in disguise, came in from the back yard 
 and began to say awful things in low Dutch . All 
 this was delicious to witness ; for, abating the 
 billiard-table — and that, as I have said, was co- 
 vered up — the whole scene became transformed at 
 once into a 'conversation' by Adrian Van Ostade. 
 Peace being restored, Bolander took us for 
 a walk through the clean village of Brock. 
 Visitors are warned by a notice-board in the 
 outskirts not to walk through it without a 
 stopper to their pipes ; but I was much sur- 
 prised to find that no spittoons were provided 
 at the street corners, and that there were no 
 little metal boxes, such as you see in the
 
 The Clean Village of BrocJc. 329 
 
 German railway carriages, to receive tlie ashes 
 of cigars. E/i revanche, ere I had walked fil'ty 
 paces, I saw several highly-respectable muck- 
 heaps and considerable quantities of unmistak- 
 able mud. The village, which is about as 
 large as Thames Ditton, is intersected by those 
 baby canals of which the Dutch are so fond ; 
 the water, as usual, stagnant and foul, and 
 crossed by rickety wooden bridges, the planks 
 in many instances absolutely rotten. The 
 streets — or rather lanes — are all paved, flush 
 from one side to the other, with the hard, 
 narrow Dutch bricks called ' clinkers.' Some 
 of the houses have petrified and vitreous par- 
 terres before them, made of shells and bits of 
 stone and glass stuck in mortar, and arranged 
 in fantastic patterns. The houses are mainly 
 of wood, painted white, with green shutters 
 and shingle roofs. There is a pretty cemetery, 
 but evidently laid out for show ; and I should 
 tremble to be locked in there at the witching 
 time of night, for fear of the ghosts leaping 
 out of their graves and dunning one for 
 guilders. In some of the gardens there must 
 be in the summer time a pretty show of dahlias 
 and tulips ; but there is not in the whole place 
 such a thing as a tall old tree or a cottage 
 covered with ivy.
 
 330 The Clean Village of Br och. 
 
 There is a lianclsome orphan asylum- — an in- 
 stitution which, to the undying honour of the 
 Dutch people, no hamlet, to the meanest, is 
 without; and there is a gloomy old brick 
 church, which was shut up, of course, and 
 which, not containing the tombs of any ad- 
 mirals, no sexton, with a bunch of keys, was 
 in attendance to exhibit. The pastor has, as 
 of right, the handsomest house in Brock ; the 
 schoolhouse is a substantial edifice, but I am 
 not quite certain wliether a squad of ragged 
 and dirt}^ boys who were squabbling aud 
 playing pitch and toss under the church walls, 
 and who would have derived much benefit 
 from a visit from that strong-armed beadle 
 you see in ' Industry and Idleness,' were 
 orphans, or schoolboys, or both. It is likewise 
 extremely unpleasant to mark the ceremonious 
 iind sanctimonious bow or curtsey offered to 
 every stranger in the village by every child he 
 meets. It is not the frank or the timid salu- 
 tation of an English village child. It is ac- 
 companied by an outstretched palm, and a 
 hard, impudent, staring leer, and means, 
 clearly enougli, bac/isheesh. I think that next 
 to a village where there is an ancient en- 
 dowed charity for founders' kin, I would back 
 a show - place for the sure corruption and
 
 Tlie Clean Village of Broch. 331 
 
 demoralization of the population, old and 
 young. 
 
 Tliey were making no butter, and but little 
 cheese, in Brock just then. The resident gentr}- 
 — underwriters, stockbrokers, retired trades- 
 men, and the like — onlv come to Brock in the 
 summer, preferring to winter at the Hague. 
 Bolander did not receive with any great favour 
 a proposition that we should call on the clergy- 
 man or the schoolmaster. It was not cus- 
 tomary, he said. But there was still something- 
 else to see. There was a place to be visited 
 to which all the world went. We were ac- 
 cordingly inducted by the back door into a 
 building which I declare I mistook at first for 
 a secondhand curiosity shop in Wardour Street ; 
 the stock in trade rubbed up with silver sand 
 to look likely. A suite of three rooms and 
 the usual bed cupboards were crammed with a 
 heterogeneous assemblage of objects ; brazen 
 pots and pans innumerable ; kettles and cal- 
 drons ; plates and dishes, carved oak cabinets 
 and presses, paltry plaster casts and sham 
 bronze ornaments of the Lowther Arcade order, 
 and some really good old china. But there 
 was too much of everything : and everything 
 was there evidently for show. We were now 
 presented to the woman with a face like a
 
 332 The Clean Village of Brock. 
 
 horse, and with the strident exordium of 
 'Mozzoo, Mataame/ she led us through the 
 house, expatiating on the whiteness of the 
 floor and the brightness of the kettles and 
 saucepans, until I was as sick of one as of the 
 other. She showed us the famous ledger with 
 its visiting cards from all parts of the world ; 
 she showed us her Sunday clothes, her 'ribbons, 
 chains, and ouches ;' her presses full of linen, 
 and her Brussels lace bed-furniture, but she 
 always kept a hawk eye behind and before her, 
 either to see that we did not steal anything, 
 or to watch whether we did not feel inclined 
 to buy anything. The old china, the lace, and 
 glass were all for sale. In fact, the chief 
 show-house in Brock was a bric-a-brac shop. 
 Finally, she took us into a room and intro- 
 duced us to 'Mign Vader.' Father was a 
 venerable personage with a long beard, who, 
 as I conjectured from a thin curl of smoke 
 proceeding from one side of his jacket, had 
 hastily pocketed his pipe on our entrance. 
 The ' old cuss,' if he will permit me to speak 
 of him by that affectionate although familiar 
 name, was shut up by a window in a very 
 high-backed chair, and a large pair of horn- 
 rimmed spectacles on his good old nose, was 
 making believe to read out of a thundering
 
 The Clean Villafje of Brocl: 333 
 
 old book printed in black letter, with double 
 columns. I am sure it was a good book ; but 
 of" this I am equally sure, tliat if 'Mign 
 Vader,' his spectacles, and his book were not 
 all part of the show, I, and not tluit patriarchal 
 personage, must be a Dutchman. 
 
 The woman who acted as a cicerone seemed 
 very much disappointed when, on going away, 
 I only presented her with a guilder, and did 
 not purchase any old china. She shouted 
 after us that the china was superb, and of the 
 sixteenth century ; but I declined to listen to 
 the voice of the charmer. We went back to 
 the shabby inn, where we had some bread and 
 cheese and execrable beer, for which the host, 
 who resembled a cow in disguise, made us pa}' 
 four shillings English. ' They charge in 
 winter,' whispered Bolander, ' what they call 
 de high price.' I presume they did so for the 
 sake of antithesis ; for nothing could have been 
 lower than the inn itself. 
 
 In conclusion, I have to observe that, al- 
 though Brock is a queer, quaint place enough, 
 there is scarcely a village in Holland that does 
 not offer the same characteristics, which you 
 may study at j^our leisure, without being set 
 upon by a flock of harpies. As to its cleanli- 
 ness, it has been impudently and systematically
 
 334 The Clean Village of Brock. 
 
 exaggerated. I grant all the scrubbing, and 
 polishing, and holystoning, and beeswaxing ; 
 but in a score of instances I saw signs of un- 
 tidiness and shiftlessness, and I will back 
 dozens of English villages, and hundreds of 
 English labourers' cottages, to be five thousand 
 times cleaner than the cleanest house in the 
 ' Clean village of Brock.' 
 
 THE END.
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS^ 
 CHEAP EDITIONS OF POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
 By MRS. HENRY" WOOD, Author of "East Lynne," &c. 
 
 The Red Court Farm. Gs. 
 A Life's Secret. Gs. 
 George Canterbury's Will. Gs. 
 Anne Hereford. Gs. 
 
 Elster's Folly. 6s. 
 St. Martin's Eve. 65. 
 Mildred Arkell. Gs. 
 Trevlyn Hold. Gs. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF "GUY LIVINGSTONE," &c. 
 
 Anteros. Gs. 
 Sword and Gown. 6s. 
 Barren Honour. G.j. 
 Brakespeare. Gs. 
 
 Border and Bastille. Gs. 
 Guy Livingstone. 5s. 
 Maurice Bering. Gs. 
 Sans jNIerci. Gs. 
 
 Also, now ready, Uniform with the above. 
 
 In 1 vol., price 6s., a New and Cheaper Edition of 
 
 Old Maroraret. By Henry Kingsley, Author 
 
 of "GeofFry Hamlyn," "Hetty," " Ravenshoe," &c. 
 
 A Life's Assize. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell, Author 
 
 of "Too Much Alone," "City and Suburb," "George Geith," 
 &c. 6s. 
 
 A Righted Wrong. By Edmund Yates. 6s. 
 Stretton. By Henry Kingsley, Author of 
 
 " GeofFry Hamlyn," &c. 6,^. 
 
 The Eock Ahead. By Edmund Yates. 6.s. 
 
 Black Sheep. By Edmund Yates, (is. 
 
 Not Wisely, but Too Well. By the Author of 
 
 " Cometh up as a Flower." 6s. 
 
 Recommended to Mercy. By the Author of 
 
 "Sink or Swim?" 6s. 
 
 The Seven Sons of Mammon. By G. A. Sala, 
 
 Author of " After Breakfast," &c. 6s. 
 
 The Cambridge Freshman : the Adventures of 
 
 Mr. Golightly. By Martin Legrand. Handsomely Illustrated. 6s. 
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.
 
 TINSLEYS' MAGAZINE, 
 
 An Illustrated Monthly ^ Price One Shilling, 
 Now publishing, 
 
 LONDON^S HEART. By B. L. FAr.jEON, Author of 
 
 "Grif," "Joshua Marvel," and " Blade-o' -Grass." With an 
 Illustration. 
 
 UNDER THE RED DRAGON. By James Grant, 
 
 Author of "The Eomance ofWar," "Only an Ensign," &c. 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME. A new Serial Storv. 
 MUSICAL RECOLLECTIONS OF THE " LAST 
 
 HALF CENTURY. 
 
 Tlie first Nine Volumes of " Tinsleys' Magazine" are now ready. 
 
 Contalninrj : 
 
 THE MONARCH OF MINCING LANE. A Com- 
 
 plete Novel. By the Author of " The Daugliter of Heth," &c. 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. A complete 
 
 Novel. By Mrs. Henry Wood, Author of " East Lynne," &c. 
 
 THE ROCK AHEAD. A complete Novel. By Edmund 
 
 Yates, Author of " Black Sheep," &c. 
 
 BREAKING A BUTTERFLY. A complete Novel. 
 
 By the Author of "Guy Livingstone," &c. 
 
 AUSTIN FRIARS. A complete Novel. By Mrs. 
 
 J. H. ElDDELL, Author of '' George Geith," &c. 
 
 JOSHUA MARVEL. A complete Novel. By B. L. 
 
 Farjeon, Author of "Grif," &c. 
 
 LADY JUDITH. A complete I^ovel. By Justin 
 
 McCarth'X, Author of " My Enemy's Daughter," &c. 
 
 A HOUSE OF CARDS. A complete Novel. By Mrs. 
 
 Cashel Hoey, Author of " Falsely True," &c. 
 
 DOCTOR BRADY. A complete Novel. By W^ H. 
 
 IxUSSELL, LL.D., of the Times. 
 
 THE HON. ALICE BRAND'S CORRESPON- 
 DENCE. 
 
 And numerous Essays and Articles by Popular Authors. 
 
 The above Volumes are elegantly hound in cloth gilt, price Ss.per volume. 
 Cases for Binding may be had of the Publisher, price Is. 6d. each. 
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.
 
 V/OEKS SY CAPTAIN BURTON, F.H.G.S., &c. 
 A NEW BOOK OF TRAVELS. 
 
 Zanzibar. By Capt. R. F. Burton, Author of 
 
 '• A Mission to Gel^le," "Explorations of tlie Higlilands of the 
 Brazil," " Abeokuta," " My Wanderings in West Africa," &c. 
 
 Explorations of the Highhinds of the Brazil ; 
 
 with a full account of the Gold and Diamond Mines ; also, Canoeing 
 down Fifteen Hundred Miles of the great Iviver, Sao Francisco, 
 from Sahara to the Sea. In 2 vols. 8vo, with Map and Illustra- 
 tions, 3O5. 
 
 Letters i'rom the Battle-fields of Paraguay. With 
 
 Map and Illustrations, 18s. 
 
 Abeokuta ; and an Exploration of the Cameroons 
 
 Mountains. 2 vols, post 8vo, with Portrait of the Author, Map, 
 and Illustrations. 25a\ 
 
 The Nile Basin. With Map, &c. post 8vo, 7*'. Gd. 
 A Mission to Gelele. Being a Three Months' 
 
 Residence at the Coui-t of Dahome. In which aie described the 
 Manners and Customs of the Country, including the Human 
 Sacrifice, &c. 2 vols., with Illustrations, 25s. 
 
 My Wanderings in AVest Africa ; from Liverpool 
 
 to Fernando Po. 2 vols. or. 8vo, 21s. 
 
 Wit and Wisdom from West Africa ; or a Book 
 
 of Proverbial Philosophy, Idioms, Enigmas, and Lacnnisms. Com- 
 piled by Rich.\RdF. Buuton, Author of " A Mission to Dahom^,*' 
 '• A Pilgrimage to El Medinah and ]\Ieccah," &c. 12s. Qd. 
 
 WORKS BY GEOEGE AUGUSTUS SALA. 
 My Diary in America in the Midst of War. 
 
 2 vols. 8vo, 30s. 
 
 Notes and Sketches of the Paris Exhibition. 
 
 Svo, 15k. 
 
 From AVaterloo to the Peninsula. 2 vols. 8 vo, 246'. 
 Eome and Venice, with other Wanderings in 
 
 Italy, in 1866-7. Svo, 16s. 
 
 Dutch Pictures. With some Sketches in the 
 
 Flemish Manner. 5s. 
 
 After Breakfast. A Sequel to " Breakfast in 
 
 Bed." 2 vols. 21s. 
 
 Accepted Addresses. 1 vol. crown Svo, 5*. 
 
 TINSLEY BKOTHERS, 18 CATHERINE STREET, STRAND. 
 
 22
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS' NEW BOOKS. 
 
 The Newspaper Press : its Origin, Progress, and 
 
 Present Position. By James Grant, Author of " Eandom Recol- 
 lections." "The Great Metropolis," &c., and late Editor of the 
 Morning Advertiser. 2 vols. 8vo, SOs. 
 
 " It was natural that such a man, to whom the press had been, as it 
 were, the atmosphere he had breathed for half a life-time, should think of 
 recording what he personally knew, or had historically gathered, con- 
 cerning that unique institution." — Standard. 
 
 "Alike by natural gifts and a lifelong experience, Mr. Grant was 
 specially qualified for being the historian of the Newspaper Press." — 
 Elgin Courant. 
 
 " His experience as a writer has been considerable, and his knowledge 
 of all matters connected with the Newspaper Press is more extensive 
 than that of most of his contemporaiies." — Atlienceum. 
 
 Lives of the Kembles. By Percy Fitzgerald, 
 
 Author of "The Life of David Garrick," &c. With Eifteen 
 Portraits and Facsimile Letters, &c. 2 vols. Svo. '60s. 
 
 " Diligent and discursive. Mr. Fitzgerald has produced a clear and 
 tolerably correct summary of all that people in general care to know 
 about tUe Kembles." — Times. 
 
 New Book of Travels by Captain R. F. Burton, F.E.G.S., &c. 
 
 Zanzibar. By Captain R. F. Burton, Author of 
 
 "A Mission to Gelele," "Explorations of the Highlands of the 
 Brazil," " Abeokuta," " My Wanderings in West Africa," &c. 
 2 vols. Svo. SOs. 
 
 The Life and Times of Margaret of Anjou. By 
 
 Mrs. HooKHAM. 2 vols. Svo. 
 
 Recollections. By J. R. Planche. 2 vols. Svo. 
 Prohibitory Legislation in the United States. 
 
 By Justin McCakthy. 1 vol. 2s. Qd. 
 
 Our Living Poets : An Essay in Criticism. By 
 
 H. Buxton Forman. 1 vol. 12s. 
 
 " Mr. Forman's appreciative and judicious volume of criticism will 
 interest e^^ery reader who cares for the subject of which it treats." — 
 P(dl Mall Gazette. 
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE STREET, STEAND.
 
 The Idol in Iloreb : 
 
 Evidence that tlie Golden Image at INIount Sinai 
 was a Cone, and not a Calf. 
 
 WITH THREE APPENDICES. 
 
 By Charles T. Bekk, Ph.D. One vol., 5s. 
 
 Life iienecith the Waves : 
 
 And a Description of the Brighton Aquarium. 
 
 WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 One vol., 23. 6d. 
 
 Muriiiurings in the May and 
 Suminer of Manhood : 
 
 O'ituark's Bride, or the Blood-spark in the 
 
 Emerald ; and Man's Mission a Pilgrimage 
 
 to (ilory's Goal. 
 
 By Edmund Falcoxek. One vol., fs. 
 
 Poems. 
 
 By Edmund Falconer. One vol., 5s, 
 
 Fish Hatching ; 
 
 And the Artificial Culture of Fish. 
 
 By Frank Buckland. 
 WITH FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS. 5s. 
 
 CHAPTER FROM FUTURE HISTORY. 
 
 The Battle of Berlin (Die Schlacht von Konigs- 
 
 berg). By Motly Raxke McCauley. Piice 6d. 
 
 The Cruise of the Anti- Torpedo. Price Gd. 
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.
 
 MORFORD'S 
 
 SHORT-TRIP GUIDE 
 
 TO 
 
 U R O P E. 
 
 [1871.] 
 
 COMPRISING TODRS IN 
 
 ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, IRELAND, WALES, FRANCE, 
 BELGIUM, GERMANY, SWITZERLAND, 
 HOLLAND, ITALY, SPAIN, &c. 
 
 WITH A 
 
 Shorl Tour in the Ead ; a Collation of Travellers 
 Phrases in French and German ; 
 
 AND 
 
 SKELETON TOURS IN AMERICA. 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY MORFO ED, 
 
 Author of " Over Sea," « Paris in 67," &.C., &c. 
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS' 
 
 TWO-SHILLING VOLUMES, 
 
 Uniformly bound in Illustrated Wrappers. 
 To be had at every Railway Stall and of every Bookseller in tlie Kingdom. 
 
 GASLIGHT AND DAYLIGHT. By Gf.oegk Augustus Sala, 
 Author of "After Breakfast," " Dutch Pictures," " My Diary ia 
 the Midst of War," &c. 
 
 GRIF. My B. L. Fakjeon, Author of " Joshua Marvel." 
 
 BROKEN TO HARNESS. By Edmund Yates. 
 
 A PERFECT TREASURE. By the Author of "Lost Sir Mas- 
 singberd." 
 
 MY ENEMY'S DAUGHTER. By Justin .AIcCartht. 
 
 A RIGHTED WRONG. By Edmund Yates. 
 
 NETHERTON-ON-SEA. Edit€d by the late Dean of Canterbury. 
 
 LOVE STORIES OF THE ENGLISH WATERING-PLACES. 
 
 BRAKESPEARE. By the Author of " Guy Livingstone." 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF DR. BRADY. By W. H. Rus- 
 sell, LL.D. 
 
 NOT WISELY, BUT TOO WELL. By the Author of " Cometh 
 up as a Flower." 
 
 SANS MERCI. By the Author of " Guy Livingstone." 
 
 MAURICE DERING. By the same Author. 
 
 RECOMMENDED TO MERCY. By the Author of " Sink or 
 Swim r' 
 
 THE ROCK AHEAD. By Edmund Yates. 
 
 TUB WATERDALE NEIGHBOURS. By Justin McCaetuy. 
 
 THE PRETTY WIDOW. By Chaeles H. Ross. 
 
 MISS FORRESTER. By the Author of " Arciiie Lovell." 
 
 BLACK SHEEP. By Edmund Yates. 
 
 BARREN HONOUR. By the Author of" Guy Livingstone." 
 
 SWORD AND GOWN. By the i?ame Author. 
 
 THE DOWER-HOUSE. ]}y Annie Thomas (Mrs. Pender Cudlip). 
 
 BREAKING A BUTTERFLY ; or Blanche Ellerslie's Ending. 
 By the Author of " Guy Livingstone." 
 
 THE SAVAGE-CLUB PAPERS (1867). With all the Original 
 Illustrations. Also the Second Series, for 1868. 
 
 EVERY-DAY PAPERS. By Andeew Halliday. 
 
 &" The above may also be had, haruhomdy bound in cloth r/ili, 
 2s. 6d. per volume. 
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS' 
 
 S EVE N-AN D-S I XPE N N Y WORKS, 
 
 HANDSOMELY BOUND IN BEVELLED BOARDS. 
 
 The Pilgrim and the Shrine ; or, Passages from 
 
 the Life and Correspondence of Herbert Ainslie, B.A. Cantab. 
 "We recognise in the Author of the 'Pilgrim and the Shrine' an artist 
 who approaches very near to the ideal that liis brilliant pages disclose." — 
 Saturday Review. 
 
 Companion Worl: hij the same Author. 
 
 Higher Law. A Romance in One Volume. 
 
 " That same purity of style, earnestness of tone, that same depth of 
 philosophic reflection, which marked the ' Pilgrim and the Shrine,' may 
 all be found, rendered still more attractive by the bjauty of the story, in 
 the present work." — Westminster Revieiu. 
 
 Moorland and Stream. By W. Barry. One vol., 
 
 crown 8vo, 7s. Qd. 
 
 " A book about sport, free from swagger and slang, abounding in 
 points of quaint humour and touches of artistic perception."— Z)ai^y News. 
 
 Maxims by a Man of the World. By the Author 
 
 of " Lost Sir Massingberd." 
 
 The Adventures of a Bric-a-Brac Hunter. B}^ 
 
 Major Byng Hall. 
 
 The Night Side of London. By J. Ewing Ritchie, 
 
 Author of "About London," &c. New and Enlarged Edition. 
 
 Some Habits and Customs of the Working Classes, 
 
 By A Journeyman Engineer. 
 
 The Great Unwashed. By " The Journeyman 
 
 Engineer." Uniform with " Some Habits and Customs of the 
 Working Classes." 
 
 Essays in Defence of Women. Crown 8vo, hand- 
 somely bound in cloth, gilt, bevelled boards. 
 
 Places and People ; being Studies from the Life. 
 
 By J. C. Parkinson. 
 
 A Course of English Literature. By James 
 
 Hannay. (Suitable for Students and Schools.) 
 
 Modern Characteristics : a Series of Essays from 
 
 the "Saturday Review," revised by the Author/^ , 
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE STREET. STRAND.
 
 
 .V 
 
 ^ -B 
 
 rnm^i^ 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 OJUVD-JO"^ 
 
 .". r r k \ IT rst 
 
 1 *inf 
 
 ''j.lJui'iviur:" "' -*• ".\avaai.rlv>' 
 
 .^- 
 
 •'(31 "J. ," ■■</, 
 
 4.of IV ^^\^rijNivfB% ^^>.ins;' 
 
 ^Oy ll-#' ^'JJlJONVSOl^^^' %a3AINIl 3V\V^' 
 
 ^y %■ . ^, ^^uiB 
 
 1 1 
 
 5 
 
 ;\V^ 
 
 ^rn ^
 
 1. 
 
 3 1158 01123 3771 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL UBRARY FACILITY^ 
 
 AA 000 383 443 9 
 
 ^uv 
 
 
 "3^ 1 
 
 % 
 
 .'i 
 
 ^</Aavadiri^'' 
 
 Jt 
 
 % 
 
 
 
 -T-1 
 
 >- 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 QC 
 
 
 
 - 
 
 < 
 
 
 -^ 
 
 »_► 
 
 
 l*i 
 
 
 '<aMJ.llVJJU:'- 
 
 
 
 ,OF-CAIIFO% 
 
 >- 
 
 
 ^ ^^0} 
 
 ^ ^■ 
 
 C5 
 
 '>6 
 
 ^ 
 
 ■>> 
 
 <'(
 
 i!!;; 
 
 wMm^^Mmm