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The Christmas Books of Mr. M.A. Titmarsh

by William Makepeace Thackeray · English · Gutenberg #2731 · 472,579 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Christmas Books of Mr. M.A. Titmarsh

Author: William Makepeace Thackeray


        
Release date: May 25, 2006 [eBook #2731]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2731

Credits: Produced by Donald Lainson; David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHRISTMAS BOOKS OF MR. M.A. TITMARSH ***




Produced by Donald Lainson





THE CHRISTMAS BOOKS

of

MR. M. A. TITMARSH

by William Makepeace Thackeray




CONTENTS.


CHRISTMAS STORIES.

Mrs. Perkins's Ball

Our Street

Dr. Birch and his Young Friends

The Kickleburys on the Rhine

The Rose and the Ring; or, The History of Prince Giglio and Prince Bulbo




MRS. PERKINS'S BALL.

THE MULLIGAN (OF BALLYMULLIGAN), AND HOW WE WENT TO MRS. PERKINS'S BALL.


I do not know where Ballymulligan is, and never knew anybody who did.
Once I asked the Mulligan the question, when that chieftain assumed a
look of dignity so ferocious, and spoke of "Saxon curiawsitee" in a
tone of such evident displeasure, that, as after all it can matter very
little to me whereabouts lies the Celtic principality in question, I
have never pressed the inquiry any farther.

I don't know even the Mulligan's town residence. One night, as he bade
us adieu in Oxford Street,--"I live THERE," says he, pointing down
towards Oxbridge, with the big stick he carries--so his abode is in that
direction at any rate. He has his letters addressed to several of
his friends' houses, and his parcels, &c. are left for him at various
taverns which he frequents. That pair of checked trousers, in which you
see him attired, he did me the favor of ordering from my own tailor,
who is quite as anxious as anybody to know the address of the wearer. In
like manner my hatter asked me, "Oo was the Hirish gent as 'ad ordered
four 'ats and a sable boar to be sent to my lodgings?" As I did not
know (however I might guess) the articles have never been sent, and the
Mulligan has withdrawn his custom from the "infernal four-and-nine-penny
scoundthrel," as he calls him. The hatter has not shut up shop in
consequence.

I became acquainted with the Mulligan through a distinguished countryman
of his, who, strange to say, did not know the chieftain himself. But
dining with my friend Fred Clancy, of the Irish bar, at Greenwich, the
Mulligan came up, "inthrojuiced" himself to Clancy as he said, claimed
relationship with him on the side of Brian Boroo, and drawing his chair
to our table, quickly became intimate with us. He took a great liking
to me, was good enough to find out my address and pay me a visit: since
which period often and often on coming to breakfast in the morning I
have found him in my sitting-room on the sofa engaged with the rolls
and morning papers: and many a time, on returning home at night for an
evening's quiet reading, I have discovered this honest fellow in the
arm-chair before the fire, perfuming the apartment with my cigars and
trying the quality of such liquors as might be found on the sideboard.
The way in which he pokes fun at Betsy, the maid of the lodgings, is
prodigious. She begins to laugh whenever he comes; if he calls her a
duck, a divvle, a darlin', it is all one. He is just as much a master
of the premises as the individual who rents them at fifteen shillings a
week; and as for handkerchiefs, shirt-collars, and the like articles of
fugitive haberdashery, the loss since I have known him is unaccountable.
I suspect he is like the cat in some houses: for, suppose the whiskey,
the cigars, the sugar, the tea-caddy, the pickles, and other groceries
disappear, all is laid upon that edax-rerum of a Mulligan.

The greatest offence that can be offered to him is to call him MR.
Mulligan. "Would you deprive me, sir," says he, "of the title which was
bawrun be me princelee ancestors in a hundred thousand battles? In
our own green valleys and fawrests, in the American savannahs, in the
sierras of Speen and the flats of Flandthers, the Saxon has quailed
before me war-cry of MULLIGAN ABOO! MR. Mulligan! I'll pitch anybody out
of the window who calls me MR. Mulligan." He said this, and uttered the
slogan of the Mulligans with a shriek so terrific, that my uncle (the
Rev. W. Gruels, of the Independent Congregation, Bungay), who had
happened to address him in the above obnoxious manner, while sitting at
my apartments drinking tea after the May meetings, instantly quitted the
room, and has never taken the least notice of me since, except to state
to the rest of the family that I am doomed irrevocably to perdition.

Well, one day last season, I had received from my kind and most
estimable friend, MRS. PERKINS OF POCKLINGTON SQUARE (to whose amiable
family I have had the honor of giving lessons in drawing, French, and
the German flute), an invitation couched in the usual terms, on satin
gilt-edged note-paper, to her evening-party; or, as I call it, "Ball."

Besides the engraved note sent to all her friends, my kind patroness had
addressed me privately as follows:--


MY DEAR MR. TITMARSH,--If you know any VERY eligible young man, we give
you leave to bring him. You GENTLEMEN love your CLUBS so much now, and
care so little for DANCING, that it is really quite A SCANDAL. Come
early, and before EVERYBODY, and give us the benefit of all your taste
and CONTINENTAL SKILL.

"Your sincere

"EMILY PERKINS."


"Whom shall I bring?" mused I, highly flattered by this mark of
confidence; and I thought of Bob Trippett; and little Fred Spring, of
the Navy Pay Office; Hulker, who is rich, and I knew took lessons
in Paris; and a half-score of other bachelor friends, who might be
considered as VERY ELIGIBLE--when I was roused from my meditation by the
slap of a hand on my shoulder; and looking up, there was the Mulligan,
who began, as usual, reading the papers on my desk.

"Hwhat's this?" says he. "Who's Perkins? Is it a supper-ball, or only a
tay-ball?"

"The Perkinses of Pocklington Square, Mulligan, are tiptop people,"
says I, with a tone of dignity. "Mr. Perkins's sister is married to a
baronet, Sir Giles Bacon, of Hogwash, Norfolk. Mr. Perkins's uncle was
Lord Mayor of London; and he was himself in Parliament, and MAY BE again
any day. The family are my most particular friends. A tay-ball indeed!
why, Gunter . . ." Here I stopped: I felt I was committing myself.

"Gunter!" says the Mulligan, with another confounded slap on the
shoulder. "Don't say another word: I'LL go widg you, my boy."

"YOU go, Mulligan?" says I: "why, really--I--it's not my party."

"Your hwhawt? hwhat's this letter? a'n't I an eligible young man?--Is
the descendant of a thousand kings unfit company for a miserable
tallow-chandthlering cockney? Are ye joking wid me? for, let me tell ye,
I don't like them jokes. D'ye suppose I'm not as well bawrun and bred as
yourself, or any Saxon friend ye ever had?"

"I never said you weren't, Mulligan," says I.

"Ye don't mean seriously that a Mulligan is not fit company for a
Perkins?"

"My dear fellow, how could you think I could so far insult you?" says I.
"Well, then," says he, "that's a matter settled, and we go."

What the deuce was I to do? I wrote to Mrs. Perkins; and that kind
lady replied, that she would receive the Mulligan, or any other of my
friends, with the greatest cordiality. "Fancy a party, all Mulligans!"
thought I, with a secret terror.


MR. AND MRS. PERKINS, THEIR HOUSE, AND THEIR YOUNG PEOPLE.


Following Mrs. Perkins's orders, the present writer made his appearance
very early at Pocklington Square: where the tastiness of all the
decorations elicited my warmest admiration. Supper of course was in
the dining-loom, superbly arranged by Messrs. Grigs and Spooner, the
confectioners of the neighborhood. I assisted my respected friend Mr.
Perkins and his butler in decanting the sherry, and saw, not without
satisfaction, a large bath for wine under the sideboard, in which were
already placed very many bottles of champagne.

The BACK DINING-ROOM, Mr. P.'s study (where the venerable man goes to
sleep after dinner), was arranged on this occasion as a tea-room, Mrs.
Flouncey (Miss Fanny's maid) officiating in a cap and pink ribbons,
which became her exceedingly. Long, long before the arrival of the
company, I remarked Master Thomas Perkins and Master Giles Bacon, his
cousin (son of Sir Giles Bacon, Bart.), in this apartment, busy among
the macaroons.

Mr. Gregory the butler, besides John the footman and Sir Giles's
large man in the Bacon livery, and honest Grundsell, carpet-beater and
green-grocer, of Little Pocklington Buildings, had at least half a
dozen of aides-de-camp in black with white neck-cloths, like doctors of
divinity.

The BACK DRAWING-ROOM door on the landing being taken off the hinges
(and placed up stairs under Mr. Perkins's bed), the orifice was covered
with muslin, and festooned with elegant wreaths of flowers. This was
the Dancing Saloon. A linen was spread over the carpet; and a
band--consisting of Mr. Clapperton, piano, Mr. Pinch, harp, and
Herr Spoff, cornet-a-piston arrived at a pretty early hour, and were
accommodated with some comfortable negus in the tea-room, previous to
the commencement of their delightful labors. The boudoir to the left
was fitted up as a card-room; the drawing-room was of course for the
reception of the company,--the chandeliers and yellow damask
being displayed this night in all their splendor; and the charming
conservatory over the landing was ornamented by a few moon-like lamps,
and the flowers arranged so that it had the appearance of a fairy bower.
And Miss Perkins (as I took the liberty of stating to her mamma) looked
like the fairy of that bower. It is this young creature's first year
in PUBLIC LIFE: she has been educated, regardless of expense, at
Hammersmith; and a simple white muslin dress and blue ceinture set off
charms of which I beg to speak with respectful admiration.

My distinguished friend the Mulligan of Ballymulligan was good enough
to come the very first of the party. By the way, how awkward it is to be
the first of the party! and yet you know somebody must; but for my part,
being timid, I always wait at the corner of the street in the cab, and
watch until some other carriage comes up.

Well, as we were arranging the sherry in the decanters down the
supper-tables, my friend arrived: "Hwhares me friend Mr. Titmarsh?" I
heard him bawling out to Gregory in the passage, and presently he rushed
into the supper-room, where Mr. and Mrs. Perkins and myself were, and
as the waiter was announcing "Mr. Mulligan," "THE Mulligan of
Ballymulligan, ye blackguard!" roared he, and stalked into the
apartment, "apologoizing," as he said, for introducing himself.

Mr. and Mrs. Perkins did not perhaps wish to be seen in this room, which
was for the present only lighted by a couple of candles; but HE was not
at all abashed by the circumstance, and grasping them both warmly by
the hands, he instantly made himself at home. "As friends of my dear
and talented friend Mick," so he is pleased to call me, "I'm deloighted,
madam, to be made known to ye. Don't consider me in the light of a mere
acquaintance! As for you, my dear madam, you put me so much in moind
of my own blessed mother, now resoiding at Ballymulligan Castle, that I
begin to love ye at first soight." At which speech Mr. Perkins getting
rather alarmed, asked the Mulligan whether he would take some wine, or
go up stairs.

"Faix," says Mulligan "it's never too soon for good dhrink." And
(although he smelt very much of whiskey already) he drank a tumbler of
wine "to the improvement of an acqueentence which comminces in a manner
so deloightful."

"Let's go up stairs, Mulligan," says I, and led the noble Irishman to
the upper apartments, which were in a profound gloom, the candles not
being yet illuminated, and where we surprised Miss Fanny, seated in the
twilight at the piano, timidly trying the tunes of the polka which she
danced so exquisitely that evening. She did not perceive the stranger at
first; but how she started when the Mulligan loomed upon her.

"Heavenlee enchanthress!" says Mulligan, "don't floy at the approach of
the humblest of your sleeves! Reshewm your pleece at that insthrument,
which weeps harmonious, or smoils melojious, as you charrum it! Are you
acqueented with the Oirish Melodies? Can ye play, 'Who fears to talk of
Nointy-eight?' the 'Shan Van Voght?' or the 'Dirge of Ollam Fodhlah?'"

"Who's this mad chap that Titmarsh has brought?" I heard Master Bacon
exclaim to Master Perkins. "Look! how frightened Fanny looks!"

"O poo! gals are ALWAYS frightened," Fanny's brother replied; but Giles
Bacon, more violent, said, "I'll tell you what, Tom: if this goes on,
we must pitch into him." And so I have no doubt they would, when another
thundering knock coming, Gregory rushed into the room and began lighting
all the candles, so as to produce an amazing brilliancy, Miss Fanny
sprang up and ran to her mamma, and the young gentlemen slid down the
banisters to receive the company in the hall.


EVERYBODY BEGINS TO COME, BUT ESPECIALLY MR. MINCHIN.


"It's only me and my sisters," Master Bacon said; though "only" meant
eight in this instance. All the young ladies had fresh cheeks and purple
elbows; all had white frocks, with hair more or less auburn: and so a
party was already made of this blooming and numerous family, before the
rest of the company began to arrive. The three Miss Meggots next came in
their fly: Mr. Blades and his niece from 19 in the square: Captain and
Mrs. Struther, and Miss Struther: Doctor Toddy's two daughters and their
mamma: but where were the gentlemen? The Mulligan, great and active as
he was, could not suffice among so many beauties. At last came a brisk
neat little knock, and looking into the hall, I saw a gentleman taking
off his clogs there, whilst Sir Giles Bacon's big footman was looking on
with rather a contemptuous air.

"What name shall I enounce?" says he, with a wink at Gregory on the
stair.

The gentleman in clogs said, with quiet dignity,--


MR. FREDERICK MINCHIN.


"Pump Court, Temple," is printed on his cards in very small type: and he
is a rising barrister of the Western Circuit. He is to be found at home
of mornings: afterwards "at Westminster," as you read on his back door.
"Binks and Minchin's Reports" are probably known to my legal friends:
this is the Minchin in question.

He is decidedly genteel, and is rather in request at the balls of the
Judges' and Serjeants' ladies: for he dances irreproachably, and goes
out to dinner as much as ever he can.

He mostly dines at the Oxford and Cambridge Club, of which you can
easily see by his appearance that he is a member; he takes the joint and
his half-pint of wine, for Minchin does everything like a gentleman.
He is rather of a literary turn; still makes Latin verses with some
neatness; and before he was called, was remarkably fond of the flute.

When Mr. Minchin goes out in the evening, his clerk brings his bag to
the Club, to dress; and if it is at all muddy, he turns up his trousers,
so that he may come in without a speck. For such a party as this,
he will have new gloves; otherwise Frederick, his clerk, is chiefly
employed in cleaning them with India-rubber.

He has a number of pleasant stories about the Circuit and the
University, which he tells with a simper to his neighbor at dinner; and
has always the last joke of Mr. Baron Maule. He has a private fortune of
five thousand pounds; he is a dutiful son; he has a sister married, in
Harley Street; and Lady Jane Ranville has the best opinion of him, and
says he is a most excellent and highly principled young man.

Her ladyship and daughter arrived just as Mr. Minchin had popped his
clogs into the umbrella-stand; and the rank of that respected person,
and the dignified manner in which he led her up stairs, caused all
sneering on the part of the domestics to disappear.


THE BALL-ROOM DOOR.


A hundred of knocks follow Frederick Minchin's: in half an hour Messrs.
Spoff, Pinch, and Clapperton have begun their music, and Mulligan, with
one of the Miss Bacons, is dancing majestically in the first quadrille.
My young friends Giles and Tom prefer the landing-place to the
drawing-rooms, where they stop all night, robbing the refreshment-trays
as they come up or down. Giles has eaten fourteen ices: he will have a
dreadful stomach-ache to-morrow. Tom has eaten twelve, but he has had
four more glasses of negus than Giles. Grundsell, the occasional waiter,
from whom Master Tom buys quantities of ginger-beer, can of course deny
him nothing. That is Grundsell, in the tights, with the tray. Meanwhile
direct your attention to the three gentlemen at the door: they are
conversing.

1st Gent.--Who's the man of the house--the bald man?

2nd Gent.--Of course. The man of the house is always bald. He's a
stockbroker, I believe. Snooks brought me.

1st Gent.--Have you been to the tea-room? There's a pretty girl in the
tea-room; blue eyes, pink ribbons, that kind of thing.

2nd Gent.--Who the deuce is that girl with those tremendous shoulders?
Gad! I do wish somebody would smack 'em.

3rd Gent.--Sir--that young lady is my niece, sir,--my niece--my name is
Blades, sir.

2nd Gent.--Well, Blades! smack your niece's shoulders: she deserves it,
begad! she does. Come in, Jinks, present me to the Perkinses.--Hullo!
here's an old country acquaintance--Lady Bacon, as I live! with all the
piglings; she never goes out without the whole litter. (Exeunt 1st and
2nd Gents.)


LADY BACON, THE MISS BACONS, MR. FLAM.


Lady B.--Leonora! Maria! Amelia! here is the gentleman we met at Sir
John Porkington's.

[The MISSES BACON, expecting to be asked to dance, smile simultaneously,
and begin to smooth their tuckers.]

Mr. Flam.--Lady Bacon! I couldn't be mistaken in YOU! Won't you dance,
Lady Bacon?

Lady B.--Go away, you droll creature!

Mr. Flam.--And these are your ladyship's seven lovely sisters, to judge
from their likenesses to the charming Lady Bacon?

Lady B.--My sisters, he! he! my DAUGHTERS, Mr. Flam, and THEY dance,
don't you, girls?

The Misses Bacon.--O yes!

Mr. Flam.--Gad! how I wish I was a dancing man!

[Exit FLAM.


MR. LARKINS.


I have not been able to do justice (only a Lawrence could do that) to my
respected friend Mrs. Perkins, in this picture; but Larkins's portrait
is considered very like. Adolphus Larkins has been long connected with
Mr. Perkins's City establishment, and is asked to dine twice or thrice
per annum. Evening-parties are the great enjoyment of this simple youth,
who, after he has walked from Kentish Town to Thames Street, and passed
twelve hours in severe labor there, and walked back again to Kentish
Town, finds no greater pleasure than to attire his lean person in that
elegant evening costume which you see, to walk into town again, and to
dance at anybody's house who will invite him. Islington, Pentonville,
Somers Town, are the scenes of many of his exploits; and I have seen
this good-natured fellow performing figure-dances at Notting-hill, at
a house where I am ashamed to say there was no supper, no negus even
to speak of, nothing but the bare merits of the polka in which Adolphus
revels. To describe this gentleman's infatuation for dancing, let me
say, in a word, that he will even frequent boarding-house hops, rather
than not go.

He has clogs, too, like Minchin: but nobody laughs at HIM. He gives
himself no airs; but walks into a house with a knock and a demeanor so
tremulous and humble, that the servants rather patronize him. He does
not speak, or have any particular opinions, but when the time comes,
begins to dance. He bleats out a word or two to his partner during this
operation, seems very weak and sad during the whole performance, and, of
course, is set to dance with the ugliest women everywhere.

The gentle, kind spirit! when I think of him night after night, hopping
and jigging, and trudging off to Kentish Town, so gently, through the
fogs, and mud, and darkness: I do not know whether I ought to admire
him, because his enjoyments are so simple, and his dispositions so
kindly; or laugh at him, because he draws his life so exquisitely mild.
Well, well, we can't be all roaring lions in this world; there must be
SOME lambs, and harmless, kindly, gregarious creatures for eating
and shearing. See! even good-natured Mrs. Perkins is leading up the
trembling Larkins to the tremendous Miss Bunion!


MISS BUNION.


The Poetess, author of "Heartstrings," "The Deadly Nightshade," "Passion
Flowers," &c. Though her poems breathe only of love, Miss B. has never
been married. She is nearly six feet high; she loves waltzing beyond
even poesy; and I think lobster-salad as much as either. She confesses
to twenty-eight; in which case her first volume, "The Orphan of Gozo,"
(cut up by Mr. Rigby, in the Quarterly, with his usual kindness,) must
have been published when she was three years old.

For a woman all soul, she certainly eats as much as any woman I ever
saw. The sufferings she has had to endure, are, she says, beyond
compare; the poems which she writes breathe a withering passion, a
smouldering despair, an agony of spirit that would melt the soul of a
drayman, were he to read them. Well, it is a comfort to see that she
can dance of nights, and to know (for the habits of illustrious literary
persons are always worth knowing) that she eats a hot mutton-chop for
breakfast every morning of her blighted existence.

She lives in a boardinghouse at Brompton, and comes to the party in a
fly.


MR. HICKS.


It is worth twopence to see Miss Bunion and Poseidon Hicks, the great
poet, conversing with one another, and to talk of one to the other
afterwards. How they hate each other! I (in my wicked way) have sent
Hicks almost raving mad, by praising Bunion to him in confidence; and
you can drive Bunion out of the room by a few judicious panegyrics of
Hicks.

Hicks first burst upon the astonished world with poems, in the Byronic
manner: "The Death-Shriek," "The Bastard of Lara," "The Atabal," "The
Fire-Ship of Botzaris," and other works. His "Love Lays," in Mr. Moore's
early style, were pronounced to be wonderfully precocious for a young
gentleman then only thirteen, and in a commercial academy, at Tooting.

Subsequently, this great bard became less passionate and more
thoughtful; and, at the age of twenty, wrote "Idiosyncracy" (in forty
books, 4to.): "Ararat," "a stupendous epic," as the reviews said;
and "The Megatheria," "a magnificent contribution to our pre-Adamite
literature," according to the same authorities. Not having read these
works, it would ill become me to judge them; but I know that poor
Jingle, the publisher, always attributed his insolvency to the latter
epic, which was magnificently printed in elephant folio.

Hicks has now taken a classical turn, and has brought out "Poseidon,"
"Iacchus," "Hephaestus," and I dare say is going through the mythology.
But I should not like to try him at a passage of the Greek Delectus,
any more than twenty thousand others of us who have had a "classical
education."

Hicks was taken in an inspired attitude regarding the chandelier, and
pretending he didn't know that Miss Pettifer was looking at him.

Her name is Anna Maria (daughter of Higgs and Pettifer, solicitors,
Bedford Row); but Hicks calls her "Ianthe" in his album verses, and is
himself an eminent drysalter in the city.


MISS MEGGOT.


Poor Miss Meggot is not so lucky as Miss Bunion. Nobody comes to dance
with HER, though she has a new frock on, as she calls it, and rather a
pretty foot, which she always manages to stick out.

She is forty-seven, the youngest of three sisters, who live a mouldy old
house, near Middlesex Hospital, where they have lived for I don't know
how many score of years; but this is certain: the eldest Miss Meggot saw
the Gordon Riots out of that same parlor window, and tells the story
how her father (physician to George III.) was robbed of his queue in the
streets on that occasion. The two old ladies have taken the brevet rank,
and are addressed as Mrs. Jane and Mrs. Betsy: one of them is at whist
in the back drawing-room. But the youngest is still called Miss Nancy,
and is considered quite a baby by her sisters.

She was going to be married once to a brave young officer, Ensign Angus
Macquirk, of the Whistlebinkie Fencibles; but he fell at Quatre Bras,
by the side of the gallant Snuffmull, his commander. Deeply, deeply did
Miss Nancy deplore him.

But time has cicatrized the wounded heart. She is gay now, and would
sing or dance, ay, or marry if anybody asked her.

Do go, my dear friend--I don't mean to ask her to marry, but to ask her
to dance.--Never mind the looks of the thing. It will make her happy;
and what does it cost you? Ah, my dear fellow! take this counsel: always
dance with the old ladies--always dance with the governesses. It is
a comfort to the poor things when they get up in their garret that
somebody has had mercy on them. And such a handsome fellow as YOU too!


MISS RANVILLE, REV. MR. TOOP, MISS MULLINS, MR. WINTER.


Mr. W. Miss Mullins, look at Miss Ranville: what a picture of good
humor.

Miss M.--Oh, you satirical creature!

Mr. W.--Do you know why she is so angry? she expected to dance with
Captain Grig, and by some mistake, the Cambridge Professor got hold of
her: isn't he a handsome man?

Miss M.--Oh, you droll wretch!

Mr. W.--Yes, he's a fellow of college--fellows mayn't marry, Miss
Mullins--poor fellows, ay, Miss Mullins?

Miss M.--La!

Mr. W.--And Professor of Phlebotomy in the University. He flatters
himself he is a man of the world, Miss Mullins, and always dances in the
long vacation.

Miss M.--You malicious, wicked monster!

Mr. W.--Do you know Lady Jane Ranville? Miss Ranville's mamma. A ball
once a year; footmen in canary-colored livery: Baker Street; six dinners
in the season; starves all the year round; pride and poverty, you know;
I've been to her ball ONCE. Ranville Ranville's her brother, and between
you and me--but this, dear Miss Mullins, is a profound secret,--I think
he's a greater fool than his sister.

Miss M.--Oh, you satirical, droll, malicious, wicked thing you!

Mr. W.--You do me injustice, Miss Mullins, indeed you do.

[Chaine Anglaise.]


MISS JOY, MR. AND MRS. JOY, MR. BOTTER.


Mr. B.--What spirits that girl has, Mrs. Joy!

Mr. J.--She's a sunshine in a house, Botter, a regular sunshine. When
Mrs. J. here's in a bad humor, I . . .

Mrs. J.--Don't talk nonsense, Mr. Joy.

Mrs. B.--There's a hop, skip, and jump for you! Why, it beats Ellsler!
Upon my conscience it does! It's her fourteenth quadrille too. There she
goes! She's a jewel of a girl, though I say it that shouldn't.

Mrs. J. (laughing).--Why don't you marry her, Botter? Shall I speak to
her? I dare say she'd have you. You're not so VERY old.

Mr. B.--Don't aggravate me, Mrs. J. You know when I lost my heart in
the year 1817, at the opening of Waterloo Bridge, to a young lady who
wouldn't have me, and left me to die in despair, and married Joy, of the
Stock Exchange.

Mrs. J. Get away, you foolish old creature.

[MR. JOY looks on in ecstasies at Miss Joy's agility. LADY JANE
RANVILLE, of Baker Street, pronounces her to be an exceedingly forward
person. CAPTAIN DOBBS likes a girl who has plenty of go in her; and as
for FRED SPARKS, he is over head and ears in love with her.]


MR. RANVILLE RANVILLE AND JACK HUBBARD.


This is Miss Ranville Ranville's brother, Mr. Ranville Ranville, of the
Foreign Office, faithfully designed as he was playing at whist in the
card-room. Talleyrand used to play at whist at the "Travellers'," that
is why Ranville Ranville indulges in that diplomatic recreation. It is
not his fault if he be not the greatest man in the room.

If you speak to him, he smiles sternly, and answers in monosyllables he
would rather die than commit himself. He never has committed himself in
his life. He was the first at school, and distinguished at Oxford. He is
growing prematurely bald now, like Canning, and is quite proud of it. He
rides in St. James's Park of a morning before breakfast. He dockets his
tailor's bills, and nicks off his dinner-notes in diplomatic paragraphs,
and keeps precis of them all. If he ever makes a joke, it is a quotation
from Horace, like Sir Robert Peel. The only relaxation he permits
himself, is to read Thucydides in the holidays.

Everybody asks him out to dinner, on account of his brass-buttons with
the Queen's cipher, and to have the air of being well with the Foreign
Office. "Where I dine," he says solemnly, "I think it is my duty to
go to evening-parties." That is why he is here. He never dances, never
sups, never drinks. He has gruel when he goes home to bed. I think it is
in his brains.

He is such an ass and so respectable, that one wonders he has not
succeeded in the world; and yet somehow they laugh at him; and you and I
shall be Ministers as soon as he will.

Yonder, making believe to look over the print-books, is that merry
rogue, Jack Hubbard.

See how jovial he looks! He is the life and soul of every party, and
his impromptu singing after supper will make you die of laughing. He is
meditating an impromptu now, and at the same time thinking about a bill
that is coming due next Thursday. Happy dog!


MRS. TROTTER, MISS TROTTER, MISS TOADY, LORD METHUSELAH.


Dear Emma Trotter has been silent and rather ill-humored all the evening
until now her pretty face lights up with smiles. Cannot you guess why?
Pity the simple and affectionate creature! Lord Methuselah has not
arrived until this moment: and see how the artless girl steps forward to
greet him!

In the midst of all the selfishness and turmoil of the world, how
charming it is to find virgin hearts quite unsullied, and to look on
at little romantic pictures of mutual love! Lord Methuselah, though you
know his age by the peerage--though he is old, wigged, gouty, rouged,
wicked, has lighted up a pure flame in that gentle bosom. There was a
talk about Tom Willoughby last year; and then, for a time, young Hawbuck
(Sir John Hawbuck's youngest son) seemed the favored man; but Emma never
knew her mind until she met the dear creature before you in a Rhine
steamboat. "Why are you so late, Edward?" says she. Dear artless child!

Her mother looks on with tender satisfaction. One can appreciate the
joys of such an admirable parent!

"Look at them!" says Miss Toady. "I vow and protest they're the
handsomest couple in the room!"

Methuselah's grandchildren are rather jealous and angry, and
Mademoiselle Ariane, of the French theatre, is furious. But there's no
accounting for the mercenary envy of some people; and it is impossible
to satisfy everybody.


MR. BEAUMORIS, MR. GRIG, MR. FLYNDERS.


Those three young men are described in a twinkling: Captain Grig of the
Heavies; Mr. Beaumoris, the handsome young man; Tom Flinders (Flynders
Flynders he now calls himself), the fat gentleman who dresses after
Beaumoris.

Beaumoris is in the Treasury: he has a salary of eighty pounds a year,
on which he maintains the best cab and horses of the season; and out of
which he pays seventy guineas merely for his subscriptions to clubs. He
hunts in Leicestershire, where great men mount him; he is a prodigious
favorite behind the scenes at the theatres; you may get glimpses of him
at Richmond, with all sorts of pink bonnets; and he is the sworn friend
of half the most famous roues about town, such as Old Methuselah, Lord
Billygoat, Lord Tarquin, and the rest: a respectable race. It is to
oblige the former that the good-natured young fellow is here to-night;
though it must not be imagined that he gives himself any airs of
superiority. Dandy as he is, he is quite affable, and would borrow ten
guineas from any man in the room, in the most jovial way possible.

It is neither Beau's birth, which is doubtful; nor his money, which
is entirely negative; nor his honesty, which goes along with his
money-qualification; nor his wit, for he can barely spell,--which
recommend him to the fashionable world: but a sort of Grand Seigneur
splendor and dandified je ne scais quoi, which make the man he is of
him. The way in which his boots and gloves fit him is a wonder which no
other man can achieve; and though he has not an atom of principle, it
must be confessed that he invented the Taglioni shirt.

When I see these magnificent dandies yawning out of "White's," or
caracoling in the Park on shining chargers, I like to think that
Brummell was the greatest of them all, and that Brummell's father was a
footman.

Flynders is Beaumoris's toady: lends him money: buys horses through his
recommendation; dresses after him; clings to him in Pall Mall, and on
the steps of the club; and talks about 'Bo' in all societies. It is his
drag which carries down Bo's friends to the Derby, and his cheques pay
for dinners to the pink bonnets. I don't believe the Perkinses know
what a rogue it is, but fancy him a decent, reputable City man, like his
father before him.

As for Captain Grig, what is there to tell about him? He performs the
duties of his calling with perfect gravity. He is faultless on parade;
excellent across country; amiable when drunk, rather slow when sober. He
has not two ideas, and is a most good-natured, irreproachable, gallant,
and stupid young officer.


CAVALIER SEUL.


This is my friend Bob Hely, performing the Cavalier seul in a quadrille.
Remark the good-humored pleasure depicted in his countenance. Has he any
secret grief? Has he a pain anywhere? No, dear Miss Jones, he is dancing
like a true Briton, and with all the charming gayety and abandon of our
race.

When Canaillard performs that Cavalier seul operation, does HE flinch?
No: he puts on his most vainqueur look, he sticks his thumbs into the
armholes of his waistcoat, and advances, retreats, pirouettes, and
otherwise gambadoes, as though to say, "Regarde moi, O monde! Venez, O
femmes, venez voir danser Canaillard!"

When De Bobwitz executes the same measure, he does it with smiling
agility, and graceful ease.

But poor Hely, if he were advancing to a dentist, his face would not be
more cheerful. All the eyes of the room are upon him, he thinks; and he
thinks he looks like a fool.

Upon my word, if you press the point with me, dear Miss Jones, I think
he is not very far from right. I think that while Frenchmen and Germans
may dance, as it is their nature to do, there is a natural dignity about
us Britons, which debars us from that enjoyment. I am rather of the
Turkish opinion, that this should be done for us. I think . . .

"Good-by, you envious old fox-and-the-grapes," says Miss Jones, and the
next moment I see her whirling by in a polka with Tom Tozer, at a pace
which makes me shrink back with terror into the little boudoir.


M. CANAILLARD, CHEVALIER OF THE LEGION OF HONOR.

LIEUTENANT BARON DE BOBWITZ.


Canaillard. Oh, ces Anglais! quels hommes, mon Dieu! Comme ils sont
habilles, comme ils dansent!

Bobwitz.--Ce sont de beaux hommes bourtant; point de tenue militaire,
mais de grands gaillards; si je les avais dans ma compagnie de la Garde,
j'en ferai de bons soldats.

Canaillard.--Est-il bete, cet Allemand! Les grands hommes ne font pas
toujours de bons soldats, Monsieur. Il me semble que les soldats de
France qui sont de ma taille, Monsieur, valent un peu mieux . . .

Bobwitz.--Vous croyez?

Canaillard.--Comment! je le crois, Monsieur? J'en suis sur! Il me
semble, Monsieur, que nous l'avons prouve.

Bobwitz (impatiently).--Je m'en vais danser la Bolka. Serviteur,
Monsieur.

Canaillard.--Butor! (He goes and looks at himself in the glass, when he
is seized by Mrs. Perkins for the Polka.)


THE BOUDOIR.

MR. SMITH, MR. BROWN, MISS BUSTLETON.


Mr. Brown.--You polk, Miss Bustleton? I'm SO delaighted.

Miss Bustleton.--[Smiles and prepares to rise.]

Mr. Smith.--D--- puppy.

(Poor Smith don't polk.)


GRAND POLKA.


Though a quadrille seems to me as dreary as a funeral, yet to look at a
polka, I own, is pleasant. See! Brown and Emily Bustleton are whirling
round as light as two pigeons over a dovecot; Tozer, with that wicked
whisking little Jones, spins along as merrily as a May-day sweep; Miss
Joy is the partner of the happy Fred Sparks; and even Miss Ranville
is pleased, for the faultless Captain Grig is toe and heel with her.
Beaumoris, with rather a nonchalant air, takes a turn with Miss Trotter,
at which Lord Methuseleh's wrinkled chops quiver uneasily. See! how the
big Baron de Bobwitz spins lightly, and gravely, and gracefully round;
and lo! the Frenchman staggering under the weight of Miss Bunion, who
tramps and kicks like a young cart-horse.

But the most awful sight which met my view in this dance was the
unfortunate Miss Little, to whom fate had assigned THE MULLIGAN as a
partner. Like a pavid kid in the talons of an eagle, that young creature
trembled in his huge Milesian grasp. Disdaining the recognized form of
the dance, the Irish chieftain accommodated the music to the dance of
his own green land, and performed a double shuffle jig, carrying Miss
Little along with him. Miss Ranville and her Captain shrank back
amazed; Miss Trotter skirried out of his way into the protection of the
astonished Lord Methuselah; Fred Sparks could hardly move for laughing;
while, on the contrary, Miss Joy was quite in pain for poor Sophy
Little. As Canaillard and the Poetess came up, The Mulligan, in the
height of his enthusiasm, lunged out a kick which sent Miss Bunion
howling; and concluded with a tremendous Hurroo!--a war-cry which caused
every Saxon heart to shudder and quail.

"Oh that the earth would open and kindly take me in!" I exclaimed
mentally; and slunk off into the lower regions, where by this time half
the company were at supper.


THE SUPPER.


The supper is going on behind the screen. There is no need to draw
the supper. We all know that sort of transaction: the squabbling, and
gobbling, and popping of champagne; the smell of musk and lobster-salad;
the dowagers chumping away at plates of raised pie; the young lassies
nibbling at little titbits, which the dexterous young gentlemen procure.
Three large men, like doctors of divinity, wait behind the table, and
furnish everything that appetite can ask for. I never, for my part, can
eat any supper for wondering at those men. I believe if you were to
ask them for mashed turnips, or a slice of crocodile, those astonishing
people would serve you. What a contempt they must have for the guttling
crowd to whom they minister--those solemn pastry-cook's men! How they
must hate jellies, and game-pies, and champagne, in their hearts! How
they must scorn my poor friend Grundsell behind the screen, who is
sucking at a bottle!

This disguised green-grocer is a very well-known character in the
neighborhood of Pocklington Square. He waits at the parties of the
gentry in the neighborhood, and though, of course, despised in families
where a footman is kept, is a person of much importance in female
establishments.

Miss Jonas always employs him at her parties, and says to her page,
"Vincent, send the butler, or send Desborough to me;" by which name she
chooses to designate G. G.

When the Miss Frumps have post-horses to their carriage, and pay visits,
Grundsell always goes behind. Those ladies have the greatest confidence
in him, have been godmothers to fourteen of his children, and leave
their house in his charge when they go to Bognor for the summer. He
attended those ladies when they were presented at the last drawing-room
of her Majesty Queen Charlotte.

                             GEORGE GRUNDSELL,

                         GREEN-GROCER AND SALESMAN,

                      9, LITTLE POCKLINGTON BUILDINGS,

                  LATE CONFIDENTIAL SERVANT IN THE FAMILY OF

                          THE LORD MAYOR OF LONDON.


     Carpets Beat.--Knives and Boots cleaned per contract.--Errands
     faithfully performed--G. G. attends Ball and Dinner parties,
     and from his knowledge of the most distinguished Families in
     London, confidently recommends his services to the
     distinguished neighbourhood of Pocklington Square.

Mr. Grundsell's state costume is a blue coat and copper buttons, a white
waistcoat, and an immense frill and shirt-collar. He was for many years
a private watchman, and once canvassed for the office of parish clerk
of St. Peter's Pocklington. He can be intrusted with untold spoons; with
anything, in fact, but liquor; and it was he who brought round the cards
for MRS. PERKINS'S BALL.


AFTER SUPPER.


I do not intend to say any more about it. After the people had supped,
they went back and danced. Some supped again. I gave Miss Bunion,
with my own hands, four bumpers of champagne: and such a quantity
of goose-liver and truffles, that I don't wonder she took a glass of
cherry-brandy afterwards. The gray morning was in Pocklington Square as
she drove away in her fly. So did the other people go away. How green
and sallow some of the girls looked, and how awfully clear Mrs. Colonel
Bludyer's rouge was! Lady Jane Ranville's great coach had roared away
down the streets long before. Fred Minchin pattered off in his clogs:
it was I who covered up Miss Meggot, and conducted her, with her two
old sisters, to the carriage. Good old souls! They have shown their
gratitude by asking me to tea next Tuesday. Methuselah is gone to finish
the night at the club. "Mind to-morrow," Miss Trotter says, kissing
her hand out of the carriage. Canaillard departs, asking the way to
"Lesterre Squar." They all go away--life goes away.

Look at Miss Martin and young Ward! How tenderly the rogue is wrapping
her up! how kindly she looks at him! The old folks are whispering behind
as they wait for their carriage. What is their talk, think you? and when
shall that pair make a match? When you see those pretty little creatures
with their smiles and their blushes, and their pretty ways, would you
like to be the Grand Bashaw?

"Mind and send me a large piece of cake," I go up and whisper archly to
old Mr. Ward: and we look on rather sentimentally at the couple, almost
the last in the rooms (there, I declare, go the musicians, and the clock
is at five)--when Grundsell, with an air effare, rushes up to me and
says, "For e'v'n sake, sir, go into the supper-room: there's that Hirish
gent a-pitchin' into Mr. P."


THE MULLIGAN AND MR. PERKINS.


It was too true. I had taken him away after supper (he ran after Miss
Little's carriage, who was dying in love with him as he fancied), but
the brute had come back again. The doctors of divinity were putting up
their condiments: everybody was gone; but the abominable Mulligan sat
swinging his legs at the lonely supper-table!

Perkins was opposite, gasping at him.

The Mulligan.--I tell ye, ye are the butler, ye big fat man. Go get me
some more champagne: it's good at this house.

Mr. Perkins (with dignity).--It IS good at this house; but--

The Mulligan.--Bht hwhat, ye goggling, bow-windowed jackass? Go get the
wine, and we'll dthrink it together, my old buck.

Mr. Perkins.--My name, sir, is PERKINS.

The Mulligan.--Well, that rhymes with jerkins, my man of firkins; so
don't let us have any more shirkings and lurkings, Mr. Perkins.

Mr. Perkins (with apoplectic energy).--Sir, I am the master of this
house; and I order you to quit it. I'll not be insulted, sir. I'll send
for a policeman, sir. What do you mean, Mr. Titmarsh, sir, by bringing
this--this beast into my house, sir?

At this, with a scream like that of a Hyrcanian tiger, Mulligan of the
hundred battles sprang forward at his prey; but we were beforehand with
him. Mr. Gregory, Mr. Grundsell, Sir Giles Bacon's large man, the young
gentlemen, and myself, rushed simultaneously upon the tipsy chieftain,
and confined him. The doctors of divinity looked on with perfect
indifference. That Mr. Perkins did not go off in a fit is a wonder. He
was led away heaving and snorting frightfully.

Somebody smashed Mulligan's hat over his eyes, and I led him forth into
the silent morning. The chirrup of the birds, the freshness of the rosy
air, and a penn'orth of coffee that I got for him at a stall in the
Regent Circus, revived him somewhat. When I quitted him, he was not
angry but sad. He was desirous, it is true, of avenging the wrongs of
Erin in battle line; he wished also to share the grave of Sarsfield and
Hugh O'Neill; but he was sure that Miss Perkins, as well as Miss Little,
was desperately in love with him; and I left him on a doorstep in tears.


"Is it best to be laughing-mad, or crying-mad, in the world?" says I
moodily, coming into my street. Betsy the maid was already up and at
work, on her knees, scouring the steps, and cheerfully beginning her
honest daily labor.




OUR STREET

BY MR. M. A TITMARSH.


Our street, from the little nook which I occupy in it, and whence I
and a fellow-lodger and friend of mine cynically observe it, presents a
strange motley scene. We are in a state of transition. We are not as yet
in the town, and we have left the country, where we were when I came
to lodge with Mrs. Cammysole, my excellent landlady. I then took
second-floor apartments at No. 17, Waddilove Street, and since, although
I have never moved (having various little comforts about me), I find
myself living at No. 46A, Pocklington Gardens.

Why is this? Why am I to pay eighteen shillings instead of fifteen? I
was quite as happy in Waddilove Street; but the fact is, a great
portion of that venerable old district has passed away, and we are being
absorbed into the splendid new white-stuccoed Doric-porticoed genteel
Pocklington quarter. Sir Thomas Gibbs Pocklington, M. P. for the borough
of Lathanplaster, is the founder of the district and his own fortune.
The Pocklington Estate Office is in the Square, on a line with
Waddil--with Pocklington Gardens I mean. The old inn, the "Ram and
Magpie," where the market-gardeners used to bait, came out this year
with a new white face and title, the shield, &c. of the "Pocklington
Arms." Such a shield it is! Such quarterings! Howard, Cavendish, De Ros,
De la Zouche, all mingled together.

Even our house, 46A, which Mrs. Cammysole has had painted white in
compliment to the Gardens of which it now forms part, is a sort of
impostor, and has no business to be called Gardens at all. Mr. Gibbs,
Sir Thomas's agent and nephew, is furious at our daring to take the
title which belongs to our betters. The very next door (No. 46, the
Honorable Mrs. Mountnoddy,) is a house of five stories, shooting up
proudly into the air, thirty feet above our old high-roofed low-roomed
old tenement. Our house belongs to Captain Bragg, not only the landlord
but the son-in-law of Mrs. Cammysole, who lives a couple of hundred
yards down the street, at "The Bungalow." He was the commander of the
"Ram Chunder" East Indiaman, and has quarrelled with the Pocklingtons
ever since he bought houses in the parish.

He it is who will not sell or alter his houses to suit the spirit of the
times. He it is who, though he made the widow Cammysole change the name
of her street, will not pull down the house next door, nor the baker's
next, nor the iron-bedstead and feather warehouse ensuing, nor the
little barber's with the pole, nor, I am ashamed to say, the tripe-shop,
still standing. The barber powders the heads of the great footmen from
Pocklington Gardens; they are so big that they can scarcely sit in his
little premises. And the old tavern, the "East Indiaman," is kept by
Bragg's ship-steward, and protests against the "Pocklington Arms."

Down the road is Pocklington Chapel, Rev. Oldham Slocum--in brick, with
arched windows and a wooden belfry: sober, dingy, and hideous. In the
centre of Pocklington Gardens rises St. Waltheof's, the Rev. Cyril
Thuryfer and assistants--a splendid Anglo-Norman edifice, vast, rich,
elaborate, bran new, and intensely old. Down Avemary Lane you may hear
the clink of the little Romish chapel bell. And hard by is a large
broad-shouldered Ebenezer (Rev. Jonas Gronow), out of the windows of
which the hymns come booming all Sunday long.

Going westward along the line, we come presently to Comandine House (on
a part of the gardens of which Comandine Gardens is about to be erected
by his lordship); farther on, "The Pineries," Mr. and Lady Mary Mango:
and so we get into the country, and out of Our Street altogether, as I
may say. But in the half-mile, over which it may be said to extend, we
find all sorts and conditions of people--from the Right Honorable Lord
Comandine down to the present topographer; who being of no rank as it
were, has the fortune to be treated on almost friendly footing by all,
from his lordship down to the tradesman.


OUR HOUSE IN OUR STREET


We must begin our little descriptions where they say charity should
begin--at home. Mrs. Cammysole, my landlady, will be rather surprised
when she reads this, and finds that a good-natured tenant, who has never
complained of her impositions for fifteen years, understands every one
of her tricks, and treats them, not with anger, but with scorn--with
silent scorn.

On the 18th of December, 1837, for instance, coming gently down stairs,
and before my usual wont, I saw you seated in my arm-chair, peeping into
a letter that came from my aunt in the country, just as if it had been
addressed to you, and not to "M. A. Titmarsh, Esq." Did I make any
disturbance? far from it; I slunk back to my bedroom (being enabled to
walk silently in the beautiful pair of worsted slippers Miss Penelope
J--s worked for me: they are worn out now, dear Penelope!) and then
rattling open the door with a great noise, descending the stairs,
singing "Son vergin vezzosa" at the top of my voice. You were not in my
sitting-room, Mrs. Cammysole, when I entered that apartment.

You have been reading all my letters, papers, manuscripts, brouillons
of verses, inchoate articles for the Morning Post and Morning Chronicle,
invitations to dinner and tea--all my family letters, all Eliza
Townley's letters, from the first, in which she declared that to be the
bride of her beloved Michelagnolo was the fondest wish of her maiden
heart, to the last, in which she announced that her Thomas was the
best of husbands, and signed herself "Eliza Slogger;" all Mary
Farmer's letters, all Emily Delamere's; all that poor foolish old Miss
MacWhirter's, whom I would as soon marry as ----: in a word, I know
that you, you hawk-beaked, keen-eyed, sleepless, indefatigable old Mrs.
Cammysole, have read all my papers for these fifteen years.

I know that you cast your curious old eyes over all the manuscripts
which you find in my coat-pockets and those of my pantaloons, as they
hang in a drapery over the door-handle of my bedroom.

I know that you count the money in my green and gold purse, which Lucy
Netterville gave me, and speculate on the manner in which I have laid
out the difference between to-day and yesterday.

I know that you have an understanding with the laundress (to whom you
say that you are all-powerful with me), threatening to take away my
practice from her, unless she gets up gratis some of your fine linen.

I know that we both have a pennyworth of cream for breakfast, which is
brought in in the same little can; and I know who has the most for her
share.

I know how many lumps of sugar you take from each pound as it arrives.
I have counted the lumps, you old thief, and for years have never said
a word, except to Miss Clapperclaw, the first-floor lodger. Once I put
a bottle of pale brandy into that cupboard, of which you and I only have
keys, and the liquor wasted and wasted away until it was all gone. You
drank the whole of it, you wicked old woman. You a lady, indeed!

I know your rage when they did me the honor to elect me a member of the
"Poluphloisboiothalasses Club," and I ceased consequently to dine at
home. When I DID dine at home,--on a beefsteak let us say,--I should
like to know what you had for supper. You first amputated portions of
the meat when raw; you abstracted more when cooked. Do you think I was
taken in by your flimsy pretences? I wonder how you could dare to do
such things before your maids (you a clergyman's daughter and widow,
indeed), whom you yourself were always charging with roguery.

Yes, the insolence of the old woman is unbearable, and I must break out
at last. If she goes off in a fit at reading this, I am sure I shan't
mind. She has two unhappy wenches, against whom her old tongue is
clacking from morning till night: she pounces on them at all hours. It
was but this morning at eight, when poor Molly was brooming the steps,
and the baker paying her by no means unmerited compliments, that my
landlady came whirling out of the ground-floor front, and sent the poor
girl whimpering into the kitchen.

Were it but for her conduct to her maids I was determined publicly
to denounce her. These poor wretches she causes to lead the lives of
demons; and not content with bullying them all day, she sleeps at
night in the same room with them, so that she may have them up before
daybreak, and scold them while they are dressing.

Certain it is, that between her and Miss Clapperclaw, on the first
floor, the poor wenches lead a dismal life.

It is to you that I owe most of my knowledge of our neighbors; from you
it is that most of the facts and observations contained in these brief
pages are taken. Many a night, over our tea, have we talked amiably
about our neighbors and their little failings; and as I know that you
speak of mine pretty freely, why, let me say, my dear Bessy, that if we
have not built up Our Street between us, at least we have pulled it to
pieces.


THE BUNGALOW--CAPTAIN AND MRS. BRAGG.


Long, long ago, when Our Street was the country--a stagecoach between us
and London passing four times a day--I do not care to own that it was a
sight of Flora Cammysole's face, under the card of her mamma's "Lodgings
to Let," which first caused me to become a tenant of Our Street. A fine
good-humored lass she was then; and I gave her lessons (part out of the
rent) in French and flower-painting. She has made a fine rich marriage
since, although her eyes have often seemed to me to say, "Ah, Mr. T.,
why didn't you, when there was yet time, and we both of us were free,
propose--you know what?" "Psha! Where was the money, my dear madam?"

Captain Bragg, then occupied in building Bungalow Lodge--Bragg, I say,
living on the first floor, and entertaining sea-captains, merchants, and
East Indian friends with his grand ship's plate, being disappointed in a
project of marrying a director's daughter, who was also a second
cousin once removed of a peer,--sent in a fury for Mrs. Cammysole, his
landlady, and proposed to marry Flora off-hand, and settle four
hundred a year upon her. Flora was ordered from the back-parlor (the
ground-floor occupies the second-floor bedroom), and was on the spot
made acquainted with the splendid offer which the first-floor had made
her. She has been Mrs. Captain Bragg these twelve years.

Bragg to this day wears anchor-buttons, and has a dress-coat with a gold
strap for epaulets, in case he should have a fancy to sport them. His
house is covered with portraits, busts, and miniatures of himself. His
wife is made to wear one of the latter. On his sideboard are pieces
of plate, presented by the passengers of the "Ram Chunder" to Captain
Bragg: "The 'Ram Chunder' East Indiaman, in a gale, off Table Bay;"
"The Outward-bound Fleet, under convoy of her Majesty's frigate
'Loblollyboy,' Captain Gutch, beating off the French squadron, under
Commodore Leloup (the 'Ram Chunder,' S.E. by E., is represented engaged
with the 'Mirliton' corvette);" "The 'Ram Chunder' standing into the
Hooghly, with Captain Bragg, his telescope and speaking-trumpet, on the
poop;" "Captain Bragg presenting the Officers of the 'Ram Chunder' to
General Bonaparte at St. Helena--TITMARSH" (this fine piece was painted
by me when I was in favor with Bragg); in a word, Bragg and the "Ram
Chunder" are all over the house.

Although I have eaten scores of dinners at Captain Bragg's charge,
yet his hospitality is so insolent, that none of us who frequent his
mahogany feel any obligation to our braggart entertainer.

After he has given one of his great heavy dinners he always takes an
opportunity to tell you, in the most public way, how many bottles of
wine were drunk. His pleasure is to make his guests tipsy, and to
tell everybody how and when the period of inebriation arose. And Miss
Clapperclaw tells me that he often comes over laughing and giggling
to her, and pretending that he has brought ME into this condition--a
calumny which I fling contemptuously in his face.

He scarcely gives any but men's parties, and invites the whole club home
to dinner. What is the compliment of being asked, when the whole club is
asked too, I should like to know? Men's parties are only good for boys.
I hate a dinner where there are no women. Bragg sits at the head of his
table, and bullies the solitary Mrs. Bragg.

He entertains us with stories of storms which he, Bragg, encountered--of
dinners which he, Bragg, has received from the Governor-General of
India--of jokes which he, Bragg, has heard; and however stale or odious
they may be, poor Mrs. B. is always expected to laugh.

Woe be to her if she doesn't, or if she laughs at anybody else's jokes.
I have seen Bragg go up to her and squeeze her arm with a savage grind
of his teeth, and say, with an oath, "Hang it, madam, how dare you laugh
when any man but your husband speaks to you? I forbid you to grin in
that way. I forbid you to look sulky. I forbid you to look happy, or to
look up, or to keep your eyes down to the ground. I desire you will not
be trapesing through the rooms. I order you not to sit as still as
a stone." He curses her if the wine is corked, or if the dinner is
spoiled, or if she comes a minute too soon to the club for him, or
arrives a minute too late. He forbids her to walk, except upon his arm.
And the consequence of his ill treatment is, that Mrs. Cammysole and
Mrs. Bragg respect him beyond measure, and think him the first of human
beings.

"I never knew a woman who was constantly bullied by her husband who did
not like him the better for it," Miss Clapperclaw says. And though this
speech has some of Clapp's usual sardonic humor in it, I can't but think
there is some truth in the remark.


LEVANT HOUSE CHAMBERS.

MR. RUMBOLD, A.R.A., AND MISS RUMBOLD.


When Lord Levant quitted the country and this neighborhood, in which the
tradesmen still deplore him, No. 56, known as Levantine House, was let
to the "Pococurante Club," which was speedily bankrupt (for we are
too far from the centre of town to support a club of our own); it was
subsequently hired by the West Diddlesex Railroad; and is now divided
into sets of chambers, superintended by an acrimonious housekeeper, and
by a porter in a sham livery: whom, if you don't find him at the door,
you may as well seek at the "Grapes" public-house, in the little lane
round the corner. He varnishes the japan-boots of the dandy lodgers;
reads Mr. Pinkney's Morning Post before he lets him have it; and
neglects the letters of the inmates of the chambers generally.

The great rooms, which were occupied as the salons of the noble Levant,
the coffee-rooms of the "Pococurante" (a club where the play was
furious, as I am told), and the board-room and manager's-room of the
West Diddlesex, are tenanted now by a couple of artists: young Pinkney
the miniaturist, and George Rumbold the historical painter. Miss
Rumbold, his sister lives with him, by the way; but with that young lady
of course we have nothing to do.

I knew both these gentlemen at Rome, where George wore a velvet doublet
and a beard down to his chest, and used to talk about high art at the
"Caffe Greco." How it smelled of smoke, that velveteen doublet of his,
with which his stringy red beard was likewise perfumed! It was in his
studio that I had the honor to be introduced to his sister, the fair
Miss Clara: she had a large casque with a red horse-hair plume (I
thought it had been a wisp of her brother's beard at first), and held a
tin-headed spear in her hand, representing a Roman warrior in the great
picture of "Caractacus" George was painting--a piece sixty-four feet by
eighteen. The Roman warrior blushed to be discovered in that attitude:
the tin-headed spear trembled in the whitest arm in the world. So she
put it down, and taking off the helmet also, went and sat in a far
corner of the studio, mending George's stockings; whilst we smoked a
couple of pipes, and talked about Raphael being a good deal overrated.

I think he is; and have never disguised my opinion about the
"Transfiguration.". And all the time we talked, there were Clara's
eyes looking lucidly out from the dark corner in which she was sitting,
working away at the stockings. The lucky fellow! They were in a dreadful
state of bad repair when she came out to him at Rome, after the death of
their father, the Reverend Miles Rumbold.

George, while at Rome, painted "Caractacus;" a picture of "Non Angli
sed Angeli" of course; a picture of "Alfred in the Neatherd's Cottage,"
seventy-two feet by forty-eight--(an idea of the gigantic size and
Michel-Angelesque proportions of this picture may be formed, when I
state that the mere muffin, of which the outcast king is spoiling the
baking, is two feet three in diameter) and the deaths of Socrates, of
Remus, and of the Christians under Nero respectively. I shall never
forget how lovely Clara looked in white muslin, with her hair down,
in this latter picture, giving herself up to a ferocious Carnifex (for
which Bob Gaunter the architect sat), and refusing to listen to the
mild suggestions of an insinuating Flamen: which character was a gross
caricature of myself.

None of George's pictures sold. He has enough to tapestry Trafalgar
Square. He has painted, since he came back to England, "The Flaying of
Marsyas," "The Smothering of the Little Boys in the Tower," "A Plague
Scene during the Great Pestilence," "Ugolino on the Seventh Day after
he was deprived of Victuals," &c. For although these pictures have
great merit, and the writhings of Marsyas, the convulsions of the little
prince, the look of agony of St. Lawrence on the gridiron, &c. are quite
true to nature, yet the subjects somehow are not agreeable; and if he
hadn't a small patrimony, my friend George would starve.

Fondness for art leads me a great deal to his studio. George is a
gentleman, and has very good friends, and good pluck too. When we were
at Rome, there was a great row between him and young Heeltap,
Lord Boxmoor's son, who was uncivil to Miss Rumbold; (the young
scoundrel--had I been a fighting man, I should like to have shot him
myself!). Lady Betty Bulbul is very fond of Clara; and Tom Bulbul, who
took George's message to Heeltap, is always hanging about the studio.
At least I know that I find the young jackanapes there almost every day,
bringing a new novel, or some poisonous French poetry, or a basket of
flowers, or grapes, with Lady Betty's love to her dear Clara--a young
rascal with white kids, and his hair curled every morning. What business
has HE to be dangling about George Rumbold's premises, and sticking up
his ugly pug-face as a model for all George's pictures?

Miss Clapperclaw says Bulbul is evidently smitten, and Clara too. What!
would she put up with such a little fribble as that, when there is a
man of intellect and taste who--but I won't believe it. It is all the
jealousy of women.


SOME OF THE SERVANTS IN OUR STREET.


These gentlemen have two clubs in our quarter--for the butlers at the
"Indiaman," and for the gents in livery at the "Pocklington Arms"--of
either of which societies I should like to be a member. I am sure they
could not be so dull as our club at the "Poluphloisboio," where one
meets the same neat, clean, respectable old fogies every day.

But with the best wishes, it is impossible for the present writer to
join either the "Plate Club" or the "Uniform Club" (as these reunions
are designated); for one could not shake hands with a friend who was
standing behind your chair, or nod a How-d'ye-do? to the butler who was
pouring you out a glass of wine;--so that what I know about the gents in
our neighborhood is from mere casual observation. For instance, I have a
slight acquaintance with (1) Thomas Spavin, who commonly wears an air of
injured innocence, and is groom to Mr. Joseph Green, of Our Street.
"I tell why the brougham 'oss is out of condition, and why Desperation
broke out all in a lather! 'Osses will, this 'eavy weather; and
Desperation was always the most mystest hoss I ever see.--I take him out
with Mr. Anderson's 'ounds--I'm above it. I allis was too timid to ride
to 'ounds by natur; and Colonel Sprigs' groom as says he saw me, is a
liar," &c. &c.

Such is the tenor of Mr. Spavin's remarks to his master. Whereas all the
world in Our Street knows that Mr. Spavin spends at least a hundred a
year in beer; that he keeps a betting-book; that he has lent Mr. Green's
black brougham horse to the omnibus driver; and, at a time when Mr.
G. supposed him at the veterinary surgeon's, has lent him to a livery
stable, which has let him out to that gentleman himself, and actually
driven him to dinner behind his own horse.

This conduct I can understand, but I cannot excuse--Mr. Spavin may; and
I leave the matter to be settled betwixt himself and Mr. Green.

The second is Monsieur Sinbad, Mr. Clarence Bulbul's man, whom we all
hate Clarence for keeping.

Mr. Sinbad is a foreigner, speaking no known language, but a mixture
of every European dialect--so that he may be an Italian brigand, or a
Tyrolese minstrel, or a Spanish smuggler, for what we know. I have heard
say that he is neither of these, but an Irish Jew.

He wears studs, hair-oil, jewellery, and linen shirt-fronts, very finely
embroidered, but not particular for whiteness. He generally appears in
faded velvet waistcoats of a morning, and is always perfumed with stale
tobacco. He wears large rings on his hands, which look as if he kept
them up the chimney.

He does not appear to do anything earthly for Clarence Bulbul, except
to smoke his cigars, and to practise on his guitar. He will not answer
a bell, nor fetch a glass of water, nor go of an errand on which,
au reste, Clarence dares not send him, being entirely afraid of his
servant, and not daring to use him, or to abuse him, or to send him
away.

3. Adams--Mr. Champignon's man--a good old man in an old livery coat
with old worsted lace--so very old, deaf, surly, and faithful, that you
wonder how he should have got into the family at all; who never kept a
footman till last year, when they came into the street.

Miss Clapperclaw says she believes Adams to be Mrs. Champignon's father,
and he certainly has a look of that lady; as Miss C. pointed out to me
at dinner one night, whilst old Adams was blundering about amongst the
hired men from Gunter's, and falling over the silver dishes.

4. Fipps, the buttoniest page in all the street: walks behind Mrs.
Grimsby with her prayer-book, and protects her.

"If that woman wants a protector" (a female acquaintance remarks),
"heaven be good to us! She is as big as an ogress, and has an upper lip
which many a cornet of the Lifeguards might envy. Her poor dear husband
was a big man, and she could beat him easily; and did too. Mrs. Grimsby
indeed! Why, my dear Mr. Titmarsh, it is Glumdalca walking with Tom
Thumb."

This observation of Miss C.'s is very true, and Mrs. Grimsby might carry
her prayer-book to church herself. But Miss Clapperclaw, who is pretty
well able to take care of herself too, was glad enough to have the
protection of the page when she went out in the fly to pay visits, and
before Mrs. Grimsby and she quarrelled at whist at Lady Pocklington's.

After this merely parenthetic observation, we come to 5, one of her
ladyship's large men, Mr. Jeames--a gentleman of vast stature and
proportions, who is almost nose to nose with us as we pass her
ladyship's door on the outside of the omnibus. I think Jeames has a
contempt for a man whom he witnesses in that position. I have fancied
something like that feeling showed itself (as far as it may in a
well-bred gentleman accustomed to society) in his behavior, while
waiting behind my chair at dinner.

But I take Jeames to be, like most giants, good-natured, lazy, stupid,
soft-hearted, and extremely fond of drink. One night, his lady being
engaged to dinner at Nightingale House, I saw Mr. Jeames resting himself
on a bench at the "Pocklington Arms:" where, as he had no liquor before
him, he had probably exhausted his credit.

Little Spitfire, Mr. Clarence Bulbul's boy, the wickedest little varlet
that ever hung on to a cab, was "chaffing" Mr. Jeames, holding up to his
face a pot of porter almost as big as the young potifer himself.

"Vill you now, Big'un, or von't you?" Spitfire said. "If you're thirsty,
vy don't you say so and squench it, old boy?"

"Don't ago on making fun of me--I can't abear chaffin'," was the reply
of Mr. Jeames, and tears actually stood in his fine eyes as he looked at
the porter and the screeching little imp before him.

Spitfire (real name unknown) gave him some of the drink: I am happy to
say Jeames's face wore quite a different look when it rose gasping out
of the porter; and I judge of his dispositions from the above trivial
incident.

The last boy in the sketch, 6, need scarcely be particularized. Doctor's
boy; was a charity-boy; stripes evidently added on to a pair of the
doctor's clothes of last year--Miss Clapperclaw pointed this out to me
with a giggle. Nothing escapes that old woman.

As we were walking in Kensington Gardens, she pointed me out Mrs.
Bragg's nursery-maid, who sings so loud at church, engaged with a
Lifeguardsman, whom she was trying to convert probably. My virtuous
friend rose indignant at the sight.

"That's why these minxes like Kensington Gardens," she cried. "Look at
the woman: she leaves the baby on the grass, for the giant to trample
upon; and that little wretch of a Hastings Bragg is riding on the
monster's cane."

Miss C. flew up and seized the infant, waking it out of its sleep, and
causing all the gardens to echo with its squalling. "I'll teach you to
be impudent to me," she said to the nursery-maid, with whom my vivacious
old friend, I suppose, has had a difference; and she would not release
the infant until she had rung the bell of Bungalow Lodge, where she gave
it up to the footman.

The giant in scarlet had slunk down towards Knightsbridge meanwhile. The
big rogues are always crossing the Park and the Gardens, and hankering
about Our Street.


WHAT SOMETIMES HAPPENS IN OUR STREET.


It was before old Hunkington's house that the mutes were standing, as I
passed and saw this group at the door. The charity-boy with the hoop is
the son of the jolly-looking mute; he admires his father, who admires
himself too, in those bran-new sables. The other infants are the spawn
of the alleys about Our Street. Only the parson and the typhus fever
visit those mysterious haunts, which lie crouched about our splendid
houses like Lazarus at the threshold of Dives.

Those little ones come crawling abroad in the sunshine, to the annoyance
of the beadles, and the horror of a number of good people in the street.
They will bring up the rear of the procession anon, when the grand
omnibus with the feathers, and the line coaches with the long-tailed
black horses, and the gentleman's private carriages with the shutters
up, pass along to Saint Waltheof's.

You can hear the slow bell tolling clear in the sunshine already,
mingling with the crowing of "Punch," who is passing down the street
with his show; and the two musics make a queer medley.

Not near so many people, I remark, engage "Punch" now as in the good old
times. I suppose our quarter is growing too genteel for him.

Miss Bridget Jones, a poor curate's daughter in Wales, comes into all
Hunkington's property, and will take his name, as I am told. Nobody
ever heard of her before. I am sure Captain Hunkington, and his brother
Barnwell Hunkington, must wish that the lucky young lady had never been
heard of to the present day.

But they will have the consolation of thinking that they did their duty
by their uncle, and consoled his declining years. It was but last month
that Millwood Hunkington (the Captain) sent the old gentleman a service
of plate; and Mrs. Barnwell got a reclining carriage at a great expense
from Hobbs and Dobbs's, in which the old gentleman went out only once.

"It is a punishment on those Hunkingtons," Miss Clapperclaw remarks:
"upon those people who have been always living beyond their little
incomes, and always speculating upon what the old man would leave them,
and always coaxing him with presents which they could not afford, and
he did not want. It is a punishment upon those Hunkingtons to be so
disappointed."

"Think of giving him plate," Miss C. justly says, "who had chests-full;
and sending him a carriage, who could afford to buy all Long Acre. And
everything goes to Miss Jones Hunkington. I wonder will she give the
things back?" Miss Clapperclaw asks. "I wouldn't."

And indeed I don't think Miss Clapperclaw would.


SOMEBODY WHOM NOBODY KNOWS.


That pretty little house, the last in Pocklington Square, was lately
occupied by a young widow lady who wore a pink bonnet, a short silk
dress, sustained by a crinoline, and a light blue mantle, or over-jacket
(Miss C. is not here to tell me the name of the garment); or else a
black velvet pelisse, a yellow shawl, and a white bonnet; or else--but
never mind the dress, which seemed to be of the handsomest sort money
could buy--and who had very long glossy black ringlets, and a peculiarly
brilliant complexion,--No. 96, Pocklington Square, I say, was lately
occupied by a widow lady named Mrs. Stafford Molyneux.

The very first day on which an intimate and valued female friend of mine
saw Mrs. Stafford Molyneux stepping into a brougham, with a splendid bay
horse, and without a footman, (mark, if you please, that delicate sign
of respectability,) and after a moment's examination of Mrs. S. M.'s
toilette, her manners, little dog, carnation-colored parasol, &c., Miss
Elizabeth Clapperclaw clapped to the opera-glass with which she had been
regarding the new inhabitant of Our Street, came away from the window
in a great flurry, and began poking her fire in a fit of virtuous
indignation.

"She's very pretty," said I, who had been looking over Miss C.'s
shoulder at the widow with the flashing eyes and drooping ringlets.

"Hold your tongue, sir," said Miss Clapperclaw, tossing up her virgin
head with an indignant blush on her nose. "It's a sin and a shame that
such a creature should be riding in her carriage, forsooth, when honest
people must go on foot."

Subsequent observations confirmed my revered fellow-lodger's anger and
opinion. We have watched Hansom cabs standing before that lady's house
for hours; we have seen broughams, with great flaring eyes,
keeping watch there in the darkness; we have seen the vans from the
comestible-shops drive up and discharge loads of wines, groceries,
French plums, and other articles of luxurious horror. We have seen Count
Wowski's drag, Lord Martingale's carriage, Mr. Deuceace's cab drive up
there time after time; and (having remarked previously the pastry-cook's
men arrive with the trays and entrees), we have known that this widow
was giving dinners at the little house in Pocklington Square--dinners
such as decent people could not hope to enjoy.

My excellent friend has been in a perfect fury when Mrs. Stafford
Molyneux, in a black velvet riding-habit, with a hat and feather, has
come out and mounted an odious gray horse, and has cantered down the
street, followed by her groom upon a bay.

"It won't last long--it must end in shame and humiliation," my dear Miss
C. has remarked, disappointed that the tiles and chimney-pots did not
fall down upon Mrs. Stafford Molyneux's head, and crush that cantering,
audacious woman.

But it was a consolation to see her when she walked out with a French
maid, a couple of children, and a little dog hanging on to her by a blue
ribbon. She always held down her head then--her head with the drooping
black ringlets. The virtuous and well-disposed avoided her. I have
seen the Square-keeper himself look puzzled as she passed; and Lady
Kicklebury walking by with Miss K., her daughter, turn away from Mrs.
Stafford Molyneux, and fling back at her a ruthless Parthian glance that
ought to have killed any woman of decent sensibility.

That wretched woman, meanwhile, with her rouged cheeks (for rouge it
IS, Miss Clapperclaw swears, and who is a better judge?) has walked on
conscious, and yet somehow braving out the Street. You could read pride
of her beauty, pride of her fine clothes, shame of her position, in her
downcast black eyes.

As for Mademoiselle Trampoline, her French maid, she would stare the sun
itself out of countenance. One day she tossed up her head as she passed
under our windows with a look of scorn that drove Miss Clapperclaw back
to the fireplace again.

It was Mrs. Stafford Molyneux's children, however, whom I pitied the
most. Once her boy, in a flaring tartan, went up to speak to Master
Roderick Lacy, whose maid was engaged ogling a policeman; and the
children were going to make friends, being united with a hoop which
Master Molyneux had, when Master Roderick's maid, rushing up, clutched
her charge to her arms, and hurried away, leaving little Molyneux sad
and wondering.

"Why won't he play with me, mamma?" Master Molyneux asked--and his
mother's face blushed purple as she walked away.

"Ah--heaven help us and forgive us!" said I; but Miss C. can never
forgive the mother or child; and she clapped her hands for joy one day
when we saw the shutters up, bills in the windows, a carpet hanging out
over the balcony, and a crowd of shabby Jews about the steps--giving
token that the reign of Mrs. Stafford Molyneux was over. The
pastry-cooks and their trays, the bay and the gray, the brougham and the
groom, the noblemen and their cabs, were all gone; and the tradesmen in
the neighborhood were crying out that they were done.

"Serve the odious minx right!" says Miss C.; and she played at piquet
that night with more vigor than I have known her manifest for these last
ten years.

What is it that makes certain old ladies so savage upon certain
subjects? Miss C. is a good woman; pays her rent and her tradesmen;
gives plenty to the poor; is brisk with her tongue--kind-hearted in the
main; but if Mrs. Stafford Molyneux and her children were plunged into
a caldron of boiling vinegar, I think my revered friend would not take
them out.


THE MAN IN POSSESSION.


For another misfortune which occurred in Our Street we were much more
compassionate. We liked Danby Dixon, and his wife Fanny Dixon still
more. Miss C. had a paper of biscuits and a box of preserved apricots
always in the cupboard, ready for Dixon's children--provisions by
the way which she locked up under Mrs. Cammysole's nose, so that our
landlady could by no possibility lay a hand on them.

Dixon and his wife had the neatest little house possible, (No. 16,
opposite 96,) and were liked and respected by the whole street. He was
called Dandy Dixon when he was in the dragoons, and was a light weight,
and rather famous as a gentleman rider. On his marriage, he sold out and
got fat: and was indeed a florid, contented, and jovial gentleman.

His little wife was charming--to see her in pink with some miniature
Dixons, in pink too, round about her, or in that beautiful gray dress,
with the deep black lace flounces, which she wore at my Lord Comandine's
on the night of the private theatricals, would have done any man
good. To hear her sing any of my little ballads, "Knowest Thou the
Willow-tree?" for instance, or "The Rose upon my Balcony," or "The
Humming of the Honey-bee," (far superior in MY judgment, and in that
of SOME GOOD JUDGES likewise, to that humbug Clarence Bulbul's
ballads,)--to hear her, I say, sing these, was to be in a sort of small
Elysium. Dear, dear little Fanny Dixon! she was like a little chirping
bird of Paradise. It was a shame that storms should ever ruffle such a
tender plumage.

Well, never mind about sentiment. Danby Dixon, the owner of this little
treasure, an ex-captain of Dragoons, and having nothing to do, and
a small income, wisely thought he would employ his spare time, and
increase his revenue. He became a director of the Cornaro Life Insurance
Company, of the Tregulpho tin-mines, and of four or five railroad
companies. It was amusing to see him swaggering about the City in his
clinking boots, and with his high and mighty dragoon manners. For a time
his talk about shares after dinner was perfectly intolerable; and I for
one was always glad to leave him in the company of sundry very dubious
capitalists who frequented his house, and walk up to hear Mrs. Fanny
warbling at the piano with her little children about her knees.

It was only last season that they set up a carriage--the modestest
little vehicle conceivable--driven by Kirby, who had been in Dixon's
troop in the regiment, and had followed him into private life as
coachman, footman, and page.

One day lately I went into Dixon's house, hearing that some calamities
had befallen him, the particulars of which Miss Clapperclaw was desirous
to know. The creditors of the Tregulpho Mines had got a verdict against
him as one of the directors of that company; the engineer of the
Little Diddlesex Junction had sued him for two thousand three hundred
pounds--the charges of that scientific man for six weeks' labor in
surveying the line. His brother directors were to be discovered nowhere:
Windham, Dodgin, Mizzlington, and the rest, were all gone long ago.

When I entered, the door was open: there was a smell of smoke in the
dining-room, where a gentleman at noonday was seated with a pipe and
a pot of beer: a man in possession indeed, in that comfortable pretty
parlor, by that snug round table where I have so often seen Fanny
Dixon's smiling face.

Kirby, the ex-dragoon, was scowling at the fellow, who lay upon a little
settee reading the newspaper, with an evident desire to kill him. Mrs.
Kirby, his wife, held little Danby, poor Dixon's son and heir. Dixon's
portrait smiled over the sideboard still, and his wife was up stairs
in an agony of fear, with the poor little daughters of this bankrupt,
broken family.

This poor soul had actually come down and paid a visit to the man in
possession. She had sent wine and dinner to "the gentleman down stairs,"
as she called him in her terror. She had tried to move his heart, by
representing to him how innocent Captain Dixon was, and how he had
always paid, and always remained at home when everybody else had fled.
As if her tears and simple tales and entreaties could move that man
in possession out of the house, or induce him to pay the costs of the
action which her husband had lost.

Danby meanwhile was at Boulogne, sickening after his wife and children.
They sold everything in his house--all his smart furniture and neat
little stock of plate; his wardrobe and his linen, "the property of a
gentleman gone abroad;" his carriage by the best maker; and his wine
selected without regard to expense. His house was shut up as completely
as his opposite neighbor's; and a new tenant is just having it fresh
painted inside and out, as if poor Dixon had left an infection behind.

Kirby and his wife went across the water with the children and Mrs.
Fanny--she has a small settlement; and I am bound to say that our mutual
friend Miss Elizabeth C. went down with Mrs. Dixon in the fly to the
Tower Stairs, and stopped in Lombard Street by the way.

So it is that the world wags: that honest men and knaves alike are
always having ups and downs of fortune, and that we are perpetually
changing tenants in Our Street.


THE LION OF THE STREET.


What people can find in Clarence Bulbul, who has lately taken upon
himself the rank and dignity of Lion of Our Street, I have always been
at a loss to conjecture.

"He has written an Eastern book of considerable merit," Miss Clapperclaw
says; but hang it, has not everybody written an Eastern book? I should
like to meet anybody in society now who has not been up to the second
cataract. An Eastern book forsooth! My Lord Castleroyal has done one--an
honest one; my Lord Youngent another--an amusing one; my Lord Woolsey
another--a pious one; there is "The Cutlet and the Cabob"--a sentimental
one; "Timbuctoothen"--a humorous one, all ludicrously overrated, in my
opinion: not including my own little book, of which a copy or two is
still to be had, by the way.

Well, then, Clarence Bulbul, because he has made part of the little tour
that all of us know, comes back and gives himself airs, forsooth, and
howls as if he were just out of the great Libyan desert.

When we go and see him, that Irish Jew courier, whom I have before had
the honor to describe, looks up from the novel which he is reading
in the ante-room, and says, "Mon maitre est au divan," or, "Monsieur
trouvera Monsieur dans son serail," and relapses into the Comte de
Montecristo again.

Yes, the impudent wretch has actually a room in his apartments on the
ground-floor of his mother's house, which he calls his harem. When Lady
Betty Bulbul (they are of the Nightingale family) or Miss Blanche
comes down to visit him, their slippers are placed at the door, and he
receives them on an ottoman, and these infatuated women will actually
light his pipe for him.

Little Spitfire, the groom, hangs about the drawing-room, outside the
harem forsooth! so that he may be ready when Clarence Bulbul claps hands
for him to bring the pipes and coffee.

He has coffee and pipes for everybody. I should like you to have
seen the face of old Bowly, his college-tutor, called upon to sit
cross-legged on a divan, a little cup of bitter black Mocha put into his
hand, and a large amber-muzzled pipe stuck into his mouth by Spitfire,
before he could so much as say it was a fine day. Bowly almost thought
he had compromised his principles by consenting so far to this Turkish
manner.

Bulbul's dinners are, I own, very good; his pilaffs and curries
excellent. He tried to make us eat rice with our fingers, it is true;
but he scalded his own hands in the business, and invariably bedizened
his shirt; so he has left off the Turkish practice, for dinner at least,
and uses a fork like a Christian.

But it is in society that he is most remarkable; and here he would, I
own, be odious, but he becomes delightful, because all the men hate him
so. A perfect chorus of abuse is raised round about him. "Confounded
impostor," says one; "Impudent jackass," says another; "Miserable
puppy," cries a third; "I'd like to wring his neck," says Bruff,
scowling over his shoulder at him. Clarence meanwhile nods, winks,
smiles, and patronizes them all with the easiest good-humor. He is a
fellow who would poke an archbishop in the apron, or clap a duke on the
shoulder, as coolly as he would address you and me.

I saw him the other night at Mrs. Bumpsher's grand let-off. He flung
himself down cross-legged on a pink satin sofa, so that you could see
Mrs. Bumpsher quiver with rage in the distance, Bruff growl with fury
from the further room, and Miss Pim, on whose frock Bulbul's feet
rested, look up like a timid fawn.

"Fan me, Miss Pim," said he of the cushion. "You look like a perfect
Peri to-night. You remind me of a girl I once knew in Circassia--Ameena,
the sister of Schamyl Bey. Do you know, Miss Pim, that you would fetch
twenty thousand piastres in the market at Constantinople?"

"Law, Mr. Bulbul!" is all Miss Pim can ejaculate; and having talked over
Miss Pim, Clarence goes off to another houri, whom he fascinates in a
similar manner. He charmed Mrs. Waddy by telling her that she was the
exact figure of the Pasha of Egypt's second wife. He gave Miss Tokely
a piece of the sack in which Zuleika was drowned; and he actually
persuaded that poor little silly Miss Vain to turn Mahometan, and sent
her up to the Turkish ambassador's to look out for a mufti.


THE DOVE OF OUR STREET.


If Bulbul is our Lion, Young Oriel may be described as The Dove of our
colony. He is almost as great a pasha among the ladies as Bulbul. They
crowd in flocks to see him at Saint Waltheof's, where the immense height
of his forehead, the rigid asceticism of his surplice, the twang with
which he intones the service, and the namby-pamby mysticism of his
sermons, have turned all the dear girls' heads for some time past.
While we were having a rubber at Mrs. Chauntry's, whose daughters are
following the new mode, I heard the following talk (which made me revoke
by the way) going on, in what was formerly called the young ladies'
room, but is now styled the Oratory:--


THE ORATORY.

MISS CHAUNTRY. MISS ISABEL CHAUNTRY.

MISS DE L'AISLE. MISS PYX.

REV. L. ORIEL. REV. O. SLOCUM--[In the further room.]


Miss Chauntry (sighing).--Is it wrong to be in the Guards, dear Mr.
Oriel?

Miss Pyx.--She will make Frank de Boots sell out when he marries.

Mr. Oriel.--To be in the Guards, dear sister? The church has always
encouraged the army. Saint Martin of Tours was in the army; Saint
Louis was in the army; Saint Waltheof, our patron, Saint Witikind of
Aldermanbury, Saint Wamba, and Saint Walloff were in the army. Saint
Wapshot was captain of the guard of Queen Boadicea; and Saint Werewolf
was a major in the Danish cavalry. The holy Saint Ignatius of Loyola
carried a pike, as we know; and--

Miss De l'Aisle.--Will you take some tea, dear Mr. Oriel?

Oriel.--This is not one of MY feast days, Sister Emma. It is the feast
of Saint Wagstatf of Walthamstow.

The Young Ladies.--And we must not even take tea?

Oriel.--Dear sisters, I said not so. YOU may do as you list; but I am
strong (with a heart-broken sigh); don't ply me (he reels). I took a
little water and a parched pea after matins. To-morrow is a flesh day,
and--and I shall be better then.

Rev. O. Slocum (from within).--Madam, I take your heart with my small
trump.

Oriel.--Yes, better! dear sister; it is only a passing--a--weakness.

Miss I. Chauntry.--He's dying of fever.

Miss Chauntry.--I'm so glad De Boots need not leave the Blues.

Miss Pyx.--He wears sackcloth and cinders inside his waistcoat.

Miss De l'Aisle.--He's told me to-night he's going to--to--Ro-o-ome.
[Miss De l'Aisle bursts into tears.]

Rev. O. Slocum.--My lord, I have the highest club, which gives the trick
and two by honors.


Thus, you see, we have a variety of clergymen in Our Street. Mr. Oriel
is of the pointed Gothic school, while old Slocum is of the good old
tawny port-wine school: and it must be confessed that Mr. Gronow, at
Ebenezer, has a hearty abhorrence for both.

As for Gronow, I pity him, if his future lot should fall where Mr. Oriel
supposes that it will.

And as for Oriel, he has not even the benefit of purgatory, which he
would accord to his neighbor Ebenezer; while old Slocum pronounces both
to be a couple of humbugs; and Mr. Mole, the demure little beetle-browed
chaplain of the little church of Avemary Lane, keeps his sly eyes down
to the ground when he passes any one of his black-coated brethren.

There is only one point on which, my friends, they seem agreed. Slocum
likes port, but who ever heard that he neglected his poor? Gronow, if
he comminates his neighbor's congregation, is the affectionate father
of his own. Oriel, if he loves pointed Gothic and parched peas for
breakfast, has a prodigious soup-kitchen for his poor; and as for little
Father Mole, who never lifts his eyes from the ground, ask our doctor
at what bedsides he finds him, and how he soothes poverty, and braves
misery and infection.


THE BUMPSHERS.


No. 6, Pocklington Gardens, (the house with the quantity of flowers
in the windows, and the awning over the entrance,) George Bumpsher,
Esquire, M.P. for Humborough (and the Beanstalks, Kent).

For some time after this gorgeous family came into our quarter, I
mistook a bald-headed, stout person, whom I used to see looking through
the flowers on the upper windows, for Bumpsher himself, or for the
butler of the family; whereas it was no other than Mrs. Bumpsher,
without her chestnut wig, and who is at least three times the size of
her husband.

The Bumpshers and the house of Mango at the Pineries vie together in
their desire to dominate over the neighborhood; and each votes the other
a vulgar and purse-proud family. The fact is, both are City people.
Bumpsher, in his mercantile capacity, is a wholesale stationer in Thames
Street; and his wife was the daughter of an eminent bill-broking firm,
not a thousand miles from Lombard Street.

He does not sport a coronet and supporters upon his London plate and
carriages; but his country-house is emblazoned all over with those
heraldic decorations. He puts on an order when he goes abroad, and is
Count Bumpsher of the Roman States--which title he purchased from the
late Pope (through Prince Polonia the banker) for a couple of thousand
scudi.

It is as good as a coronation to see him and Mrs. Bumpsher go to Court.
I wonder the carriage can hold them both. On those days Mrs. Bumpsher
holds her own drawing-room before her Majesty's; and we are invited to
come and see her sitting in state, upon the largest sofa in her rooms.
She has need of a stout one, I promise you. Her very feathers must weigh
something considerable. The diamonds on her stomacher would embroider a
full-sized carpet-bag. She has rubies, ribbons, cameos, emeralds, gold
serpents, opals, and Valenciennes lace, as if she were an immense sample
out of Howell and James's shop.

She took up with little Pinkney at Rome, where he made a charming
picture of her, representing her as about eighteen, with a cherub in her
lap, who has some liking to Bryanstone Bumpsher, her enormous, vulgar
son; now a cornet in the Blues, and anything but a cherub, as those
would say who saw him in his uniform jacket.

I remember Pinkney when he was painting the picture, Bryanstone being
then a youth in what they call a skeleton suit (as if such a pig of a
child could ever have been dressed in anything resembling a skeleton)--I
remember, I say, Mrs. B. sitting to Pinkney in a sort of Egerian
costume, her boy by her side, whose head the artist turned round and
directed it towards a piece of gingerbread, which he was to have at the
end of the sitting.

Pinkney, indeed, a painter!--a contemptible little humbug, a parasite
of the great! He has painted Mrs. Bumpsher younger every year for these
last ten years--and you see in the advertisements of all her parties
his odious little name stuck in at the end of the list. I'm sure, for my
part, I'd scorn to enter her doors, or be the toady of any woman.


JOLLY NEWBOY, ESQ., M.P.


How different it is with the Newboys, now, where I have an entree
(having indeed had the honor in former days to give lessons to both the
ladies)--and where such a quack as Pinkney would never be allowed to
enter! A merrier house the whole quarter cannot furnish. It is there
you meet people of all ranks and degrees, not only from our quarter,
but from the rest of the town. It is there that our great man, the Right
Honorable Lord Comandine, came up and spoke to me in so encouraging
a manner that I hope to be invited to one of his lordship's excellent
dinners (of which I shall not fail to give a very flattering
description) before the season is over. It is there you find yourself
talking to statesmen, poets, and artists--not sham poets like Bulbul, or
quack artists like that Pinkney--but to the best members of all society.
It is there I made this sketch, while Miss Chesterforth was singing a
deep-toned tragic ballad, and her mother scowling behind her. What a
buzz and clack and chatter there was in the room to be sure! When Miss
Chesterforth sings, everybody begins to talk. Hicks and old Fogy were on
Ireland: Bass was roaring into old Pump's ears (or into his horn rather)
about the Navigation Laws; I was engaged talking to the charming Mrs.
Short; while Charley Bonham (a mere prig, in whom I am surprised that
the women can see anything,) was pouring out his fulsome rhapsodies in
the ears of Diana White. Lovely, lovely Diana White! were it not for
three or four other engagements, I know a heart that would suit you to a
T.

Newboy's I pronounce to be the jolliest house in the street. He has only
of late had a rush of prosperity, and turned Parliament man; for his
distant cousin, of the ancient house of Newboy of ----shire, dying,
Fred--then making believe to practise at the bar, and living with the
utmost modesty in Gray's Inn Road--found himself master of a fortune,
and a great house in the country; of which getting tired, as in the
course of nature he should, he came up to London, and took that fine
mansion in our Gardens. He represents Mumborough in Parliament, a seat
which has been time out of mind occupied by a Newboy.

Though he does not speak, being a great deal too rich, sensible, and
lazy, he somehow occupies himself with reading blue-books, and indeed
talks a great deal too much good sense of late over his dinner-table,
where there is always a cover for the present writer.

He falls asleep pretty assiduously too after that meal--a practice
which I can well pardon in him--for, between ourselves, his wife, Maria
Newboy, and his sister, Clarissa, are the loveliest and kindest of their
sex, and I would rather hear their innocent prattle, and lively talk
about their neighbors, than the best wisdom from the wisest man that
ever wore a beard.

Like a wise and good man, he leaves the question of his household
entirely to the women. They like going to the play. They like going to
Greenwich. They like coming to a party at Bachelor's hall. They are up
to all sorts of fun, in a word; in which taste the good-natured Newboy
acquiesces, provided he is left to follow his own.

It was only on the 17th of the month, that, having had the honor to dine
at the house, when, after dinner, which took place at eight, we left
Newboy to his blue-books, and went up stairs and sang a little to the
guitar afterwards--it was only on the 17th December, the night of Lady
Sowerby's party, that the following dialogue took place in the boudoir,
whither Newboy, blue-books in hand, had ascended.

He was curled up with his House of Commons boots on his wife's
arm-chair, reading his eternal blue-books, when Mrs. N. entered from her
apartment, dressed for the evening.

Mrs. N.--Frederick, won't you come?

Mr. N.--Where?

Mrs. N.--To Lady Sowerby's.

Mr. N.--I'd rather go to the Black Hole in Calcutta. Besides, this
Sanitary Report is really the most interesting--[he begins to read.]

Mrs. N.--(piqued)--Well, Mr. Titmarsh will go with us.

Mr. N.--Will he? I wish him joy.

At this juncture Miss Clarissa Newboy enters in a pink paletot, trimmed
with swansdown--looking like an angel--and we exchange glances of--what
shall I say?--of sympathy on both parts, and consummate rapture on mine.
But this is by-play.

Mrs. N.--Good night, Frederick. I think we shall be late.

Mr. N.--You won't wake me, I dare say; and you don't expect a public man
to sit up.

Mrs. N.--It's not you, it's the servants. Cocker sleeps very heavily.
The maids are best in bed, and are all ill with the influenza. I say,
Frederick dear, don't you think you had better give me YOUR CHUBB KEY?

This astonishing proposal, which violates every recognized law of
society--this demand which alters all the existing state of things--this
fact of a woman asking for a door-key, struck me with a terror which I
cannot describe, and impressed me with the fact of the vast progress of
Our Street. The door-key! What would our grandmothers, who dwelt in
this place when it was a rustic suburb, think of its condition now, when
husbands stay at home, and wives go abroad with the latchkey?

The evening at Lady Sowerby's was the most delicious we have spent for
long, long days.

Thus it will be seen that everybody of any consideration in Our Street
takes a line. Mrs. Minimy (34) takes the homoeopathic line, and has
soirees of doctors of that faith. Lady Pocklington takes the capitalist
line; and those stupid and splendid dinners of hers are devoured by
loan-contractors and railroad princes. Mrs. Trimmer (38) comes out in
the scientific line, and indulges us in rational evenings, where history
is the lightest subject admitted, and geology and the sanitary condition
of the metropolis form the general themes of conversation. Mrs. Brumby
plays finely on the bassoon, and has evenings dedicated to Sebastian
Bach, and enlivened with Handel. At Mrs. Maskleyn's they are mad for
charades and theatricals.

They performed last Christmas in a French piece, by Alexandre Dumas, I
believe--"La Duchesse de Montefiasco," of which I forget the plot, but
everybody was in love with everybody else's wife, except the hero, Don
Alonzo, who was ardently attached to the Duchess, who turned out to be
his grandmother. The piece was translated by Lord Fiddle-faddle, Tom
Bulbul being the Don Alonzo; and Mrs. Roland Calidore (who never misses
an opportunity of acting in a piece in which she can let down her hair)
was the Duchess.


ALONZO.

You know how well he loves you, and you wonder To see Alonzo suffer,
Cunegunda?--Ask if the chamois suffer when they feel Plunged in their
panting sides the hunter's steel? Or when the soaring heron or eagle
proud, Pierced by my shaft, comes tumbling from the cloud, Ask if the
royal birds no anguish know, The victims of Alonzo's twanging bow? Then
ask him if he suffers--him who dies, Pierced by the poisoned glance that
glitters from your eyes!  [He staggers from the effect of the poison.

THE DUCHESS.

Alonzo loves--Alonzo loves! and whom? His grandmother! Oh, hide me,
gracious tomb!  [Her Grace faints away.


Such acting as Tom Bulbul's I never saw. Tom lisps atrociously, and
uttered the passage, "You athk me if I thuffer," in the most absurd way.
Miss Clapperclaw says he acted pretty well, and that I only joke about
him because I am envious, and wanted to act a part myself.--I envious
indeed!

But of all the assemblies, feastings, junketings, dejeunes, soirees,
conversaziones, dinner-parties, in Our Street, I know of none pleasanter
than the banquets at Tom Fairfax's; one of which this enormous
provision-consumer gives seven times a week. He lives in one of the
little houses of the old Waddilove Street quarter, built long before
Pocklington Square and Pocklington Gardens and the Pocklington family
itself had made their appearance in this world.

Tom, though he has a small income, and lives in a small house, yet sits
down one of a party of twelve to dinner every day of his life; these
twelve consisting of Mrs. Fairfax, the nine Misses Fairfax, and Master
Thomas Fairfax--the son and heir to twopence halfpenny a year.

It is awkward just now to go and beg pot-luck from such a family as
this; because, though a guest is always welcome, we are thirteen at
table--an unlucky number, it is said. This evil is only temporary, and
will be remedied presently, when the family will be thirteen WITHOUT the
occasional guest, to judge from all appearances.

Early in the morning Mrs. Fairfax rises, and cuts bread and butter from
six o'clock till eight; during which time the nursery operations upon
the nine little graces are going on. If his wife has to rise early to
cut the bread and butter, I warrant Fairfax must be up betimes to earn
it. He is a clerk in a Government office; to which duty he trudges
daily, refusing even twopenny omnibuses. Every time he goes to the
shoemaker's he has to order eleven pairs of shoes, and so can't afford
to spare his own. He teaches the children Latin every morning, and is
already thinking when Tom shall be inducted into that language. He
works in his garden for an hour before breakfast. His work over by three
o'clock, he tramps home at four, and exchanges his dapper coat for his
dressing-gown--a ragged but honorable garment.

Which is the best, his old coat or Sir John's bran-new one? Which is the
most comfortable and becoming, Mrs. Fairfax's black velvet gown (which
she has worn at the Pocklington Square parties these twelve years, and
in which I protest she looks like a queen), or that new robe which the
milliner has just brought home to Mrs. Bumpsher's, and into which she
will squeeze herself on Christmas-day?

Miss Clapperclaw says that we are all so charmingly contented with
ourselves that not one of us would change with his neighbor; and so,
rich and poor, high and low, one person is about as happy as another in
Our Street.




DOCTOR BIRCH AND HIS YOUNG FRIENDS

by MR. M. A. TITMARSH


THE DOCTOR AND HIS STAFF.


There is no need to say why I became assistant-master and professor of
the English and French languages, flower-painting, and the German flute,
in Doctor Birch's Academy, at Rodwell Regis. Good folks may depend on
this, that it was not for CHOICE that I left lodgings near London, and
a genteel society, for an under-master's desk in that old school.
I promise you the fare at the usher's table, the getting up at five
o'clock in the morning, the walking out with little boys in the fields,
(who used to play me tricks, and never could be got to respect my awful
and responsible character as teacher in the school,) Miss Birch's vulgar
insolence, Jack Birch's glum condescension, and the poor old Doctor's
patronage, were not matters in themselves pleasurable: and that that
patronage and those dinners were sometimes cruel hard to swallow. Never
mind--my connection with the place is over now, and I hope they have got
a more efficient under-master.

Jack Birch (Rev. J. Birch, of St. Neot's Hall, Oxford,) is partner with
his father the Doctor, and takes some of the classes. About his Greek
I can't say much; but I will construe him in Latin any day. A more
supercilious little prig, (giving himself airs, too, about his cousin,
Miss Raby, who lives with the Doctor,) a more empty, pompous little
coxcomb I never saw. His white neck-cloth looked as if it choked him. He
used to try and look over that starch upon me and Prince the assistant,
as if he were a couple of footmen. He didn't do much business in the
school; but occupied his time in writing sanctified letters to the boys'
parents, and in composing dreary sermons to preach to them.

The real master of the school is Prince; an Oxford man too: shy,
haughty, and learned; crammed with Greek and a quantity of useless
learning; uncommonly kind to the small boys; pitiless with the fools
and the braggarts; respected of all for his honesty, his learning, his
bravery, (for he hit out once in a boat-row in a way which astonished
the boys and the bargemen,) and for a latent power about him, which all
saw and confessed somehow. Jack Birch could never look him in the face.
Old Miss Z. dared not put off any of HER airs upon him. Miss Rosa made
him the lowest of curtsies. Miss Raby said she was afraid of him.
Good old Prince! we have sat many a night smoking in the Doctor's
harness-room, whither we retired when our boys were gone to bed, and our
cares and canes put by.

After Jack Birch had taken his degree at Oxford--a process which he
effected with great difficulty--this place, which used to be called
"Birch's," "Dr. Birch's Academy," and what not, became suddenly
"Archbishop Wigsby's College of Rodwell Regis." They took down the old
blue board with the gold letters, which has been used to mend the pigsty
since. Birch had a large school-room run up in the Gothic taste, with
statuettes, and a little belfry, and a bust of Archbishop Wigsby in the
middle of the school. He put the six senior boys into caps and gowns,
which had rather a good effect as the lads sauntered down the street of
the town, but which certainly provoked the contempt and hostility of
the bargemen; and so great was his rage for academic costumes and
ordinances, that he would have put me myself into a lay gown, with
red knots and fringes, but that I flatly resisted, and said that a
writing-master had no business with such paraphernalia.

By the way, I have forgotten to mention the Doctor himself. And what
shall I say of him? Well, he has a very crisp gown and bands, a solemn
aspect, a tremendous loud voice, and a grand air with the boys' parents;
whom he receives in a study covered round with the best-bound books,
which imposes upon many--upon the women especially--and makes them fancy
that this is a Doctor indeed. But law bless you! He never reads the
books, or opens one of them; except that in which he keeps his bands--a
Dugdale's "Monasticon," which looks like a book, but is in reality a
cupboard, where he has his port, almond-cakes, and decanter of wine.
He gets up his classics with translations, or what the boys call cribs;
they pass wicked tricks upon him when he hears the forms. The elder wags
go to his study and ask him to help them in hard bits of Herodotus or
Thucydides: he says he will look over the passage, and flies for refuge
to Mr. Prince, or to the crib.

He keeps the flogging department in his own hands; finding that his
son was too savage. He has awful brows and a big voice. But his roar
frightens nobody. It is only a lion's skin; or, so to say, a muff.

Little Mordant made a picture of him with large ears, like a well-known
domestic animal, and had his own justly boxed for the caricature.
The Doctor discovered him in the fact, and was in a flaming rage, and
threatened whipping at first; but in the course of the day an opportune
basket of game arriving from Mordant's father, the Doctor became
mollified, and has burnt the picture with the ears. However, I have one
wafered up in my desk by the hand of the same little rascal.


THE COCK OF THE SCHOOL.


I am growing an old fellow, and have seen many great folks in the course
of my travels and time: Louis Philippe coming out of the Tuileries; his
Majesty the King of Prussia and the Reichsverweser accolading each other
at Cologne at my elbow; Admiral Sir Charles Napier (in an omnibus
once), the Duke of Wellington, the immortal Goethe at Weimar, the late
benevolent Pope Gregory XVI., and a score more of the famous in this
world--the whom whenever one looks at, one has a mild shock of awe and
tremor. I like this feeling and decent fear and trembling with which a
modest spirit salutes a GREAT MAN.

Well, I have seen generals capering on horseback at the head of their
crimson battalions; bishops sailing down cathedral aisles, with downcast
eyes, pressing their trencher caps to their hearts with their fat white
hands; college heads when her Majesty is on a visit; the doctor in all
his glory at the head of his school on speech-day: a great sight and all
great men these. I have never met the late Mr. Thomas Cribb, but I have
no doubt should have regarded him with the same feeling of awe with
which I look every day at George Champion, the Cock of Dr. Birch's
school.

When, I say, I reflect as I go up and set him a sum, that he could whop
me in two minutes, double up Prince and the other assistant, and pitch
the Doctor out of window, I can't but think how great, how generous, how
magnanimous a creature this is, that sits quite quiet and good-natured,
and works his equation, and ponders through his Greek play. He might
take the school-room pillars and pull the house down if he liked. He
might close the door, and demolish every one of us, like Antar the lover
or Ibla; but he lets us live. He never thrashes anybody without a cause;
when woe betide the tyrant or the sneak!

I think that to be strong, and able to whop everybody--(not to do
it, mind you, but to feel that you were able to do it,)--would be the
greatest of all gifts. There is a serene good humor which plays about
George Champion's broad face, which shows the consciousness of this
power, and lights up his honest blue eyes with a magnanimous calm.

He is invictus. Even when a cub there was no beating this lion. Six
years ago the undaunted little warrior actually stood up to Frank
Davison,--(the Indian officer now--poor little Charley's brother, whom
Miss Raby nursed so affectionately,)--then seventeen years old, and the
Cock of Birch's. They were obliged to drag off the boy, and Frank, with
admiration and regard for him, prophesied the great things he would do.
Legends of combats are preserved fondly in schools; they have stories of
such at Rodwell Regis, performed in the old Doctor's time, forty years
ago.

Champion's affair with the Young Tutbury Pet, who was down here in
training,--with Black the bargeman,--with the three head boys of Doctor
Wapshot's academy, whom he caught maltreating an outlying day-boy
of ours, &c.,--are known to all the Rodwell Regis men. He was always
victorious. He is modest and kind, like all great men. He has a good,
brave, honest understanding. He cannot make verses like young Pinder,
or read Greek like Wells the Prefect, who is a perfect young abyss of
learning, and knows enough, Prince says, to furnish any six first-class
men; but he does his work in a sound downright way, and he is made to be
the bravest of soldiers, the best of country parsons, an honest English
gentleman wherever he may go.

Old Champion's chief friend and attendant is Young Jack Hall, whom he
saved, when drowning, out of the Miller's Pool. The attachment of the
two is curious to witness. The smaller lad gambolling, playing tricks
round the bigger one, and perpetually making fun of his protector. They
are never far apart, and of holidays you may meet them miles away from
the school,--George sauntering heavily down the lanes with his
big stick, and little Jack larking with the pretty girls in the
cottage-windows.

George has a boat on the river, in which, however, he commonly lies
smoking, whilst Jack sculls him. He does not play at cricket, except
when the school plays the county, or at Lord's in the holidays. The boys
can't stand his bowling, and when he hits, it is like trying to catch a
cannon-ball. I have seen him at tennis. It is a splendid sight to behold
the young fellow bounding over the court with streaming yellow hair,
like young Apollo in a flannel jacket.

The other head boys are Lawrence the captain, Bunce, famous chiefly for
his magnificent appetite, and Pitman, surnamed Roscius, for his love of
the drama. Add to these Swanky, called Macassar, from his partiality
to that condiment, and who has varnished boots, wears white gloves on
Sundays, and looks out for Miss Pinkerton's school (transferred from
Chiswick to Rodwell Regis, and conducted by the nieces of the late
Miss Barbara Pinkerton, the friend of our great lexicographer, upon the
principles approved by him, and practised by that admirable woman,) as
it passes into church.

Representations have been made concerning Mr. Horace Swanky's
behavior; rumors have been uttered about notes in verse, conveyed in
three-cornered puffs, by Mrs. Ruggles, who serves Miss Pinkerton's young
ladies on Fridays,--and how Miss Didow, to whom the tart and enclosure
were addressed, tried to make away with herself by swallowing a ball of
cotton. But I pass over these absurd reports, as likely to affect the
reputation of an admirable seminary conducted by irreproachable females.
As they go into church Miss P. driving in her flock of lambkins with
the crook of her parasol, how can it be helped if her forces and ours
sometimes collide, as the boys are on their way up to the organ-loft?
And I don't believe a word about the three-cornered puff, but rather
that it was the invention of that jealous Miss Birch, who is jealous of
Miss Raby, jealous of everybody who is good and handsome, and who has
HER OWN ENDS in view, or I am very much in error.


THE DEAR BROTHERS.

A MELODRAMA IN SEVERAL ROUNDS.


THE DOCTOR.

MR. TIPPER, Uncle to the Masters Boxall.

BOXALL MAJOR, BOXALL MINOR, BROWN, JONES, SMITH, ROBINSON, TIFFIN
MINIMUS.


B. Go it, old Boxall!

J. Give it him, young Boxall!

R. Pitch into him, old Boxall!

S. Two to one on young Boxall!

[Enter TIFFIN MINIMUS, running.

Tiffin Minimus.--Boxalls! you're wanted. (The Doctor to Mr.
Tipper.)--Every boy in the school loves them, my dear sir; your nephews
are a credit to my establishment. They are orderly, well-conducted,
gentlemanlike boys. Let us enter and find them at their studies.

[Enter The DOCTOR and Mr. TIPPER.

GRAND TABLEAU.


THE LITTLE SCHOOL-ROOM.


What they call the little school-room is a small room at the other end
of the great school; through which you go to the Doctor's private house,
and where Miss Raby sits with her pupils. She has a half-dozen very
small ones over whom she presides and teaches them in her simple way,
until they are big or learned enough to face the great school-room. Many
of them are in a hurry for promotion, the graceless little simpletons,
and know no more than their elders when they are well off.

She keeps the accounts, writes out the bills, superintends the linen,
and sews on the general shirt-buttons. Think of having such a woman
at home to sew on one's shirt-buttons! But peace, peace, thou foolish
heart!

Miss Raby is the Doctor's niece. Her mother was a beauty (quite unlike
old Zoe therefore); and she married a pupil in the old Doctor's time who
was killed afterwards, a captain in the East India service, at the siege
of Bhurtpore. Hence a number of Indian children come to the Doctor's;
for Raby was very much liked, and the uncle's kind reception of the
orphan has been a good speculation for the school-keeper.

It is wonderful how brightly and gayly that little quick creature
does her duty. She is the first to rise, and the last to sleep, if any
business is to be done. She sees the other two women go off to parties
in the town without even so much as wishing to join them. It is
Cinderella, only contented to stay at home--content to bear Zoe's scorn
and to admit Rosa's superior charms,--and to do her utmost to repay her
uncle for his great kindness in housing her.

So you see she works as much as three maid-servants for the wages of
one. She is as thankful when the Doctor gives her a new gown, as if
he had presented her with a fortune; laughs at his stories most
good-humoredly, listens to Zoe's scolding most meekly, admires Rosa with
all her heart, and only goes out of the way when Jack Birch shows his
sallow face: for she can't bear him, and always finds work when he comes
near.

How different she is when some folks approach her! I won't be
presumptuous; but I think, I think, I have made a not unfavorable
impression in some quarters. However, let us be mum on this subject. I
like to see her, because she always looks good-humored; because she is
always kind, because she is always modest, because she is fond of those
poor little brats,--orphans some of them--because she is rather pretty,
I dare say, or because I think so, which comes to the same thing.

Though she is kind to all, it must be owned she shows the most gross
favoritism towards the amiable children. She brings them cakes from
dessert, and regales them with Zoe's preserves; spends many of her
little shillings in presents for her favorites, and will tell them
stories by the hour. She has one very sad story about a little boy, who
died long ago: the younger children are never weary of hearing about
him; and Miss Raby has shown to one of them a lock of the little chap's
hair, which she keeps in her work-box to this day.


A HOPELESS CASE.


Let us, people who are so uncommonly clever and learned, have a great
tenderness and pity for the poor folks who are not endowed with the
prodigious talents which we have. I have always had a regard for
dunces;--those of my own school-days were amongst the pleasantest of the
fellows, and have turned out by no means the dullest in life; whereas
many a youth who could turn off Latin hexameters by the yard, and
construe Greek quite glibly, is no better than a feeble prig now, with
not a pennyworth more brains than were in his head before his beard
grew.

Those poor dunces! Talk of being the last man, ah! what a pang it must
be to be the last boy--huge, misshapen, fourteen years of age, and
"taken up" by a chap who is but six years old, and can't speak quite
plain yet!

Master Hulker is in that condition at Birch's. He is the most honest,
kind, active, plucky, generous creature. He can do many things better
than most boys. He can go up a tree, pump, play at cricket, dive and
swim perfectly--he can eat twice as much as almost any lady (as Miss
Birch well knows), he has a pretty talent at carving figures with his
hack-knife, he makes and paints little coaches, he can take a watch to
pieces and put it together again. He can do everything but learn his
lesson; and then he sticks at the bottom of the school hopeless. As the
little boys are drafted in from Miss Raby's class, (it is true she is
one of the best instructresses in the world,) they enter and hop over
poor Hulker. He would be handed over to the governess, only he is too
big. Sometimes, I used to think that this desperate stupidity was a
stratagem of the poor rascal's, and that he shammed dulness, so that he
might be degraded into Miss Raby's class--if she would teach ME, I know,
before George, I would put on a pinafore and a little jacket--but no, it
is a natural incapacity for the Latin Grammar.

If you could see his grammar, it is a perfect curiosity of dog's ears.
The leaves and cover are all curled and ragged. Many of the pages are
worn away with the rubbing of his elbows as he sits poring over the
hopeless volume, with the blows of his fists as he thumps it madly, or
with the poor fellow's tears. You see him wiping them away with the back
of his hand, as he tries and tries, and can't do it.

When I think of that Latin Grammar, and that infernal As in praesenti,
and of other things which I was made to learn in my youth; upon my
conscience, I am surprised that we ever survived it. When one thinks
of the boys who have been caned because they could not master that
intolerable jargon! Good Lord, what a pitiful chorus these poor little
creatures send up! Be gentle with them, ye schoolmasters, and only whop
those who WON'T learn.

The Doctor has operated upon Hulker (between ourselves), but the boy was
so little affected you would have thought he had taken chloroform. Birch
is weary of whipping now, and leaves the boy to go his own gait. Prince,
when he hears the lesson, and who cannot help making fun of a fool,
adopts the sarcastic manner with Master Hulker, and says, "Mr. Hulker,
may I take the liberty to inquire if your brilliant intellect has
enabled you to perceive the difference between those words which
grammarians have defined as substantive and adjective nouns?--if not,
perhaps Mr. Ferdinand Timmins will instruct you." And Timmins hops over
Hulker's head.

I wish Prince would leave off girding at the poor lad. He is a boy, and
his mother is a widow woman, who loves him with all her might. There is
a famous sneer about the suckling of fools and the chronicling of small
beer; but remember it was a rascal who uttered it.


A WORD ABOUT MISS BIRCH.


"The gentlemen, and especially the younger and more tender of these
pupils, will have the advantage of the constant superintendence and
affectionate care of Miss Zoe Birch, sister of the principal: whose
clearest aim will be to supply (as far as may be) the absent maternal
friend."--Prospectus of Rodwell Regis School.

This is all very well in the Doctor's prospectus, and Miss Zoe Birch--(a
pretty blossom it is, fifty-five years old, during two score of which
she has dosed herself with pills; with a nose as red and a face as sour
as a crab-apple)--this is all mighty well in a prospectus. But I should
like to know who would take Miss Zoe for a mother, or would have her for
one?

The only persons in the house who are not afraid of her are Miss Rosa
and I--no, I am afraid of her, though I DO know the story about the
French usher in 1830--but all the rest tremble before the woman, from
the Doctor down to poor Francis the knife-boy, whom she bullies into his
miserable blacking-hole.

The Doctor is a pompous and outwardly severe man--but inwardly weak
and easy; loving a joke and a glass of port-wine. I get on with him,
therefore, much better than Mr. Prince, who scorns him for an ass,
and under whose keen eyes the worthy Doctor writhes like a convicted
impostor; and many a sunshiny afternoon would he have said, "Mr. T.,
sir, shall we try another glass of that yellow sealed wine which you
seem to like?" (and which he likes even better than I do,) had not the
old harridan of a Zoe been down upon us, and insisted on turning me
out with her abominable weak coffee. She a mother indeed! A sour-milk
generation she would have nursed. She is always croaking, scolding,
bullying--yowling at the housemaids, snarling at Miss Raby, bowwowing
after the little boys, barking after the big ones. She knows how much
every boy eats to an ounce; and her delight is to ply with fat the
little ones who can't bear it, and with raw meat those who hate
underdone. It was she who caused the Doctor to be eaten out three times;
and nearly created a rebellion in the school because she insisted on his
flogging Goliath Longman.

The only time that woman is happy is when she comes in of a morning to
the little boys' dormitories with a cup of hot Epsom salts, and a sippet
of bread. Boo!--the very notion makes me quiver. She stands over them.
I saw her do it to young Byles only a few days since; and her presence
makes the abomination doubly abominable.

As for attending them in real illness, do you suppose that she would
watch a single night for any one of them? Not she. When poor little
Charley Davison (that child a lock of whose soft hair I have said how
Miss Raby still keeps) lay ill of scarlet fever in the holidays--for the
Colonel, the father of these boys, was in India--it was Anne Raby who
tended the child, who watched him all through the fever, who never left
him while it lasted, or until she had closed the little eyes that were
never to brighten or moisten more. Anny watched and deplored him; but it
was Miss Birch who wrote the letter announcing his demise, and got the
gold chain and locket which the Colonel ordered as a memento of his
gratitude. It was through a row with Miss Birch that Frank Davison ran
away. I promise you that after he joined his regiment in India, the
Ahmednuggur Irregulars, which his gallant father commands, there came
over no more annual shawls and presents to Dr. and Miss Birch; and that
if she fancied the Colonel was coming home to marry her (on account of
her tenderness to his motherless children, which he was always writing
about), THAT notion was very soon given up. But these affairs are
of early date, seven years back, and I only heard of them in a very
confused manner from Miss Raby, who was a girl, and had just come to
Rodwell Regis. She is always very much moved when she speaks about those
boys; which is but seldom. I take it the death of the little one still
grieves her tender heart.

Yes, it is Miss Birch, who has turned away seventeen ushers and
second-masters in eleven years, and half as many French masters, I
suppose, since the departure of her FAVORITE, M. Grinche, with her gold
watch, &c.; but this is only surmise--that is, from hearsay, and from
Miss Rosa taunting her aunt, as she does sometimes, in her graceful way:
but besides this, I have another way of keeping her in order.

Whenever she is particularly odious or insolent to Miss Raby, I have but
to introduce raspberry jam into the conversation, and the woman holds
her tongue. She will understand me. I need not say more.

NOTE, 12th December. I MAY speak now. I have left the place and
don't mind. I say then at once, and without caring twopence for the
consequences, that I saw this woman, this MOTHER of the boys, EATING JAM
WITH A SPOON OUT OF MASTER WIGGINS'S TRUNK IN THE BOX-ROOM: and of this
I am ready to take an affidavit any day.


A TRAGEDY.

THE DRAMA OUGHT TO BE REPRESENTED IN ABOUT SIX ACTS.


[The school is hushed. LAWRENCE the Prefect, and Custos of the rods, is
marching after the DOCTOR into the operating-room. MASTER BACKHOUSE is
about to follow.]


Master Backhouse.--It's all very well, but you see if I don't pay you
out after school--you sneak you!

Master Lurcher.--If you do I'll tell again.  [Exit BACKHOUSE.

[The rod is heard from the adjoining apartment.
Hwish--hwish--hwish--hwish--hwish--hwish--hwish!  [Re-enter BACKHOUSE.


BRIGGS IN LUCK.


Enter the Knife-boy.--Hamper for Briggses! Master Brown.--Hurray, Tom
Briggs! I'll lend you my knife.


If this story does not carry its own moral, what fable does, I wonder?
Before the arrival of that hamper, Master Briggs was in no better repute
than any other young gentleman of the lower school; and in fact I had
occasion myself, only lately, to correct Master Brown for kicking his
friend's shins during the writing-lesson. But how this basket, directed
by his mother's housekeeper and marked "Glass with care," (whence I
conclude that it contains some jam and some bottles of wine, probably,
as well as the usual cake and game-pie, and half a sovereign for the
elder Master B., and five new shillings for Master Decimus Briggs)--how,
I say, the arrival of this basket alters all Master Briggs's
circumstances in life, and the estimation in which many persons regard
him!

If he is a good-hearted boy, as I have reason to think, the very first
thing he will do, before inspecting the contents of the hamper, or
cutting into them with the knife which Master Brown has so considerately
lent him, will be to read over the letter from home which lies on the
top of the parcel. He does so, as I remark to Miss Raby (for whom I
happened to be mending pens when the little circumstance arose), with a
flushed face and winking eyes. Look how the other boys are peering into
the basket as he reads.--I say to her, "Isn't it a pretty picture?" Part
of the letter is in a very large hand. This is from his little sister.
And I would wager that she netted the little purse which he has just
taken out of it, and which Master Lynx is eying.

"You are a droll man, and remark all sorts of queer things," Miss Raby
says, smiling, and plying her swift needle and fingers as quick as
possible.

"I am glad we are both on the spot, and that the little fellow lies
under our guns as it were, and so is protected from some such brutal
school-pirate as young Duval for instance, who would rob him, probably,
of some of those good things; good in themselves, and better because
fresh from home. See, there is a pie as I said, and which I dare say is
better than those which are served at our table (but you never take any
notice of such kind of things, Miss Raby), a cake of course, a bottle
of currant-wine, jam-pots, and no end of pears in the straw. With their
money little Briggs will be able to pay the tick which that imprudent
child has run up with Mrs. Ruggles; and I shall let Briggs Major pay for
the pencil-case which Bullock sold to him.--It will be a lesson to the
young prodigal for the future. But, I say, what a change there will be
in his life for some time to come, and at least until his present wealth
is spent! The boys who bully him will mollify towards him, and accept
his pie and sweetmeats. They will have feasts in the bedroom; and that
wine will taste more delicious to them than the best out of the Doctor's
cellar. The cronies will be invited. Young Master Wagg will tell his
most dreadful story and sing his best song for a slice of that pie. What
a jolly night they will have! When we go the rounds at night, Mr. Prince
and I will take care to make a noise before we come to Briggs's room,
so that the boys may have time to put the light out, to push the things
away, and to scud into bed. Doctor Spry may be put in requisition the
next morning."

"Nonsense! you absurd creature," cries out Miss Raby, laughing; and I
lay down the twelfth pen very nicely mended.

"Yes; after luxury comes the doctor, I say; after extravagance a hole
in the breeches pocket. To judge from his disposition, Briggs Major will
not be much better off a couple of days hence than he is now; and, if
I am not mistaken, will end life a poor man. Brown will be kicking his
shins before a week is over, depend upon it. There are boys and men of
all sorts, Miss R.--There are selfish sneaks who hoard until the store
they daren't use grows mouldy--there are spendthrifts who fling away,
parasites who flatter and lick its shoes, and snarling curs who hate and
envy, good fortune."

I put down the last of the pens, brushing away with it the quill-chips
from her desk first, and she looked at me with a kind, wondering face. I
brushed them away, clicked the penknife into my pocket, made her a bow,
and walked off--for the bell was ringing for school.


A YOUNG FELLOW WHO IS PRETTY SURE TO SUCCEED.


If Master Briggs is destined in all probability to be a poor man, the
chances are that Mr. Bullock will have a very different lot, he is a son
of a partner of the eminent banking firm of Bullock and Hulker, Lombard
street, and very high in the upper school--quite out of my jurisdiction,
consequently.

He writes the most beautiful current-hand ever seen; and the way in
which he mastered arithmetic (going away into recondite and wonderful
rules in the Tutor's Assistant, which some masters even dare not
approach,) is described by the Doctor in terms of admiration. He is
Mr. Prince's best algebra pupil; and a very fair classic, too; doing
everything well for which he has a mind.

He does not busy himself with the sports of his comrades, and holds a
cricket-bat no better than Miss Raby would. He employs the play-hours
in improving his mind, and reading the newspaper; he is a profound
politician, and, it must be owned, on the liberal side. The elder boys
despise him rather; and when champion Major passes, he turns his head,
and looks down. I don't like the expression of Bullock's narrow green
eyes, as they follow the elder Champion, who does not seem to know or
care how much the other hates him.

No. Mr. Bullock, though perhaps the cleverest and most accomplished boy
in the school, associates with the quite little boys when he is minded
for society. To these he is quite affable, courteous, and winning.
He never fagged or thrashed one of them. He has done the verses and
corrected the exercises of many, and many is the little lad to whom he
has lent a little money.

It is true he charges at the rate of a penny a week for every sixpence
lent out; but many a fellow to whom tarts are a present necessity is
happy to pay this interest for the loan. These transactions are kept
secret. Mr. Bullock, in rather a whining tone, when he takes Master
Green aside and does the requisite business for him, says, "You know
you'll go and talk about it everywhere. I don't want to lend you the
money, I want to buy something with it. It's only to oblige you; and yet
I am sure you will go and make fun of me." Whereon, of course, Green,
eager for the money, vows solemnly that the transaction shall be
confidential, and only speaks when the payment of the interest becomes
oppressive.

Thus it is that Mr. Bullock's practices are at all known. At a very
early period, indeed, his commercial genius manifested itself: and
by happy speculations in toffey; by composing a sweet drink made of
stick-liquorice and brown sugar, and selling it at a profit to the
younger children; by purchasing a series of novels, which he let out
at an adequate remuneration; by doing boys' exercises for a penny,
and other processes, he showed the bent of his mind. At the end of the
half-year he always went home richer than when he arrived at school,
with his purse full of money.

Nobody knows how much he brought: but the accounts are fabulous. Twenty,
thirty, fifty--it is impossible to say how many sovereigns. When joked
about his money, he turns pale and swears he has not a shilling: whereas
he has had a banker's account ever since he was thirteen.

At the present moment he is employed in negotiating the sale of a knife
with Master Green, and is pointing out to the latter the beauty of the
six blades, and that he need not pay until after the holidays.

Champion Major has sworn that he will break every bone in his skin the
next time that he cheats a little boy, and is bearing down upon him.
Let us come away. It is frightful to see that big peaceful clever coward
moaning under well-deserved blows and whining for mercy.


DUVAL THE PIRATE.


JONES MINIMUS passes, laden with tarts.

Duval.--Hullo! you small boy with the tarts! Come here, sir. Jones
Minimus.--Please, Duval, they ain't mine. Duval.--Oh, you abominable
young story-teller.  [He confiscates the goods.


I think I like young Duval's mode of levying contributions better than
Bullock's. The former's, at least, has the merit of more candor. Duval
is the pirate of Birch's, and lies in wait for small boys laden with
money or provender. He scents plunder from afar off: and pounces out on
it. Woe betide the little fellow when Duval boards him!

There was a youth here whose money I used to keep, as he was of
an extravagant and weak taste; and I doled it out to him in weekly
shillings, sufficient for the purchase of the necessary tarts. This boy
came to me one day for half a sovereign, for a very particular purpose,
he said. I afterwards found he wanted to lend the money to Duval.

The young ogre burst out laughing, when in a great wrath and fury I
ordered him to refund to the little boy: and proposed a bill of exchange
at three months. It is true Duval's father does not pay the Doctor, and
the lad never has a shilling, save that which he levies; and though he
is always bragging about the splendor of Freenystown, Co. Cork, and
the fox-hounds his father keeps, and the claret they drink there--there
comes no remittance from Castle Freeny in these bad times to the honest
Doctor; who is a kindly man enough, and never yet turned an insolvent
boy out of doors.


THE DORMITORIES.


MASTER HEWLETT AND MASTER NIGHTINGALE

(Rather a cold winter night.)

Hewlett (flinging a shoe at Master Nightingale's bed, with which he hits
that young gentleman).--Hullo, you! Get up and bring me that shoe!

Nightingale.--Yes, Hewlett. (He gets up.)

Hewlett.--Don't drop it, and be very careful of it, sir.

Nightingale.--Yes, Hewlett.

Hewlett.--Silence in the dormitory! Any boy who opens his mouth, I'll
murder him. Now, sir, are not you the boy what can sing?

Nightingale.--Yes, Hewlett.

Hewlett.--Chant, then, till I go to sleep, and if I wake when you stop,
you'll have this at your head.

[Master HEWLETT lays his Bluchers on the bed, ready to shy at Master
Nightingale's head in the case contemplated.]

Nightingale (timidly).--Please, Hewlett?

Hewlett.--Well, sir?

Nightingale.--May I put on my trousers, please?

Hewlett.--No, sir. Go on, or I'll--

Nightingale.--

 "Through pleasures and palaces

 Though we may roam,

 Be it ever so humble

 There's no place like home."


A CAPTURE AND A RESCUE.


My young friend, Patrick Champion, George's younger brother, is a late
arrival among us; has much of the family quality and good nature; is not
in the least a tyrant to the small boys, but is as eager as Amadis to
fight. He is boxing his way up the school, emulating his great brother.
He fixes his eye on a boy above him in strength or size, and you hear
somehow that a difference has arisen between them at football, and they
have their coats off presently. He has thrashed himself over the heads
of many youths in this manner: for instance, if Champion can lick
Dobson, who can thrash Hobson, how much more, then, can he thrash
Hobson? Thus he works up and establishes his position in the school. Nor
does Mr. Prince think it advisable that we ushers should walk much in
the way when these little differences are being settled, unless there is
some gross disparity, or danger is apprehended.

For instance, I own to having seen this row as I was shaving at my
bedroom window. I did not hasten down to prevent its consequences. Fogle
had confiscated a top, the property of Snivins; the which, as the little
wretch was always pegging it at my toes, I did not regret. Snivins
whimpered; and young Champion came up, lusting for battle. Directly he
made out Fogle, he steered for him, pulling up his coat-sleeves, and
clearing for action.

"Who spoke to YOU, young Champion?" Fogle said, and he flung down the
top to Master Snivins. I knew there would be no fight; and perhaps
Champion, too, was disappointed.


THE GARDEN,

WHERE THE PARLOR-BOARDERS GO.


Noblemen have been rather scarce at Birch's--but the heir of a great
Prince has been living with the Doctor for some years.--He is Lord
George Gaunt's eldest son, the noble Plantagenet Gaunt Gaunt, and nephew
of the Most Honorable the Marquis of Steyne.

They are very proud of him at the Doctor's--and the two Misses and Papa,
whenever a stranger comes down whom they want to dazzle, are pretty sure
to bring Lord Steyne into the conversation, mention the last party at
Gaunt House, and cursorily to remark that they have with them a young
friend who will be, in all human probability, Marquis of Steyne and Earl
of Gaunt, &c.

Plantagenet does not care much about these future honors: provided he
can get some brown sugar on his bread-and-butter, or sit with three
chairs and play at coach-and-horses quite quietly by himself, he is
tolerably happy. He saunters in and out of school when he likes, and
looks at the masters and other boys with a listless grin. He used to be
taken to church, but he laughed and talked in odd places, so they are
forced to leave him at home now. He will sit with a bit of string and
play cat's-cradle for many hours. He likes to go and join the very small
children at their games. Some are frightened at him; but they soon cease
to fear, and order him about. I have seen him go and fetch tarts from
Mrs. Ruggles for a boy of eight years old; and cry bitterly if he did
not get a piece. He cannot speak quite plain, but very nearly; and is
not more, I suppose, than three-and-twenty.

Of course at home they know his age, though they never come and see him.
But they forget that Miss Rosa Birch is no longer a young chit as
she was ten years ago, when Gaunt was brought to the school. On the
contrary, she has had no small experience in the tender passion, and is
at this moment smitten with a disinterested affection for Plantagenet
Gaunt.

Next to a little doll with a burnt nose, which he hides away in cunning
places, Mr. Gaunt is very fond of Miss Rosa too. What a pretty match
it would make! and how pleased they would be at Gaunt House, if the
grandson and heir of the great Marquis of Steyne, the descendant of a
hundred Gaunts and Tudors, should marry Miss Birch, the schoolmaster's
daughter! It is true she has the sense on her side, and poor Plantagenet
is only an idiot: but there he is, a zany, with such expectations and
such a pedigree!

If Miss Rosa would run away with Mr. Gaunt, she would leave off bullying
her cousin, Miss Anny Raby. Shall I put her up to the notion, and offer
to lend her the money to run away? Mr. Gaunt is not allowed money. He
had some once, but Bullock took him into a corner, and got it from him.
He has a moderate tick opened at a tart-woman's. He stops at Rodwell
Regis through the year: school-time and holiday-time, it is all the same
to him. Nobody asks about him, or thinks about him, save twice a year,
when the Doctor goes to Gaunt House, and gets the amount of his bills,
and a glass of wine in the steward's room.

And yet you see somehow that he is a gentleman. His manner is different
to that of the owners of that coarse table and parlor at which he is
a boarder (I do not speak of Miss R. of course, for HER manners are
as good as those of a duchess). When he caught Miss Rosa boxing
little Fiddes's ears, his face grew red, and he broke into a fierce
inarticulate rage. After that, and for some days, he used to shrink
from her; but they are reconciled now. I saw them this afternoon in the
garden where only the parlor-boarders walk. He was playful, and touched
her with his stick. She raised her handsome eyes in surprise, and smiled
on him very kindly.

The thing was so clear, that I thought it my duty to speak to old Zoe
about it. The wicked old catamaran told me she wished that some people
would mind their own business, and hold their tongues--that some persons
were paid to teach writing, and not to tell tales and make mischief:
and I have since been thinking whether I ought to communicate with the
Doctor.


THE OLD PUPIL.


As I came into the playgrounds this morning, I saw a dashing young
fellow, with a tanned face and a blond moustache, who was walking up and
down the green arm-in-arm with Champion Major, and followed by a little
crowd of boys.

They were talking of old times evidently. "What had become of Irvine and
Smith?"--"Where was Bill Harris and Jones: not Squinny Jones, but Cocky
Jones?"--and so forth. The gentleman was no stranger; he was an old
pupil evidently, come to see if any of his old comrades remained, and
revisit the cari luoghi of his youth.

Champion was evidently proud of his arm-fellow, he espied his brother,
young Champion, and introduced him. "Come here, sir," he called. "The
young 'un wasn't here in your time, Davison." "Pat, sir," said he, "this
is Captain Davison, one of Birch's boys. Ask him who was among the first
in the lines at Sobraon?"

Pat's face kindled up as he looked Davison full in the face, and held
out his hand. Old Champion and Davison both blushed. The infantry set up
a "Hurray, hurray, hurray," Champion leading, and waving his wide-awake.
I protest that the scene did one good to witness. Here was the hero and
cock of the school come back to see his old haunts and cronies. He had
always remembered them. Since he had seen them last, he had faced death
and achieved honor. But for my dignity I would have shied up my hat too.

With a resolute step, and his arm still linked in Champion's, Captain
Davison now advanced, followed by a wake of little boys, to that corner
of the green where Mrs. Ruggles has her tart stand.

"Hullo, Mother Ruggles! don't you remember me?" he said, and shook her
by the hand.

"Lor, if it ain't Davison Major!" she said. "Well, Davison Major, you
owe me fourpence for two sausage-rolls from when you went away."

Davison laughed, and all the little crew of boys set up a similar
chorus.

"I buy the whole shop," he said. "Now, young 'uns--eat away!"

Then there was such a "Hurray! hurray!" as surpassed the former cheer in
loudness. Everybody engaged in it except Piggy Duff, who made an instant
dash at the three-cornered puffs, but was stopped by Champion, who
said there should be a fair distribution. And so there was, and no
one lacked, neither of raspberry, open tarts, nor of mellifluous
bulls'-eyes, nor of polonies, beautiful to the sight and taste.

The hurraying brought out the old Doctor himself, who put his hand up to
his spectacles and started when he saw the old pupil. Each blushed when
he recognized the other; for seven years ago they had parted not good
friends.

"What--Davison?" the Doctor said, with a tremulous voice. "God bless
you, my dear fellow!"--and they shook hands. "A half holiday, of course,
boys," he added, and there was another hurray: there was to be no end to
the cheering that day.

"How's--how's the family, sir?" Captain Davison asked.

"Come in and see. Rosa's grown quite a lady. Dine with us, of course.
Champion Major, come to dinner at five. Mr. Titmarsh, the pleasure of
your company?" The Doctor swung open the garden gate: the old master and
pupil entered the house reconciled.

I thought I would first peep into Miss Raby's room, and tell her of
this event. She was working away at her linen there, as usual quiet and
cheerful.

"You should put up," I said with a smile; "the Doctor has given us a
half-holiday."

"I never have holidays," Miss Raby replied.

Then I told her of the scene I had just witnessed, of the arrival of the
old pupil, the purchase of the tarts, the proclamation of the holiday,
and the shouts of the boys of "Hurray, Davison!"

"WHO is it?" cried out Miss Raby, starting and turning as white as a
sheet.

I told her it was Captain Davison from India; and described the
appearance and behavior of the Captain. When I had finished speaking,
she asked me to go and get her a glass of water; she felt unwell. But
she was gone when I came back with the water.


I know all now. After sitting for a quarter of an hour with the Doctor,
who attributed his guest's uneasiness no doubt to his desire to see Miss
Rosa Birch, Davison started up and said he wanted to see Miss Raby. "You
remember, sir, how kind she was to my little brother, sir?" he said.
Whereupon the Doctor, with a look of surprise, that anybody should want
to see Miss Raby, said she was in the little school-room; whither the
Captain went, knowing the way from old times.

A few minutes afterwards, Miss B. and Miss Z. returned from a drive
with Plantagenet Gaunt in their one-horse fly, and being informed of
Davison's arrival, and that he was closeted with Miss Raby in the little
school-room, of course made for that apartment at once. I was coming
into it from the other door. I wanted to know whether she had drunk the
water.

This is what both parties saw. The two were in this very attitude.
"Well, upon my word!" cries out Miss Zoe; but Davison did not let go his
hold; and Miss Raby's head only sank down on his hand.

"You must get another governess, sir, for the little boys," Frank
Davison said to the Doctor. "Anny Raby has promised to come with me."

You may suppose I shut to the door on my side. And when I returned to
the little school-room, it was black and empty. Everybody was gone. I
could hear the boys shouting at play in the green outside. The glass
of water was on the table where I had placed it. I took it and drank
it myself, to the health of Anny Raby and her husband. It was rather a
choker.

But of course I wasn't going to stop on at Birch's. When his young
friends reassemble on the 1st of February next, they will have two new
masters. Prince resigned too, and is at present living with me at my
old lodgings at Mrs. Cammysole's. If any nobleman or gentleman wants a
private tutor for his son, a note to the Rev. F. Prince will find him
there.

Miss Clapperclaw says we are both a couple of old fools; and that she
knew when I set off last year to Rodwell Regis, after meeting the two
young ladies at a party at General Champion's house in our street, that
I was going on a goose's errand. I shall dine there on Christmas-day;
and so I wish a merry Christmas to all young and old boys.

     EPILOGUE.


     The play is done; the curtain drops,
     Slow falling, to the prompter's bell:
     A moment yet the actor stops,
     And looks around, to say farewell.
     It is an irksome word and task;
     And when he's laughed and said his say,
     He shows, as he removes the mask,
     A face that's anything but gay.

     One word, ere yet the evening ends,
     Let's close it with a parting rhyme,
     And pledge a hand to all young friends,
     As fits the merry Christmas time.
     On life's wide scene you, too, have parts,
     That Fate ere long shall bid you play;
     Good night! with honest gentle hearts
     A kindly greeting go alway!

     Good night!  I'd say the griefs, the joys,
     Just hinted in this mimic page,
     The triumphs and defeats of boys,
     Are but repeated in our age.
     I'd say, your woes were not less keen,
     Your hopes more vain, than those of men,
     Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen,
     At forty-five played o'er again.

     I'd say, we suffer and we strive
     Not less nor more as men than boys;
     With grizzled beards at forty-five,
     As erst at twelve, in corduroys.
     And if, in time of sacred youth,
     We learned at home to love and pray,
     Pray heaven, that early love and truth
     May never wholly pass away.

     And in the world, as in the school,
     I'd say, how fate may change and shift;
     The prize be sometimes with the fool,
     The race not always to the swift.
     The strong may yield, the good may fall,
     The great man be a vulgar clown,
     The knave be lifted over all,
     The kind cast pitilessly down.

     Who knows the inscrutable design?
     Blessed be He who took and gave:
     Why should your mother, Charles, not mine,
     Be weeping at her darling's grave?*
     We bow to heaven that will'd it so,
     That darkly rules the fate of all,
     That sends the respite or the blow,
     That's free to give or to recall.

     This crowns his feast with wine and wit:
     Who brought him to that mirth and state?
     His betters, see, below him sit,
     Or hunger hopeless at the gate.
     Who bade the mud from Dives' Wheel
     To spurn the rags of Lazarus?
     Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel,
     Confessing heaven that ruled it thus.

     So each shall mourn in life's advance,
     Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed;
     Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance,
     A longing passion unfulfilled.
     Amen: whatever Fate be sent,--Pray God the heart may kindly glow,
     Although the head with cares be bent,
     And whitened with the winter snow.

     Come wealth or want, come good or ill,
     Let young and old accept their part,
     And bow before the Awful Will,
     And bear it with an honest heart.
     Who misses, or who wins the prize?
     Go, lose or conquer as you can.
     But if you fail, or if you rise,
     Be each, pray God, a gentleman,

     A gentleman, or old or young:
     (Bear kindly with my humble lays,)
     The sacred chorus first was sung
     Upon the first of Christmas days.
     The shepherds heard it overhead--The joyful angels raised it then:
     Glory to heaven on high, it said,
     And peace on earth to gentle men.

     My song, save this, is little worth;
     I lay the weary pen aside,
     And wish you health, and love, and mirth,
     As fits the solemn Christmas tide.
     As fits the holy Christmas birth,
     Be this, good friends, our carol still--Be peace on earth, be
          peace on earth,
     To men of gentle will.


     * C. B., ob. Dec. 1843, aet. 42.




THE KICKLEBURYS ON THE RHINE.

BY MR. M. A. TITMARSH


PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION:

BEING AN ESSAY ON THUNDER AND SMALL BEER.


Any reader who may have a fancy to purchase a copy of this present
edition of the "History of the Kickleburys Abroad," had best be warned
in time, that the Times newspaper does not approve of the work, and has
but a bad opinion both of the author and his readers. Nothing can be
fairer than this statement: if you happen to take up the poor little
volume at a railroad station, and read this sentence, lay the book down,
and buy something else. You are warned. What more can the author say? If
after this you WILL buy,--amen! pay your money, take your book, and
fall to. Between ourselves, honest reader, it is no very strong potation
which the present purveyor offers to you. It will not trouble your head
much in the drinking. It was intended for that sort of negus which
is offered at Christmas parties and of which ladies and children may
partake with refreshment and cheerfulness. Last year I tried a brew
which was old, bitter, and strong; and scarce any one would drink it.
This year we send round a milder tap, and it is liked by customers:
though the critics (who like strong ale, the rogues!) turn up their
noses. In heaven's name, Mr. Smith, serve round the liquor to the
gentle-folks. Pray, dear madam, another glass; it is Christmas time,
it will do you no harm. It is not intended to keep long, this sort of
drink. (Come, froth up, Mr. Publisher, and pass quickly round!) And as
for the professional gentlemen, we must get a stronger sort for THEM
some day.

The Times' gentleman (a very difficult gent to please) is the
loudest and noisiest of all, and has made more hideous faces over
the refreshment offered to him than any other critic. There is no use
shirking this statement! when a man has been abused in the Times, he
can't hide it, any more than he could hide the knowledge of his having
been committed to prison by Mr. Henry, or publicly caned in Pall Mall.
You see it in your friends' eyes when they meet you. They know it. They
have chuckled over it to a man. They whisper about it at the club, and
look over the paper at you. My next-door neighbor came to see me this
morning, and I saw by his face that he had the whole story pat. "Hem!"
says he, "well, I HAVE heard of it; and the fact is, they were
talking about you at dinner last night, and mentioning that the Times
had--ahem!--'walked into you.'"

"My good M----" I say--and M---- will corroborate, if need be, the
statement I make here--"here is the Times' article, dated January
4th, which states so and so, and here is a letter from the publisher,
likewise dated January 4th, and which says:--


"MY DEAR Sir,--Having this day sold the last copy of the first edition
(of x thousand) of the 'Kickleburys Abroad,' and having orders for more,
had we not better proceed to a second edition? and will you permit me to
enclose an order on," &c. &c.?


Singular coincidence! And if every author who was so abused by a critic
had a similar note from a publisher, good Lord! how easily would we take
the critic's censure!

"Yes, yes," you say; "it is all very well for a writer to affect to be
indifferent to a critique from the Times. You bear it as a boy bears a
flogging at school, without crying out; but don't swagger and brag as if
you liked it."

Let us have truth before all. I would rather have a good word than a bad
one from any person: but if a critic abuses me from a high place, and
it is worth my while, I will appeal. If I can show that the judge who
is delivering sentence against me, and laying down the law and making
a pretence of learning, has no learning and no law, and is neither
more nor less than a pompous noodle, who ought not to be heard in any
respectable court, I will do so; and then, dear friends, perhaps you
will have something to laugh at in this book.--


"THE KICKLEBURYS ABROAD.

"It has been customary, of late years, for the purveyors of amusing
literature--the popular authors of the day--to put forth certain
opuscules, denominated 'Christmas Books,' with the ostensible intention
of swelling the tide of exhilaration, or other expansive emotions,
incident upon the exodus of the old and the inauguration of the new
year. We have said that their ostensible intention was such, because
there is another motive for these productions, locked up (as the popular
author deems) in his own breast, but which betrays itself, in the
quality of the work, as his principal incentive. Oh! that any muse
should be set upon a high stool to cast up accounts and balance a
ledger! Yet so it is; and the popular author finds it convenient to
fill up the declared deficit, and place himself in a position the
more effectually to encounter those liabilities which sternly assert
themselves contemporaneously and in contrast with the careless and
free-handed tendencies of the season by the emission of Christmas
books--a kind of literary assignats, representing to the emitter
expunged debts, to the receiver an investment of enigmatical value. For
the most part bearing the stamp of their origin in the vacuity of
the writer's exchequer rather than in the fulness of his genius, they
suggest by their feeble flavor the rinsings of a void brain after the
more important concoctions of the expired year. Indeed, we should as
little think of taking these compositions as examples of the merits of
their authors as we should think of measuring the valuable services of
Mr. Walker, the postman, or Mr. Bell, the dust-collector, by the copy of
verses they leave at our doors as a provocative of the expected annual
gratuity--effusions with which they may fairly be classed for their
intrinsic worth no less than their ultimate purport.

"In the Christmas book presently under notice, the author appears (under
the thin disguise of Mr. Michael Angelo Titmarsh) in 'propria persona'
as the popular author, the contributor to Punch, the remorseless pursuer
of unconscious vulgarity and feeble-mindedness, launched upon a tour
of relaxation to the Rhine. But though exercising, as is the wont of
popular authors in their moments of leisure, a plentiful reserve of
those higher qualities to which they are indebted for their fame, his
professional instincts are not altogether in abeyance. From the moment
his eye lights upon a luckless family group embarked on the same steamer
with himself, the sight of his accustomed quarry--vulgarity, imbecility,
and affectation--reanimates his relaxed sinews, and, playfully fastening
his satiric fangs upon the familiar prey, he dallies with it in mimic
ferocity like a satiated mouser.

"Though faintly and carelessly indicated, the characters are those
with which the author loves to surround himself. A tuft-hunting county
baronet's widow, an inane captain of dragoons, a graceless young
baronet, a lady with groundless pretensions to feeble health and poesy,
an obsequious nonentity her husband, and a flimsy and artificial young
lady, are the personages in whom we are expected to find amusement.
Two individuals alone form an exception to the above category, and are
offered to the respectful admiration of the reader,--the one, a shadowy
serjeant-at-law, Mr. Titmarsh's travelling companion, who escapes with
a few side puffs of flattery, which the author struggles not to render
ironical, and a mysterious countess, spoken of in a tone of religious
reverence, and apparently introduced that we may learn by what delicate
discriminations our adoration of rank should be regulated.

"To those who love to hug themselves in a sense of superiority by
admeasurement with the most worthless of their species, in their most
worthless aspects, the Kickleburys on the Rhine will afford an agreeable
treat, especially as the purveyor of the feast offers his own moments of
human weakness as a modest entree in this banquet of erring mortality.
To our own, perhaps unphilosophical, taste the aspirations towards
sentimental perfection of another popular author are infinitely
preferable to these sardonic divings after the pearl of truth, whose
lustre is eclipsed in the display of the diseased oyster. Much, in the
present instance, perhaps all, the disagreeable effect of his subject is
no doubt attributable to the absence of Mr. Thackeray's usual brilliancy
of style. A few flashes, however, occur, such as the description of M.
Lenoir's gaming establishment, with the momentous crisis to which it was
subjected, and the quaint and imaginative sallies evoked by the
whole town of Rougetnoirbourg and its lawful prince. These, with the
illustrations, which are spirited enough, redeem the book from an
absolute ban. Mr. Thackeray's pencil is more congenial than his pen. He
cannot draw his men and women with their skins off, and, therefore, the
effigies of his characters are pleasanter to contemplate than the flayed
anatomies of the letter-press."


There is the whole article. And the reader will see (in the paragraph
preceding that memorable one which winds up with the diseased oyster)
that he must be a worthless creature for daring to like the book, as he
could only do so from a desire to hug himself in a sense of superiority
by admeasurement with the most worthless of his fellow-creatures!

The reader is worthless for liking a book of which all the characters
are worthless, except two, which are offered to his respectful
admiration; and of these two the author does not respect one, but
struggles not to laugh in his face; whilst he apparently speaks
of another in a tone of religious reverence, because the lady is a
countess, and because he (the author) is a sneak. So reader, author,
characters, are rogues all. Be there any honest men left, Hal? About
Printing-house Square, mayhap you may light on an honest man, a
squeamish man, a proper moral man, a man that shall talk you Latin by
the half-column if you will but hear him.

And what a style it is, that great man's! What hoighth of foine language
entoirely! How he can discoorse you in English for all the world as
if it was Latin! For instance, suppose you and I had to announce the
important news that some writers published what are called Christmas
books; that Christmas books are so called because they are published
at Christmas: and that the purpose of the authors is to try and amuse
people. Suppose, I say, we had, by the sheer force of intellect, or
by other means of observation or information, discovered these great
truths, we should have announced them in so many words. And there it is
that the difference lies between a great writer and a poor one; and we
may see how an inferior man may fling a chance away. How does my friend
of the Times put these propositions? "It has been customary," says he,
"of late years for the purveyors of amusing literature to put forth
certain opuscules, denominated Christmas books, with the ostensible
intention of swelling the tide of exhilaration, or other expansive
emotions, incident upon the exodus of the old or the inauguration of the
new year." That is something like a sentence; not a word scarcely but's
in Latin, and the longest and handsomest out of the whole dictionary.
That is proper economy--as you see a buck from Holywell Street put
every pinchbeck pin, ring, and chain which he possesses about his shirt,
hands, and waistcoat, and then go and cut a dash in the Park, or swagger
with his order to the theatre. It costs him no more to wear all his
ornaments about his distinguished person than to leave them at home. If
you can be a swell at a cheap rate, why not? And I protest, for my
part, I had no idea what I was really about in writing and submitting
my little book for sale, until my friend the critic, looking at the
article, and examining it with the eyes of a connoisseur, pronounced
that what I had fancied simply to be a book was in fact "an opuscule
denominated so-and-so, and ostensibly intended to swell the tide of
expansive emotion incident upon the inauguration of the new year." I can
hardly believe as much even now--so little do we know what we really are
after, until men of genius come and interpret.

And besides the ostensible intention, the reader will perceive that my
judge has discovered another latent motive, which I had "locked up in my
own breast." The sly rogue! (if we may so speak of the court.) There is
no keeping anything from him; and this truth, like the rest, has come
out, and is all over England by this time. Oh, that all England, which
has bought the judge's charge, would purchase the prisoner's plea in
mitigation! "Oh, that any muse should be set on a high stool," says the
bench, "to cast up accounts and balance a ledger! Yet so it is; and the
popular author finds it convenient to fill up the declared deficit by
the emission of Christmas books--a kind of assignats that bear the stamp
of their origin in the vacuity of the writer's exchequer." There is
a trope for you! You rascal, you wrote because you wanted money! His
lordship has found out what you were at, and that there is a deficit in
your till. But he goes on to say that we poor devils are to be pitied
in our necessity; and that these compositions are no more to be taken as
examples of our merits than the verses which the dustman leaves at his
lordship's door, "as a provocative of the expected annual gratuity,"
are to be considered as measuring his, the scavenger's, valuable
services--nevertheless the author's and the scavenger's "effusions
may fairly be classed, for their intrinsic worth, no less than their
ultimate purport."

Heaven bless his lordship on the bench--What a gentle manlike badinage
he has, and what a charming and playful wit always at hand! What a sense
he has for a simile, or what Mrs. Malaprop calls an odorous comparison,
and how gracefully he conducts it to "its ultimate purport." A gentleman
writing a poor little book is a scavenger asking for a Christmas-box!


As I try this small beer which has called down such a deal of thunder, I
can't help thinking that it is not Jove who has interfered (the case was
scarce worthy of his divine vindictiveness); but the Thunderer's man,
Jupiter Jeames, taking his master's place, adopting his manner, and
trying to dazzle and roar like his awful employer. That figure of the
dustman has hardly been flung from heaven: that "ultimate purport" is a
subject which the Immortal would hardly handle. Well, well; let us allow
that the book is not worthy of such a polite critic--that the beer is
not strong enough for a gentleman who has taste and experience in beer.

That opinion no man can ask his honor to alter; but (the beer being the
question), why make unpleasant allusions to the Gazette, and hint at the
probable bankruptcy of the brewer? Why twit me with my poverty; and what
can the Times' critic know about the vacuity of my exchequer? Did he
ever lend me any money? Does he not himself write for money? (and who
would grudge it to such a polite and generous and learned author?) If he
finds no disgrace in being paid, why should I? If he has ever been poor,
why should he joke at my empty exchequer? Of course such a genius is
paid for his work: with such neat logic, such a pure style, such a
charming poetical turn of phrase, of course a critic gets money. Why, a
man who can say of a Christmas book that "it is an opuscule denominated
so-and-so, and ostensibly intended to swell the tide of expansive
emotion incident upon the exodus of the old year," must evidently have
had immense sums and care expended on his early education, and deserves
a splendid return. You can't go into the market, and get scholarship
like THAT, without paying for it: even the flogging that such a writer
must have had in early youth (if he was at a public school where the
rods were paid for), must have cost his parents a good sum. Where would
you find any but an accomplished classical scholar to compare the books
of the present (or indeed any other) writer to "sardonic divings after
the pearl of truth, whose lustre is eclipsed in the display of the
diseased oyster;" mere Billingsgate doesn't turn out oysters like these;
they are of the Lucrine lake:--this satirist has pickled his rods in
Latin brine. Fancy, not merely a diver, but a sardonic diver: and the
expression of his confounded countenance on discovering not only a
pearl, but an eclipsed pearl, which was in a diseased oyster! I say
it is only by an uncommon and happy combination of taste, genius, and
industry, that a man can arrive at uttering such sentiments in such fine
language,--that such a man ought to be well paid, as I have no doubt
he is, and that he is worthily employed to write literary articles,
in large type, in the leading journal of Europe. Don't we want men of
eminence and polite learning to sit on the literary bench, and to direct
the public opinion?

But when this profound scholar compares me to a scavenger who leaves a
copy of verses at his door and begs for a Christmas-box, I must again
cry out and say, "My dear sir, it is true your simile is offensive, but
can you make it out? Are you not hasty in your figures and illusions?"
If I might give a hint to so consummate a rhetorician, you should be
more careful in making your figures figures, and your similes like: for
instance, when you talk of a book "swelling the tide of exhilaration
incident to the inauguration of the new year," or of a book "bearing the
stamp of its origin in vacuity," &c.,--or of a man diving sardonically;
or of a pearl eclipsed in the display of a diseased oyster--there are
some people who will not apprehend your meaning: some will doubt whether
you had a meaning: some even will question your great powers, and say,
"Is this man to be a critic in a newspaper, which knows what English,
and Latin too, and what sense and scholarship, are?" I don't quarrel
with you--I take for granted your wit and learning, your modesty
and benevolence--but why scavenger--Jupiter Jeames--why scavenger? A
gentleman, whose biography the Examiner was fond of quoting before it
took its present serious and orthodox turn, was pursued by an outraged
wife to the very last stage of his existence with an appeal almost as
pathetic--Ah, sir, why scavenger?

How can I be like a dustman that rings for a Christmas-box at your
hall-door? I never was there in my life. I never left at your door a
copy of verses provocative of an annual gratuity, as your noble honor
styles it. Who are you? If you are the man I take you to be, it must
have been you who asked the publisher for my book, and not I who sent
it in, and begged a gratuity of your worship. You abused me out of the
Times' window; but if ever your noble honor sent me a gratuity out of
your own door, may I never drive another dust-cart. "Provocative of a
gratuity!" O splendid swell! How much was it your worship sent out to
me by the footman? Every farthing you have paid I will restore to your
lordship, and I swear I shall not be a halfpenny the poorer.

As before, and on similar seasons and occasions, I have compared myself
to a person following a not dissimilar calling: let me suppose now, for
a minute, that I am a writer of a Christmas farce, who sits in the
pit, and sees the performance of his own piece. There comes applause,
hissing, yawning, laughter, as may be: but the loudest critic of all
is our friend the cheap buck, who sits yonder and makes his remarks, so
that all the audience may hear. "THIS a farce!" says Beau Tibbs: "demmy!
it's the work of a poor devil who writes for money,--confound his
vulgarity! This a farce! Why isn't it a tragedy, or a comedy, or an epic
poem, stap my vitals? This a farce indeed! It's a feller as sends round
his 'at, and appeals to charity. Let's 'ave our money back again,
I say." And he swaggers off;--and you find the fellow came with an
author's order.

But if, in spite of Tibbs, our "kyind friends," &c. &c. &c.--if the
little farce, which was meant to amuse Christmas (or what my classical
friend calls Exodus), is asked for, even up to Twelfth Night,--shall the
publisher stop because Tibbs is dissatisfied? Whenever that capitalist
calls to get his money back, he may see the letter from the respected
publisher, informing the author that all the copies are sold, and that
there are demands for a new edition. Up with the curtain, then! Vivat
Regina! and no money returned, except the Times "gratuity!"

M. A. TITMARSH.

January 5, 1851.



THE KICKLEBURYS ON THE RHINE.


The cabman, when he brought us to the wharf, and made his usual charge
of six times his legal fare, before the settlement of which he pretended
to refuse the privilege of an exeat regno to our luggage, glared like a
disappointed fiend when Lankin, calling up the faithful Hutchison, his
clerk, who was in attendance, said to him, "Hutchison, you will pay this
man. My name is Serjeant Lankin, my chambers are in Pump Court. My clerk
will settle with you, sir." The cabman trembled; we stepped on board;
our lightsome luggage was speedily whisked away by the crew; our berths
had been secured by the previous agency of Hutchison; and a couple of
tickets, on which were written, "Mr. Serjeant Lankin," "Mr. Titmarsh,"
(Lankin's, by the way, incomparably the best and comfortablest sleeping
place,) were pinned on to two of the curtains of the beds in a side
cabin when we descended.

Who was on board? There were Jews, with Sunday papers and fruit; there
were couriers and servants straggling about; there were those bearded
foreign visitors of England, who always seem to decline to shave or
wash themselves on the day of a voyage, and, on the eve of quitting our
country, appear inclined to carry away as much as possible of its soil
on their hands and linen: there were parties already cozily established
on deck under the awning; and steady-going travellers for'ard, smoking
already the pleasant morning cigar, and watching the phenomena of
departure.

The bell rings: they leave off bawling, "Anybody else for the shore?"
The last grape and Bell's Life merchant has scuffled over the plank: the
Johns of the departing nobility and gentry line the brink of the quay,
and touch their hats: Hutchison touches his hat to me--to ME, heaven
bless him! I turn round inexpressibly affected and delighted, and whom
do I see but Captain Hicks!

"Hallo! YOU here?" says Hicks, in a tone which seems to mean, "Confound
you, you are everywhere."

Hicks is one of those young men who seem to be everywhere a great deal
too often.

How are they always getting leave from their regiments? If they are
not wanted in this country, (as wanted they cannot be, for you see them
sprawling over the railing in Rotten Row all day, and shaking their
heels at every ball in town,)--if they are not wanted in this country, I
say, why the deuce are they not sent off to India, or to Demerara, or to
Sierra Leone, by Jove?--the farther the better; and I should wish a good
unwholesome climate to try 'em, and make 'em hardy. Here is this Hicks,
then--Captain Launcelot Hicks, if you please--whose life is nothing but
breakfast, smoking, riding-school, billiards, mess, polking, billiards,
and smoking again, and da capo--pulling down his moustaches, and going
to take a tour after the immense labors of the season.

"How do you do, Captain Hicks?" I say. "Where are you going?"

"Oh, I am going to the Whine," says Hicks; "evewybody goes to the
Whine." The WHINE indeed! I dare say he can no more spell properly than
he can speak.

"Who is on board--anybody?" I ask, with the air of a man of fashion.
"To whom does that immense pile of luggage belong--under charge of the
lady's-maid, the courier, and the British footman? A large white K is
painted on all the boxes."

"How the deuce should I know?" says Hicks, looking, as I fancy, both red
and angry, and strutting off with his great cavalry lurch and swagger:
whilst my friend the Serjeant looks at him lost in admiration, and
surveys his shining little boots, his chains and breloques, his whiskers
and ambrosial moustaches, his gloves and other dandifications, with a
pleased wonder; as the ladies of the Sultan's harem surveyed the great
Lady from Park Lane who paid them a visit; or the simple subjects of
Montezuma looked at one of Cortes's heavy dragoons.

"That must be a marquis at least," whispers Lankin, who consults me
on points of society, and is pleased to have a great opinion of my
experience.

I burst out in a scornful laugh. "THAT!" I say; "he is a captain of
dragoons, and his father an attorney in Bedford Row. The whiskers of a
roturier, my good Lankin, grow as long as the beard of a Plantagenet. It
don't require much noble blood to learn the polka. If you were younger,
Lankin, we might go for a shilling a night, and dance every evening at
M. Laurent's Casino, and skip about in a little time as well as that
fellow. Only we despise the kind of thing you know,--only we're too
grave, and too steady."

"And too fat," whispers Lankin, with a laugh.

"Speak for yourself, you maypole," says I. "If you can't dance yourself,
people can dance round you--put a wreath of flowers upon your old poll,
stick you up in a village green, and so make use of you."

"I should gladly be turned into anything so pleasant," Lankin answers;
"and so, at least, get a chance of seeing a pretty girl now and then.
They don't show in Pump Court, or at the University Club, where I dine.
You are a lucky fellow, Titmarsh, and go about in the world. As for me,
I never--"

"And the judges' wives, you rogue?" I say. "Well, no man is satisfied;
and the only reason I have to be angry with the captain yonder is,
that, the other night, at Mrs. Perkins's, being in conversation with a
charming young creature--who knows all my favorite passages in Tennyson,
and takes a most delightful little line of opposition in the Church
controversy--just as we were in the very closest, dearest, pleasantest
part of the talk, comes up young Hotspur yonder, and whisks her away in
a polka. What have you and I to do with polkas, Lankin? He took her down
to supper--what have you and I to do with suppers?"

"Our duty is to leave them alone," said the philosophical Serjeant.
"And now about breakfast--shall we have some?" And as he spoke, a
savory little procession of stewards and stewards' boys, with drab tin
dish-covers, passed from the caboose, and descended the stairs to the
cabin. The vessel had passed Greenwich by this time, and had worked its
way out of the mast-forest which guards the approaches of our city.


The owners of those innumerable boxes, bags, oil-skins, guitar-cases,
whereon the letter K was engraven, appeared to be three ladies, with a
slim gentleman of two or three and thirty, who was probably the husband
of one of them. He had numberless shawls under his arm and guardianship.
He had a strap full of Murray's Handbooks and Continental Guides in
his keeping; and a little collection of parasols and umbrellas, bound
together, and to be carried in state before the chief of the party, like
the lictor's fasces before the consul.

The chief of the party was evidently the stout lady. One parasol being
left free, she waved it about, and commanded the luggage and the menials
to and fro. "Horace, we will sit there," she exclaimed, pointing to a
comfortable place on the deck. Horace went and placed the shawls and
the Guidebooks. "Hirsch, avy vou conty les bagages? tront sett morso ong
too?" The German courier said, "Oui, miladi," and bowed a rather sulky
assent. "Bowman, you will see that Finch is comfortable, and send her to
me." The gigantic Bowman, a gentleman in an undress uniform, with very
large and splendid armorial buttons, and with traces of the powder of
the season still lingering in his hair, bows, and speeds upon my lady's
errand.

I recognize Hirsch, a well-known face upon the European high-road, where
he has travelled with many acquaintances. With whom is he making the
tour now?--Mr. Hirsch is acting as courier to Mr. and Mrs. Horace
Milliken. They have not been married many months, and they are
travelling, Hirsch says, with a contraction of his bushy eyebrows, with
miladi, Mrs. Milliken's mamma. "And who is her ladyship?" Hirsch's brow
contracts into deeper furrows. "It is Miladi Gigglebury," he says, "Mr.
Didmarsh. Berhabs you know her." He scowls round at her, as she calls
out loudly, "Hirsch, Hirsch!" and obeys that summons.


It is the great Lady Kicklebury of Pocklington Square, about whom I
remember Mrs. Perkins made so much ado at her last ball; and whom old
Perkins conducted to supper. When Sir Thomas Kicklebury died (he was one
of the first tenants of the Square), who does not remember the scutcheon
with the coronet with two balls, that flamed over No. 36? Her son was at
Eton then, and has subsequently taken an honorary degree at Oxford, and
been an ornament of Platt's and the "Oswestry Club." He fled into St.
James's from the great house in Pocklington Square, and from St. James's
to Italy and the Mediterranean, where he has been for some time in a
wholesome exile. Her eldest daughter's marriage with Lord Roughhead was
talked about last year; but Lord Roughhead, it is known, married Miss
Brent; and Horace Milliken, very much to his surprise, found himself the
affianced husband of Miss Lavinia Kicklebury, after an agitating evening
at Lady Polkimore's, when Miss Lavinia, feeling herself faint, went out
on to the leads (the terrace, Lady Polkimore WILL call it), on the arm
of Mr. Milliken. They were married in January: it's not a bad match for
Miss K. Lady Kicklebury goes and stops for six months of the year at
Pigeoncot with her daughter and son-in-law; and now that they are come
abroad, she comes too. She must be with Lavinia, under the present
circumstances.

When I am arm-in-arm, I tell this story glibly off to Lankin, who is
astonished at my knowledge of the world, and says, "Why, Titmarsh, you
know everything."

"I DO know a few things, Lankin my boy," is my answer. "A man don't live
in society, and PRETTY GOOD society, let me tell you, for nothing."

The fact is, that all the above details are known to almost any man in
our neighborhood. Lady Kicklebury does not meet with US much, and has
greater folks than we can pretend to be at her parties. But we know
about THEM. She'll condescend to come to Perkins's, WITH WHOSE FIRM SHE
BANKS; and she MAY overdraw HER ACCOUNT: but of that, of course, I know
nothing.

When Lankin and I go down stairs to breakfast, we find, if not the best,
at least the most conspicuous places in occupation of Lady Kicklebury's
party, and the hulking London footman making a darkness in the cabin, as
he stoops through it bearing cups and plates to his employers.


[Why do they always put mud into coffee on board steamers? Why does the
tea generally taste of boiled boots? Why is the milk scarce and thin?
And why do they have those bleeding legs of boiled mutton for dinner?
I ask why? In the steamers of other nations you are well fed. Is it
impossible that Britannia, who confessedly rules the waves, should
attend to the victuals a little, and that meat should be well cooked
under a Union Jack? I just put in this question, this most interesting
question, in a momentous parenthesis, and resume the tale.]


When Lankin and I descend to the cabin, then, the tables are full of
gobbling people; and, though there DO seem to be a couple of places near
Lady Kicklebury, immediately she sees our eyes directed to the inviting
gap, she slides out, and with her ample robe covers even more than that
large space to which by art and nature she is entitled, and calling out,
"Horace, Horace!" and nodding, and winking, and pointing, she causes her
son-in-law to extend the wing on his side. We are cut of THAT chance
of a breakfast. We shall have the tea at its third water, and those two
damp black mutton-chops, which nobody else will take, will fall to our
cold share.

At this minute a voice, clear and sweet, from a tall lady in a black
veil, says, "Mr. Titmarsh," and I start and murmur an ejaculation of
respectful surprise, as I recognize no less a person than the Right
Honorable the Countess of Knightsbridge, taking her tea, breaking
up little bits of toast with her slim fingers, and sitting between a
Belgian horse-dealer and a German violoncello-player who has a conge
after the opera--like any other mortal.

I whisper her ladyship's name to Lankin. The Serjeant looks towards her
with curiosity and awe. Even he, in his Pump Court solitudes, has heard
of that star of fashion--that admired amongst men, and even women--that
Diana severe yet simple, the accomplished Aurelia of Knightsbridge. Her
husband has but a small share of HER qualities. How should he? The
turf and the fox-chase are his delights--the smoking-room at the
"Travellers'"--nay, shall we say it?--the illuminated arcades
of "Vauxhall," and the gambols of the dishevelled Terpsichore.
Knightsbridge has his faults--ah! even the peerage of England is not
exempt from them. With Diana for his wife, he flies the halls where
she sits severe and serene, and is to be found (shrouded in smoke,
'tis true,) in those caves where the contrite chimney-sweep sings his
terrible death chant, or the Bacchanalian judge administers a satiric
law. Lord Knightsbridge has his faults, then; but he has the gout at
Rougetnoirbourg, near the Rhine, and thither his wife is hastening to
minister to him.

"I have done," says Lady Knightsbridge, with a gentle bow, as she rises;
"you may have this place, Mr. Titmarsh; and I am sorry my breakfast is
over: I should have prolonged it had I thought that YOU were coming to
sit by me. Thank you--my glove." (Such an absurd little glove, by the
way). "We shall meet on the deck when you have done."

And she moves away with an august curtsy. I can't tell how it is, or
what it is, in that lady; but she says, "How do you do?" as nobody else
knows how to say it. In all her actions, motions, thoughts, I would
wager there is the same calm grace and harmony. She is not very
handsome, being very thin, and rather sad-looking. She is not very
witty, being only up to the conversation, whatever it may be; and yet,
if she were in black serge, I think one could not help seeing that she
was a Princess, and Serene Highness; and if she were a hundred years
old, she could not be but beautiful. I saw her performing her devotions
in Antwerp Cathedral, and forgot to look at anything else there;--so
calm and pure, such a sainted figure hers seemed.

When this great lady did the present writer the honor to shake his hand
(I had the honor to teach writing and the rudiments of Latin to the
young and intelligent Lord Viscount Pimlico), there seemed to be a
commotion in the Kicklebury party--heads were nodded together, and
turned towards Lady Knightsbridge: in whose honor, when Lady Kicklebury
had sufficiently reconnoitred her with her eye-glass, the baronet's lady
rose and swept a reverential curtsy, backing until she fell up against
the cushions at the stern of the boat. Lady Knightsbridge did not see
this salute, for she did not acknowledge it, but walked away slimly (she
seems to glide in and out of the room), and disappeared up the stair to
the deck.

Lankin and I took our places, the horse-dealer making room for us; and
I could not help looking, with a little air of triumph, over to the
Kicklebury faction, as much as to say, "You fine folks, with your large
footman and supercilious airs, see what WE can do."

As I looked--smiling, and nodding, and laughing at me, in a knowing,
pretty way, and then leaning to mamma as if in explanation, what face
should I see but that of the young lady at Mrs. Perkins's, with whom
I had had that pleasant conversation which had been interrupted by the
demand of Captain Hicks for a dance? So, then, that was Miss Kicklebury,
about whom Miss Perkins, my young friend, has so often spoken to me: the
young ladies were in conversation when I had the happiness of joining
them; and Miss P. went away presently, to look to her guests--that is
Miss Fanny Kicklebury.

A sudden pang shot athwart my bosom--Lankin might have perceived it, but
the honest Serjeant was so awe-stricken by his late interview with the
Countess of Knightsbridge, that his mind was unfit to grapple with
other subjects--a pang of feeling (which I concealed under the grin and
graceful bow wherewith Miss Fanny's salutations were acknowledged) tore
my heart-strings--as I thought of--I need not say--of HICKS.

He had danced with her, he had supped with her--he was here, on board
the boat. Where was that dragoon? I looked round for him. In quite a
far corner,--but so that he could command the Kicklebury party, I
thought,--he was eating his breakfast, the great healthy oaf, and
consuming one broiled egg after another.

In the course of the afternoon, all parties, as it may be supposed,
emerged upon deck again, and Miss Fanny and her mamma began walking the
quarter-deck with a quick pace, like a couple of post-captains. When
Miss Fanny saw me, she stopped and smiled, and recognized the gentleman
who had amused her so at Mrs. Perkins's. What a dear sweet creature
Eliza Perkins was! They had been at school together. She was going to
write to Eliza everything that happened on the voyage.

"EVERYTHING?" I said, in my particularly sarcastic manner.

"Well, everything that was worth telling. There was a great number
of things that were very stupid, and of people that were very stupid.
Everything that YOU say, Mr. Titmarsh, I am sure I may put down. You
have seen Mr. Titmarsh's funny books, mamma?"

Mamma said she had heard--she had no doubt they were very amusing. "Was
not that--ahem--Lady Knightsbridge, to whom I saw you speaking, sir?"

"Yes; she is going to nurse Lord Knightsbridge, who has the gout at
Rougetnoirbourg."

"Indeed! how very fortunate! what an extraordinary coincidence! We are
going too," said Lady Kicklebury.

I remarked "that everybody was going to Rougetnoirbourg this year; and I
heard of two gentlemen--Count Carambole and Colonel Cannon--who had been
obliged to sleep there on a billiard-table for want of a bed."

"My son Kicklebury--are you acquainted with Sir Thomas Kicklebury?" her
ladyship said, with great stateliness--"is at Noirbourg, and will
take lodgings for us. The springs are particularly recommended for my
daughter, Mrs. Milliken and, at great personal sacrifice, I am going
thither myself: but what will not a mother do, Mr. Titmarsh? Did I
understand you to say that you have the--the entree at Knightsbridge
House? The parties are not what they used to be, I am told. Not that
I have any knowledge. I am but a poor country baronet's widow, Mr.
Titmarsh; though the Kickleburys date from Henry III., and MY family is
not of the most modern in the country. You have heard of General Guff,
my father, perhaps? aide-de-camp to the Duke of York, and wounded by his
Royal Highness's side at the bombardment of Valenciennes. WE move IN OUR
OWN SPHERE."

"Mrs. Perkins is a very kind creature," I said, "and it was a very
pleasant ball. Did you not think so, Miss Kicklebury?"

"I thought it odious," said Miss Fanny. "I mean, it WAS pleasant until
that--that stupid man--what was his name?--came and took me away to
dance with him."

"What! don't you care for a red coat and moustaches?" I asked.

"I adore genius, Mr. Titmarsh," said the young lady, with a most killing
look of her beautiful blue eyes, "and I have every one of your works by
heart--all, except the last, which I can't endure. I think it's wicked,
positively wicked--My darling Scott--how can you? And are you going to
make a Christmas-book this year?"

"Shall I tell you about it?"

"Oh, do tell us about it," said the lively, charming creature, clapping
her hands: and we began to talk, being near Lavinia (Mrs. Milliken)
and her husband, who was ceaselessly occupied in fetching and carrying
books, biscuits, pillows and cloaks, scent-bottles, the Italian
greyhound, and the thousand and one necessities of the pale and
interesting bride. Oh, how she did fidget! how she did grumble! how she
altered and twisted her position! and how she did make poor Milliken
trot!

After Miss Fanny and I had talked, and I had told her my plan, which she
pronounced to be delightful, she continued:--"I never was so provoked in
my life, Mr. Titmarsh, as when that odious man came and interrupted that
dear delightful conversation."

"On your word? The odious man is on board the boat: I see him smoking
just by the funnel yonder, look! and looking at us."

"He is very stupid," said Fanny; "and all that I adore is intellect,
dear Mr. Titmarsh."

"But why is he on board?" said I, with a fin sourire.

"Why is he on board? Why is everybody on board? How do we meet? (and oh,
how glad I am to meet you again!) You don't suppose that I know how the
horrid man came here?"

"Eh! he may be fascinated by a pair of blue eyes, Miss Fanny! Others
have been so," I said.

"Don't be cruel to a poor girl, you wicked, satirical creature," she
said. "I think Captain Hicks odious--there! and I was quite angry when I
saw him on the boat. Mamma does not know him, and she was so angry
with me for dancing with him that night: though there was nobody of any
particular mark at poor dear Mrs. Perkins's--that is, except YOU, Mr.
Titmarsh."

"And I am not a dancing man," I said, with a sigh.

"I hate dancing men; they can do nothing but dance."

"O yes, they can. Some of them can smoke, and some can ride, and some of
them can even spell very well."

"You wicked, satirical person. I'm quite afraid of you!"

"And some of them call the Rhine the 'Whine,'" I said, giving an
admirable imitation of poor Hicks's drawling manner.

Fanny looked hard at me, with a peculiar expression on her face. At last
she laughed. "Oh, you wicked, wicked man," she said, "what a capital
mimic you are, and so full of cleverness! Do bring up Captain
Hicks--isn't that his name?--and trot him out for us. Bring him up, and
introduce him to mamma: do now, go!"

Mamma, in the meanwhile, had waited her time, and was just going to step
down the cabin stairs as Lady Knightsbridge ascended from them. To draw
back, to make a most profound curtsy, to exclaim, "Lady Knightsbridge! I
have had the honor of seeing your ladyship at--hum--hum--hum" (this word
I could not catch)--"House,"--all these feats were performed by Lady
Kicklebury in one instant, and acknowledged with the usual calmness by
the younger lady.

"And may I hope," continues Lady Kicklebury, "that that most beautiful
of all children--a mother may say so--that Lord Pimlico has recovered
his hooping-cough? We were so anxious about him. Our medical attendant
is Mr. Topham, and he used to come from Knightsbridge House to
Pocklington Square, often and often. I am interested about the
hooping-cough. My own dear boy had it most severely; that dear girl, my
eldest daughter, whom you see stretched on the bench--she is in a very
delicate state, and only lately married--not such a match as I could
have wished: but Mr. Milliken is of a good family, distantly related
to your ladyship's. A Milliken, in George the Third's reign, married
a Boltimore, and the Boltimores, I think, are your first-cousins. They
married this year, and Lavinia is so fond of me, that she can't part
with me, and I have come abroad just to please her. We are going to
Noirbourg. I think I heard from my son that Lord Knightsbridge was at
Noirbourg."

"I believe I have had the pleasure of seeing Sir Thomas Kicklebury
at Knightsbridge House," Lady Knightsbridge said, with something of
sadness.

"Indeed!" and Kicklebury had never told her! He laughed at her when she
talked about great people: he told her all sorts of ridiculous stories
when upon this theme. But, at any rate, the acquaintance was made: Lady
Kicklebury would not leave Lady Knightsbridge; and, even in the throes
of sea-sickness, and the secret recesses of the cabin, WOULD talk to
her about the world, Lord Pimlico, and her father, General Guff, late
aide-de-camp to the Duke of York.

That those throes of sickness ensued, I need not say. A short time after
passing Ramsgate, Serjeant Lankin, who had been exceedingly gay and
satirical--(in his calm way; he quotes Horace, my favorite bits as
an author, to myself, and has a quiet snigger, and, so to speak,
amontillado flavor, exceedingly pleasant)--Lankin, with a rueful and
livid countenance, descended into his berth, in the which that six foot
of serjeant packed himself I don't know how.

When Lady Knightsbridge went down, down went Kicklebury. Milliken and
his wife stayed, and were ill together on deck. A palm of glory ought to
be awarded to that man for his angelic patience, energy, and suffering.
It was he who went for Mrs. Milliken's maid, who wouldn't come to
her mistress; it was he, the shyest of men, who stormed the ladies'
cabin--that maritime harem--in order to get her mother's bottle of
salts; it was he who went for the bra

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