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39https://dickenssearch.com/items/show/39'A Dinner at Poplar Walk'Published in <em>The Monthly Magazine, or The British Register of Politics, Art, Science, and the Belles-Lettres, </em><span>December 1833, pp. 617-624.</span>Dickens, Charles<em>Internet Archive,</em> <a href="https://archive.org/details/sim_monthly-magazine_1833-12_16_96/page/616/mode/2up">https://archive.org/details/sim_monthly-magazine_1833-12_16_96/page/616/mode/2up</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1833-12">1833-12</a><p><em>Internet Archive,</em>&nbsp;<a href="https://archive.org/about.terms.php">https://archive.org/about.terms.php</a>. Access to the Archive's Collections is granted for scholarship and research purposes only.</p><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+Story">Short Story</a>1833-12-A_Dinner_at_Poplar_Walk"Mr. Minns and His Cousin." <em>Sketches by Boz, Illustrative of Every-day Life and Every-day People. </em>Illustrated by George Cruikshank. John Macrone, 1836, pp. 296-306, <em>Hathi Trust, </em><a href="https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/011591435" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/011591435</a>.Dickens, Charles. 'A Dinner at Poplar Walk' (December 1833). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1833-12-A_Dinner_at_Poplar_Walk">https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1833-12-A_Dinner_at_Poplar_Walk</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1833-12_The_Monthly_Magazine_A_Dinner_at_Poplar_Walk.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'A Dinner at Poplar Walk.' <em>The Monthly Magazine</em> (December 1833).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+Story">Short Story</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EThe+Monthly+Magazine%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>The Monthly Magazine</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=BOZ">BOZ</a>Mr. Augustus Minns was a bachelor of about forty as he said—of about eight and forty as his friends said. He was always exceedingly clean, precise, and tidy, perhaps somewhat priggish, and the most &quot;retiring man in the world.&quot; He usually wore a brown frock-coat without a wrinkle, light inexplicables without a spot, a neat neckerchief with a remarkably neat tie, and boots without a fault; moreover, he always carried a brown silk umbrella with an ivory handle. He was a clerk in Somerset House, or, as he said, he held &quot;a responsible situation under Government.&quot; He had a good and increasing salary, in addition to some 10,000l. of his own (invested in the funds), and he occupied a first floor in Tavistock-street, Covent Garden, where he had resided for twenty years, having been in the habit of quarrelling with his landlord the whole time, regularly giving notice of his intention to quit on the first day of every quarter, and as regularly countermanding it on the second. He had but two particular horrors in the world, and those were dogs and children. His prejudice arose from no unamiability of disposition, but that the habits of the animals were continually at variance with his love of order, which might be said to be equally as powerful as his love of life. Mr. Augustus Minns had no relation in or near London, with the exception of his cousin, Mr. Octavius Bagshaw, to whose son, whom he had never seen (for he disliked the father), he had consented to become godfather by proxy. Mr. Bagshaw having realised a moderate fortune by exercising &quot;the trade or calling&quot; of a corn-chandler, and having a great predilection for the country, had purchased a cottage in the vicinity of Stamford Hill, whither he retired with the wife of his bosom and his only son, Master Alexander Augustus Bagshaw. One evening, as Mr. and Mrs. B. were admiring their son, discussing his various merits, talking over his education, and disputing whether the classics should be made an essential part thereof, the lady pressed so strongly upon her husband the propriety of cultivating the friendship of Mr. Minns in behalf of their son, that Mr. Bagshaw at last made up his mind, that it should not be his fault if he and his cousin were not in future more intimate. &quot;I’ll break the ice, my love,&quot; said Mr. Bagshaw, stirring up the sugar at the bottom of his glass of brandy-and-water, and casting a sidelong look at his spouse to see the effect of the announcement of his determination,—&quot;by asking Minns down to dine with us, on Sunday.&quot; &quot;Then pray, Bagshaw, write to your cousin at once,’ replied his spouse; &quot;who knows, if we could only get him down here, but that he might take a fancy to our Alexander, and leave him his property?—Alick, my dear, take your legs off the rail of the chair.&quot; &quot;Very true,&quot; said Mr. Bagshaw, musing, &quot;very true indeed, my love.&quot; On the following morning, as Mr. Minns was sitting at his breakfast-table, alternately biting his dry toast and casting a look upon the columns of the Times, which he always read from the title to the printer’s name, he heard a loud knock at the street door, which was shortly afterwards followed by the entrance of his servant, who put into his hand a particularly small card, on which was engraved in immense letters, &quot;Mr. Octavius Bagshaw, AMELIA COTTAGE (Mrs. B.’s name was Amelia), Poplar Walk, Stamford Hill.&quot; &quot;Bagshaw!&quot; ejaculated Minns, &quot;what the deuce can bring that vulgar man here?—Say I’m asleep—say I’ve broken my leg—any thing.&quot; &quot;But, please, sir, the gentleman’s coming up,&quot; replied the servant;—and the fact was made evident by an appalling creaking of boots on the staircase, accompanied by a pattering noise, the cause of which Minns could not for the life of him divine. &quot;Hem! show the gentleman in,&quot; said he in a state of desperation.—Exit servant, and enter Octavius, preceded by a large white dog, dressed in a suit of fleecy-hosiery, with pink eyes, large ears, and no perceptible tail. The cause of the pattering on the stairs was but too plain.—If it be possible for a man to entertain feeling of the most deep-rooted and unconquerable aversion to any one thing, Minns entertained this feeling towards an animal of the canine species. This, by the way, was hinted before. &quot;My dear fellow, how are you?&quot; said Mr. Bagshaw, as he entered. (He always spoke at the top of his voice, and always said the same thing half-a-dozen times.)—&quot;How are you, my hearty?&quot; &quot;How do you do, Mr. Bagshaw?—pray take a chair!&quot; politely stammered the discomfited Minns. &quot;Thank you, thank you. Well, how are you, eh?&quot; &quot;Uncommonly well, thank you,&quot; said Minns, casting a diabolical look at the dog, who, with his hind-legs on the floor, and his fore-paws resting on the table, was dragging a bit of bread-and-butter out of a plate, which, in the ordinary course of things, it was natural to suppose he would eat with the buttered side next the carpet. &quot;Ah, you rogue!&quot; said Bagshaw to his dog.—&quot;You see, Minns, he’s like me, always at home: eh, my boy!—Egad, I’m precious hot and hungry! I’ve walked all the way from Stamford Hill, this morning.&quot; &quot;Have you breakfasted?&quot; ejaculated Minns. &quot;Oh, no!&quot; returned Bagshaw. &quot;oh no! Came to town to breakfast with you; so, ring the bell, my dear fellow, will you? and let’s have another cup and saucer, and the cold ham.—Make myself at home, you see!&quot; he continued, dusting his boots with a table-napkin.&quot;‘Ha!—ha!—ha!—’Pon my life, I’m hungry!&quot; Minns rang the bell, and tried to smile, but looked as merry as a farthing rushlight in a fog. &quot;I decidedly never was so hot in my life,&quot; continued Octavius, wiping his forehead;—&quot;Well, but how are you, Minns? ‘Pon my soul, you wear capitally!&quot; &quot;Humph! &#039;dye think so?&quot; &quot;’Pon my life, I do!&quot; &quot;Mrs. B. and—what’s his name—quite well?&quot; &quot;Alick—my son, you mean. Never better—never better. But such a place as we’ve got at Poplar Walk! you know. It certainly is a most capital place—beautiful! I&#039;ll trouble you for another cup of tea. Let&#039;s see—what was I saying? Oh! I know. Such a beautiful place! When I first saw it, by Jove! it looked so knowing, with the front garden like, and the green railings, and the brass knocker, and all that—I really thought it was a cut above me.&quot; &quot;Don’t you think you’d like the ham better,&quot; interrupted Minns, &quot;if you cut it the other way?&quot; as he saw, with feelings which it is impossible to describe, that his visitor was cutting, or rather maiming the ham, in utter violation of all established rules. &quot;No, thank ye,&quot; returned Bagshaw, with the most barbarous indifference to crime; &quot;I prefer it this way—it eats short. But, I say, Minns, when will you come down and see us? You&#039;ll be delighted with the place; I know you will. Amelia and I were talking about you the other night, and Amelia said—another lump of sugar, please: thank ye—she said, &quot;Don’t you think you could contrive, my dear, to say to Mr. Minns, in a friendly way—Come down, Sir—damn the dog! He’s spoiling your curtains, Minns—Ha!—ha!—ha!&quot; Minns leaped from his seat as though he had received the discharge from a galvanic battery. &quot;Come out, Sir!—go out, hoo!&quot; cried poor Augustus, keeping, nevertheless, at a very respectful distance from the dog, having read of a case of hydrophobia in the paper of that morning. By dint of great exertion, much shouting, and a marvellous deal of poking under the tables with a stick and umbrella, the dog was at last dislodged, and placed on the landing, outside the door, where he immediately commenced a most appalling howling; at the same time vehemently scratching the paint off the two nicely-varnished bottom panels of the door, until they resembled the interior of a backgammon-board. &quot;A good dog for the country that!&quot; coolly observed Bagshaw to the distracted Minns—&quot;he’s not much used to confinement, though. But now, Minns, when will you come down? I’ll take no denial, positively. Let’s see—to-day’s Thursday;—will you come on Sunday? We dine at five. Don’t say no—do.&quot; After a great deal of pressing, Mr. Augustus Minns, driven to despair, and finding that if the dog, remained in the house much longer, he, Mr. Augustus Minns, might just as well lodge in the Zoological Gardens, accepted the invitation, and promised to be at Poplar Walk on the ensuing Sunday, at a quarter before five, to the minute. &quot;Now mind the direction,&quot; said Bagshaw: &quot;the coach goes from the Flower-pot, in Bishopsgate-street, every half hour. When the coach stops at the Swan, you’ll see, immediately opposite you, a white house—&quot; &quot;Which is your house—I understand,&quot; said Minns, wishing to cut short the story and the visit at the same time. &quot;No, no, that’s not mine; that’s Grogus’s, the great ironmonger’s. I was going to say, you turn down by the side of the white house till you can’t go another step further—mind that; and then you turn to your right, by some stables—well; close to you, you’ll see a wall with &#039;BEWARE OF THE DOG&#039; written on it in large letters—[Minns shuddered]—go along by the side of that wall for about a quarter of a mile, and anybody will show you which is my place.&quot; &quot;Very well—thank ye—good bye.&quot; &quot;Be punctual.&quot; &quot;Certainly: good morning.&quot; &quot;I say, Minns, you’ve got a card?&quot; &quot;Yes, I have; thank ye.&quot; And Mr. Octavius Bagshaw departed, leaving his cousin looking forward to his visit on the following Sunday with the feelings of a pennyless poet to the weekly visit of his Scotch landlady. Sunday arrived; the sky was bright and clear; crowds of clean, decently-dressed people were hurrying along the streets, intent on their different schemes of pleasure for the day; and every thing, and every body, looked cheerful and happy but Mr. Augustus Minns. The day was fine, but the heat was considerable; and by the time Mr. Minns had fagged up the shady side of Fleet Street, Cheapside, and Threadneedle Street, he had become pretty warm, tolerably dusty, and it was getting late into the bargain. By the most extraordinary good fortune, however, a coach was waiting at the Flower Pot, into which Mr. Augustus Minn&#039;s got, on the solemn assurance of the cad that the coach would start in three minutes—that being the time the coach was allowed to wait by &quot;act of Parliament.&quot; A quarter of an hour elapsed, and there were no signs of moving. Minns looked at his watch for the sixth time. &quot;Coachman, are you going or not?&quot; bawled Mr. Minns (with his head and half his body out of the coach window). &quot;Di-rectly, Sir,&quot; said the coachman, with his hands in his pockets, looking as much unlike a man in a hurry as possible.—&quot;Bill, take them cloths off.&quot; Five minutes more elapsed; at the end of which time the coachman mounted the box, from whence he looked down the street, and up the street, and hailed all the pedestrians for another five minutes. &quot;Coachman! If you don’t go this moment, I shall get out,&quot; said Mr. Minns, rendered desperate by the lateness of the hour, and the impossibility of being in Poplar Walk at the appointed time. &quot;Going this minute, Sir,&quot; was the reply;—and, accordingly, the coach trundled on for a couple of hundred yards, and then stopped again. Minns doubled himself up into a corner of the coach, and abandoned himself to fate. &quot;Tell your missis to make haste, my dear—&#039;cause here&#039;s a gentleman inside vich is in a desperate hurry.&quot; In about five minutes more missis appeared, with a child and two band-boxes, and then they set off. &quot;Be quiet, love!&quot; said the mother—who saw the agony of Minns, as the child rubbed its shoes on his new drab trowsers—&quot;be quiet, dear! Here, play with this parasol—don&#039;t kick the gentleman.&quot; The interesting infant, however, with its agreeable plaything, contrived to tax Mr. Minns&#039;s ingenuity, in the &quot;art of self-defence,&quot; during the ride; and amidst these infantile assaults, and the mother&#039;s apologies, the distracted gentleman arrived at the Swan, when, on referring to his watch, to his great dismay he discovered that it was a quarter past five. The white house, the stables, the &quot;Beware of the Dog,&quot;—every landmark was passed, with a rapidity not unusual to a gentleman of a certain age when too late for dinner. After the lapse of a few minutes, Mr. Minns found himself opposite a yellow brick house, with a green door, brass knocker, and door-plate, green window-frames, and ditto railings, with &quot;a garden&quot; in front, that is to say, a small loose bit of gravelled ground, with one round and two scalene triangular beds, containing a fir-tree, twenty or thirty bulbs, and an unlimited number of marigolds. The taste of Mr. or Mrs. Bagshaw was further displayed by the appearance of a Cupid on each side of the door, perched upon a heap of large chalk flints, variegated with pink conch-shells. His knock at the door was answered by a stumpy boy, in drab-livery, cotton stockings and high-lows, who, after hanging his hat on one of the dozen brass-pegs which ornamented the passage, denominated by courtesy &quot;The Hall,&quot; ushered him into a front drawing-room, commanding a very extensive view of the backs of the neighbouring houses. The usual ceremony of introduction, and so forth, over, Mr. Minns took his seat: not a little agitated at feeling that he was the last comer, and, somehow or other, the Lion of a dozen people, sitting together in a small drawing-room, getting rid of that most tedious of all time, the time preceding dinner. &quot;Well, Brogson,&quot; said Bagshaw, addressing an elderly gentleman in a black coat, drab knee-breeches, and long gaiters, who, under pretence of inspecting the prints in an Annual, had been engaged in satisfying himself on the subject of Minns’ general appearance, by looking at him over the top of the leaves—&quot;well, Brogson, what do ministers mean to do? Will they go out, or what?’ &quot;Oh—why—really, you know, I’m the last person in the world to ask for news. Your cousin, from his situation, is the most likely person to answer the question.&quot; Mr. Minns assured the last speaker, that, although he was in Somerset House, he possessed no official communication relative to the projects of his Majesty’s Ministers. His remark was evidently received incredulously; and no further conjectures being hazarded on the subject, a long pause ensued, during which the company occupied themselves in coughing and blowing their noses, until the entrance of Mrs. Bagshaw caused a general rise. The ceremony of introduction being over, dinner was announced, and down stairs the party proceeded accordingly: Mr. Minns escorting Mrs. Bagshaw as far as the drawing-room door, but being prevented, by the narrowness of the stair-case, from extending his gallantry any further. The dinner passed off as such dinners usually do. Ever and anon, amidst the clatter of knives and forks, and the hum of conversation, Mr. Bagshaw’s voice might be heard asking a friend to take wine, and assuring him he was glad to see him; and a good deal of by-play took place between Mrs. Bagshaw and the servants respecting the removal of the dishes, during which her countenance assumed the variations of a weather-glass, sometimes &quot;stormy&quot; and occasionally &quot;set fair.&quot; Upon the dessert and wine being placed on the table, the servant, in compliance with a significant look from Mrs. Bagshaw, brought down &quot;Master Alexander,&quot; habited in a sky-blue suit with silver buttons, and with hair of nearly the same colour as the metal. After sundry praises from his mother, and various admonitions as to his behaviour from his pa, he was introduced to his godfather. &quot;Well, my little fellow—you are a fine boy, an’t you?&quot; said Minns, as happy as a tom-tit upon bird-lime. &quot;Yes.&quot; &quot;How old are you?&quot; &quot;Eight, next We’nsday. How old are you?&quot; &quot;Alexander,&quot; interrupted his mother, &quot;how dare you ask Mr. Minns how old he is!&quot; &quot;He asked me how old I was,&quot; said the precocious darling, to whom Minns had, from that moment, internally resolved he never would bequeath one shilling. As soon as the titter occasioned by the observation had subsided, a little smirking man with red whiskers, sitting at the bottom of the table, who, during the whole of dinner, had been endeavouring to obtain a listener to some stories about Sheridan, called out, with a very patronising air,—&quot;Alick, what part of speech is be?&quot; &quot;A verb.&quot; &quot;That’s a good boy,&quot; said Mrs. Bagshaw, with all a mother’s pride. &quot;Now, you know what a verb is?&quot; &quot;A verb is a word which signifies to be, to do, or to suffer; as, I am—I rule—I am ruled. Give me an apple, Ma.&quot; &quot;I’ll give you an apple,&quot; replied the story-teller, who was clearly one of those bores who are commonly called &#039;friends of the family,&#039; &quot;if you’ll tell me what is the meaning of, be.&quot; &quot;Be?&quot; said the prodigy, after a little hesitation—&quot;an insect that gathers honey.&quot; &quot;No, dear,&quot; frowned Mrs. B—; &quot;B double E is the substantive.&quot; &quot;I don’t think he knows much yet about common substantives,&quot; said the smirking gentleman, who thought this an admirable opportunity for letting off a joke: &quot;It’s clear he’s not very well acquainted with proper names. He! he! he!&quot; &quot;Gentlemen,&quot; called out Mr. Bagshaw, from the end of the table, in a stentorian voice, and with a very important air, &quot;will you have the goodness to charge your glasses? I have a toast to propose.&quot; &quot;Hear! hear!&quot; cried the gentlemen, passing the decanters. After they had made the round of the table, Mr. Bagshaw proceeded—&quot;Gentlemen; there is an individual present—&quot; &quot;Hear! hear!&quot; said the little man with the red whiskers. &quot;Pray be quiet, Jones,&quot; remonstrated Bagshaw, sotto voce. &quot;I say, gentlemen, there is an individual present,&quot; resumed the host, &quot;in whose society, I am sure, we must take great delight—and—and—the conversation of that individual must have afforded to every individual present the utmost pleasure.&quot;— [&quot;Thank Heaven he does not mean me!&quot; thought Minns, conscious that his diffidence and exclusiveness had prevented his saying above a dozen words since he entered the house.]— &quot;Gentlemen, I am but a humble individual myself, and I perhaps ought to apologize for allowing any individual feelings of friendship and affection for the person I allude to, to induce me to venture to rise, to propose the health of that person—a person that, I am sure—that is to say, a person whose virtues must endear him to those who know him—and those who have not the pleasure of knowing him, cannot dislike him.&quot; &quot;Hear! hear!&quot; said the company, in a tone of encouragement and approval. &quot;Gentlemen,&quot; continued Bagshaw, &quot;my cousin is a man who—who is a relation of my own.&quot; (Hear! hear!) Minns groaned audibly—who I am most happy to see here, and who, if he were not here, would certainly have deprived us of the great pleasure we all feel in seeing him. (Loud cries of hear!)—Gentlemen: I feel that I have already trespassed on your attention for too long a time. With every feeling of—of—with every sentiment of—of—&quot; &quot;Gratification&quot;—suggested the friend of the family. &quot;—Of gratification, I beg to propose the health of Mr. Minns.&quot; &quot;Standing, gentlemen!&quot; shouted the indefatigable little man with the whiskers—&quot;and with the honours. Take your time from me, if you please. Hip! hip! hip!—Za!—Hip! hip! hip!—Za!—Hip hip!—Za—a—a!&quot; All eyes were now fixed on the subject of the toast, who, by gulping down port-wine at the imminent hazard of suffocation, endeavoured to conceal his confusion. After as long a pause as decency would admit, with a face as red as a flamingo, he rose; but, as the newspapers sometimes say in their reports of the debates, &quot;we regret that we are quite unable to give even the substance of the honourable gentleman’s observations.&quot; The words &quot;present company—honour—present occasion,&quot; and &quot;great happiness&quot;—heard occasionally, and repeated at intervals, with a countenance expressive of the utmost misery, convinced the company that he was making an excellent speech; and, accordingly, on his resuming his seat, they cried &quot;Bravo!&quot; and manifested tumultuous applause. Jones, who had been long watching his opportunity, then darted up. &quot;Bagshaw,&quot; said he, will you allow me to propose a toast?&quot; &quot;Certainly,&quot; replied Bagshaw, adding in an under tone to Minns right across the table—&quot;Devilish sharp fellow that: you’ll be very much pleased with his speech. He talks equally well on any subject.&quot; Minns bowed, and Mr. Jones proceeded: &quot;It has on several occasions, in various instances, under many circumstances, and in different companies, fallen to my lot to propose a toast to those by whom, at the time, I have had the honour to be surrounded. I have sometimes, I will cheerfully own—for why should I deny it?—felt the overwhelming nature of the task I have undertaken, and my own utter incapability to do justice to the subject. If such have been my feelings, however, on former occasions, what must they be now—now—under the extraordinary circumstances in which I am placed. (Hear! hear!)—To describe my feelings accurately would be impossible; but I cannot give you a better idea of them, gentlemen, than by referring to a circumstance which happens, oddly enough, to occur to my mind at the moment. On one occasion, when that truly great and illustrious man, Sheridan was—&quot; &quot;Please, Sir,&quot; said the boy, entering hastily, and addressing Bagshaw, &quot;as it&#039;s a very wet ev&#039;ning, the nine o&#039;clock stage has come round to know, whether any one&#039;s going to town. There&#039;s room for one inside.&quot; Minns, who had some time meditated suicide, now, with a courage heretofore unknown, started up to secure the chance of escape. Many were the expressions of surprise, and numerous the entreaties to stay, when Minns persisted in his determination to accept the offer of the vacant inside place. It was useless to press him further; so, after detaining the coach for the purpose of looking for his umbrella, and then making the pleasant discovery that he had left it in the other coach coming don, Minns was informed by the parsley-and-butter coated boy that the coachman &quot;couldn&#039;t wait no longer; but if the gentleman would make haste, he might catch him at the Swan.&quot; Minns muttered, for the first time in his life, a diabolical ejaculation. It was of no use that fresh entreaties poured upon him. Quite as effective was the appeal of Master Alick, who, after dabbling half-an-hour in raspberry jam and custard, and fixing the print of his paws on Minns&#039; trowsers, cried out—&quot;Do stop, godpa&#039;—I like you—Ma&#039; says I am to coax you to leave me all your money!&quot;—Had Minns been stung by an electric eel, he could not have made a more hysteric spring through the door-way; nor did he relax his speed until, arriving at the Swan, he saw the coach drive off—full inside and out. It was half-past three in the morning ere Mr. Augustus Minns knocked faintly at No. 11, Tavistock Street, Covent Garden. He had footed it every step of the way from Poplar Walk:—he had not a dry thread about him, and his boots were like pump-suckers. Never from that day could Mr. Minns endure the name of Bagshaw or Poplar Walk. It was to him as the writing on the wall was to Belshazzar. Mr. Minns has removed from Tavistock Street. His residence is at present a secret, as he is determined not to risk another assault from his cousin and his pink-eyed poodle.18331201https://dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/A_Dinner_at_Poplar_Walk/1833-12-A_Dinner_At_Poplar_Walk.pdf
132https://dickenssearch.com/items/show/132'Horatio Sparkins'Published in <em>The Monthly Magazine</em> (February 1834).Dickens, Charles<em>The Monthly Magazine, or The British Register of Politics, Art, Science, and the Belles-Lettres.</em> February 1834, pp. 151-176, <em>Internet Archive,</em> <a href="https://archive.org/details/monthlymagazineo17lond/page/n9/mode/2up">https://archive.org/details/monthlymagazineo17lond/page/n9/mode/2up</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1834-02">1834-02</a><em>Internet Archive,</em> <a href="https://archive.org/about/terms.php">https://archive.org/about/terms.php</a>. Access to the Archive’s Collections is granted for scholarship and research purposes only.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+story">Short story</a>1834-02-Horatio_SparkinsDickens, Charles. "Horatio Sparkins." <em>The Monthly Magazine, or The British Register of Politics, Art, Science, and the Belles-Lettres.</em> February 1834, pp. 151-176. <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1834-02-Horatio_Sparkins">https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1834-02-Horatio_Sparkins</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Periodical">Periodical</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EThe+Monthly+Magazine%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>The Monthly Magazine</em></a>&quot;Indeed, my love, he paid Teresa very great attention on the last assembly night,&quot; said Mrs. Malderton, addressing her spouse, who, after the fatigues of the day in the City, was sitting with a silk handkerchief over his head, and his feet on the fender, drinking his port;—&quot;very great attention; and, I say again, every possible encouragement ought to be given him. He positively must be asked down here to dine.&quot; &quot;Who must?&quot; inquired Mr. Malderton. &quot;Why, you know whom I mean, my dear—the young man with the black whiskers and the white cravat, who has just come out at our assembly, and whom all the girls are talking about. Young—dear me, what’s his name?—Marianne, what is his name?&quot; continued Mrs. Malderton, addressing her youngest daughter, who was engaged in netting a purse, and endeavouring to look sentimental. &quot;Mr. Horatio Sparkins, ma,&quot; replied Miss Marianne, with a Juliet-like sigh. &quot;Oh! yes, to be sure—Horatio Sparkins,&quot; said Mrs. Malderton. &quot;Decidedly the most gentleman-like young man I ever saw. I am sure in the beautifully-made coat he wore the other night, he looked like—like—&quot; &quot;Like Prince Leopold, ma—so noble, so full of sentiment!&quot; suggested Miss Marianne, in a tone of enthusiastic admiration. &quot;You should recollect, my dear,&quot; resumed Mrs. Malderton, &quot;that Teresa is now eight-and-twenty; and that it really is very important that something should be done.&quot; Miss Teresa Malderton was a little girl, rather fat, with vermilion cheeks: but good humoured, still disengaged, although, to do her justice, the misfortune arose from no lack of perseverance on her part. In vain had she flirted for ten years; in vain had Mr. and Mrs. Malderton assiduously kept up an extensive acquaintance among the young eligible bachelors of Camberwell, and even of Newington Butts; on Sunday, likewise, many &quot;dropped in&quot; from town. Miss Malderton was as well known as the lion on the top of Northumberland House, and had about as much chance of &quot;going off.&quot; &quot;I am quite sure you’d like him,&quot; continued Mrs. Malderton; &quot;he is so gentlemanly!&quot; &quot;So clever!&quot; said Miss Marianne. &quot;And has such a flow of language!&quot; added Miss Teresa. &quot;He has a great respect for you, my dear,&quot; said Mrs. Malderton to her husband, in a confident tone. Mr. Malderton coughed, and looked at the fire. &quot;Yes I’m sure he’s very much attached to pa’s society,&quot; said Miss Marianne. &quot;No doubt of it,&quot; echoed Miss Teresa. &quot;Indeed, he said as much to me in confidence,&quot; observed Mrs. Malderton. &quot;Well, well,&quot; returned Mr. Malderton, somewhat flattered; &quot;if I see him at the assembly to-morrow, perhaps I’ll ask him down here. I hope he knows we live at Oak Lodge, Camberwell, my dear?&quot; &quot;Of course—and that you keep a one-horse carriage.&quot; &quot;I’ll see about it,&quot; said Mr. Malderton, composing himself for a nap; &quot;I’ll see about it.&quot; Mr. Malderton was a man whose whole scope of ideas was limited to Lloyd’s, the Exchange, Broad-street, and the Bank. A few successful speculations had raised him from a situation of obscurity and comparative poverty, to a state of affluence. As it frequently happens in such cases the ideas of himself and his family became elevated to an extraordinary pitch as their means increased; they affected fashion, taste, and many other fooleries, in imitation of their superiors, and had a very becoming and decided horror of any thing which could by possibility be considered low. He was hospitable from ostentation, illiberal from ignorance, and prejudiced from conceit. Egotism and the love of display induced him to keep an excellent table: convenience, and a love of the good things of this life, ensured him plenty of guests. He liked to have clever men, or what he considered such, at his table, because it was a great thing to talk about; but he never could endure what he called &quot;sharp fellows.&quot; Probably he cherished this feeling out of compliment to his two sons, who gave their respected parent no uneasiness in that particular. The family were ambitious of forming acquaintances and connexions in some sphere of society superior to that in which they themselves moved; and one of the necessary consequences of this desire, added to their utter ignorance of the world beyond their own small circle, was that any one, who could lay claim to an acquaintance with people of rank and title, had a sure passport to the table at Oak-Lodge, Camberwell. The appearance of Mr. Horatio Sparkins at the City assembly had excited no small degree of surprise and curiosity among its regular frequenters. Who could he be? He was evidently reserved, and apparently melancholy. Was he a clergyman?—He danced too well. A barrister?—he was not called. He used very fine words, and said a great deal. Could he be a distinguished foreigner come to England for the purpose of describing the country, its manners and customs; and frequenting City balls and public dinners, with the view of becoming acquainted with high life, polished etiquette, and English refinement?—No, he had not a foreign accent. Was he a surgeon, a contributor to the magazines, a writer of fashionable novels, or an artist?—No; to each and all of these surmises there existed some valid objection.—&quot;Then,’&quot;said every body, &quot;he must be somebody.&quot;—&quot;I should think he must be,&quot; reasoned Mr. Malderton, within himself, &quot;because he perceives our superiority and pays us so much attention.&quot; The night succeeding the conversation we have just recorded, was &quot;assembly night.&quot; The double-fly was ordered to be at the door of Oak-Lodge at nine o’clock precisely. The Miss Maldertons were dressed in sky-blue satin, trimmed with artificial flowers; and Mrs. M. (who was a little fat woman), in ditto ditto, looked like her eldest daughter multiplied by two. Mr. Frederick Malderton the eldest son, in full-dress costume, was the very beau ideal of a smart waiter; and Mr. Thomas Malderton, the youngest, with his white dress-stock, blue coat, bright buttons, and red watch-ribbon, strongly resembled the portrait of that interesting though somewhat rash young gentleman, George Barnwell. Every member of the party had made up his or her mind to cultivate the acquaintance of Mr. Horatio Sparkins. Miss Teresa of course was to be as amiable and interesting as ladies of eight-and-twenty on the look out for a husband usually are; Mrs. Malderton would be all smiles and graces; Miss Marianne would request the favour of some verses for her album; Mr. Malderton would patronise the great unknown by asking him to dinner; Tom intended to ascertain the extent of his information on the interesting topics of snuff and cigars. Even Mr. Frederick Malderton himself, the family authority on all points of taste, dress, and fashionable arrangement - who had lodgings of his own at &quot;the west end,&quot; who had a free admission for Covent-Garden theatre, who always dressed according to the fashions of the month, who went up the water twice a week in the season, and who actually had an intimate friend who once knew a gentleman who formerly lived in the Albany,—even he had determined that Mr. Horatio Sparkins must be a devilish good fellow, and that he would do him the honour of challenging him to a game at billiards. The first object that met the anxious eyes of the expectant family, on their entrance into the ball-room, was the interesting Horatio, with his hair brushed off his forehead, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling, reclining in a contemplative attitude on one of the seats. &quot;There he is, my dear,&quot; anxiously whispered Mrs. Malderton to Mr. Malderton. &quot;How like Lord Byron!&quot; murmured Miss Teresa. &quot;Or Montgomery!&quot; whispered Miss Marianne. &quot;Or the portraits of Captain Ross!&quot; suggested Tom. &quot;Tom—don’t be an ass!&quot; said his father, who checked him upon all occasions, probably with a view to prevent his becoming &quot;sharp&quot;—which, by-the-by, was very unnecessary. The elegant Sparkins attitudinized with admirable effect until the family had crossed the room. He then started up with the most natural appearance of surprise and delight: accosted Mrs. Malderton with the utmost cordiality, saluted the young ladies in the most enchanting manner; bowed to, and shook hands with Mr. Malderton, with a degree of respect amounting almost to veneration, and returned the greetings of the two young men in a half-gratified, half-patronising manner, which fully convinced them that he must be an important and, at the same time, condescending personage. &quot;Miss Malderton,&quot; said Horatio, after the ordinary salutations, and bowing very low, &quot;may I be permitted to presume to hope that you will allow me to have the pleasure—&quot; &quot;I don’t think I am engaged,&quot; said Miss Teresa, with a dreadful affectation of indifference—&quot;but, really—so many— —&quot; Horatio looked as handsomely miserable as a Hamlet sliding upon a bit of orange-peel. &quot;I shall be most happy,&quot; simpered the interesting Teresa, at last; and Horatio’s countenance brightened up like an old hat in a shower of rain. &quot;A very genteel young man, certainly!&quot; said the gratified Mr. Malderton, as the obsequious Sparkins and his partner joined the quadrille which was just forming. &quot;He has a remarkably good address,&quot; said Mr. Frederick. &quot;Yes, he is a prime fellow,&quot; interposed Tom; who always managed to put his foot in it—&quot;he talks just like an auctioneer.&quot; &quot;Tom!&quot; said his father, &quot;I think I desired you before not to be a fool.&quot;—Tom looked as happy as a cock on a drizzly morning. &quot;How delightful!&quot; said the interesting Horatio to his partner, as they promenaded the room at the conclusion of the set—&quot;how delightful, how refreshing it is, to retire from the cloudy storms, the vicissitudes, and the troubles of life, even if it be but for a few short, fleeting moments; and to spend those moments, fading and evanescent though they be, in the delightful, the blessed society of one individual—of her whose frowns would be death, whose coldness would be madness, whose falsehood would be ruin, whose constancy would be bliss; the possession of whose affection would be the brightest and best reward that heaven could bestow on man.’ &quot;What feeling! what sentiment!&quot; thought Miss Teresa, as she leaned more heavily upon her companion’s arm. &quot;But enough—enough,&quot; resumed the elegant Sparkins, with a theatrical air. &quot;What have I said? what have I—I—to do with sentiments like these? Miss Malderton,&quot; here he stopped short—&quot;may I hope to be permitted to offer the humble tribute of—&quot; &quot;Really, Mr. Sparkins,&quot; returned the enraptured Teresa, blushing in the sweetest confusion, &quot;I must refer you to papa. I never can without his consent, venture to—to— —&quot; &quot;Surely he cannot object—&quot; &quot;Oh, yes. Indeed, indeed, you know him not,&quot; interrupted Miss Teresa—well knowing there was nothing to fear, but wishing to make the interview resemble a scene in some romantic novel. &quot;He cannot object to my offering you a glass of negus,&quot; returned the adorable Sparkins, with some surprise. &quot;Is that all!&quot; said the disappointed Teresa to herself. &quot;What a fuss about nothing!&quot; &quot;It will give me the greatest pleasure, sir, to see you to dinner at Oak Lodge, Camberwell, on Sunday next, at five o’clock, if you have no better engagement,&quot; said Mr. Malderton, at the conclusion of the evening, as he and his sons were standing in conversation with Mr. Horatio Sparkins. Horatio bowed his acknowledgments, and accepted the flattering invitation. &quot;I must confess,&quot; continued the manœuvering father, offering his snuff-box to his new acquaintance, &quot;that I don’t enjoy these assemblies half so much as the comfort—I had almost said the luxury—of Oak Lodge: they have no great charms for an elderly man.&quot; &quot;And after all, sir, what is man?&quot; said the metaphysical Sparkins—&quot;I say, what is man?&quot; &quot;Ah! very true,&quot; said Mr. Malderton—&quot;very true.&quot; &quot;We know that we live and breathe,&quot; continued Horatio; &quot;that we have wants and wishes, desires and appetites—&quot; &quot;Certainly,&quot; said Mr. Frederick Malderton, looking very profound. &quot;I say, we know that we exist,&quot; repeated Horatio, raising his voice, &quot;but there we stop; there, is an end to our knowledge; there is the summit of our attainments; there is the termination of our ends. What more do we know?&quot; &quot;Nothing,&quot; replied Mr. Frederick—than whom no one was more capable of answering for himself in that particular. Tom was about to hazard something, but, fortunately for his reputation, he caught his father’s angry eye, and slunk off like a puppy convicted of petty larceny. &quot;Upon my word,&quot; said Mr. Malderton the elder, as they were returning home in the fly, &quot;that Mr. Sparkins is a wonderful young man. Such surprising knowledge! such extraordinary information! and such a splendid mode of expressing himself!&quot; &quot;I think he must be somebody in disguise,&quot; said Miss Marianne.—&quot;How charmingly romantic!&quot; &quot;He talks very loud and nicely,&quot; timidly observed Tom, &quot;but I don’t exactly understand what he means.&quot; &quot;I almost begin to despair of your understanding any thing, Tom,&quot; said his father, who, of course, had been much enlightened by Mr. Horatio Sparkins’ conversation. &quot;It strikes me, Tom,&quot; said Miss Teresa, &quot;that you have made yourself very ridiculous this evening.&quot; &quot;No doubt of it,&quot; cried every body—and the unfortunate Tom reduced himself into the least possible space. That night Mr. and Mrs. Malderton had a long conversation respecting their daughter’s prospects and future arrangements. Miss Teresa went to bed, considering whether, in the event of her marrying a title, she could conscientiously encourage the visits of her present associates, and dreamt all night of disguised noblemen, large routs, ostrich plumes, bridal favours, and Horatio Sparkins. Various surmises were hazarded on the Sunday morning, as to the mode of conveyance which the anxiously-expected Horatio would adopt. Did he keep a gig?—was it possible he would come on horseback?—or would he patronize the stage? These, and various other conjectures of equal importance, engrossed the attention of Mrs. Malderton and her daughters during the whole morning. &quot;Upon my word, my dear, it’s a most annoying thing that that vulgar brother of yours should have invited himself to dine here to-day,&quot; said Mr. Malderton to his wife. &quot;On account of Mr. Sparkins’ coming down, I purposely abstained from asking any one but Flamwell. And then to think of your brother—a tradesman—it’s insufferable! I declare I wouldn’t have him mention his shop before our new guest—no, not for a thousand pounds. I wouldn’t care if he had the good sense to conceal the disgrace he is to the family; but he’s so fond of his horrible business, that he will let people know what he is.&quot; Mr. Jacob Barton, the individual alluded to, was a large grocer; so vulgar, and so lost to all sense of feeling, that he actually never scrupled to avow that he wasn’t above his business: &quot;he’d made his money by it, and he didn’t care who know’d it.&quot; &quot;Ah! Flamwell, my dear fellow, how d’ye do?&quot; said Mr. Malderton, as a little spoffish man, with green spectacles, entered the room. &quot;You got my note?&quot; &quot;Yes, I did; and here I am in consequence.&quot; &quot;You don’t happen to know this Mr. Sparkins by name?—You know everybody?&quot; Mr. Flamwell was one of those gentlemen of remarkably extensive information whom one occasionally meets in society, who pretend to know every body, but who, of course, know nobody. At Malderton’s, where any stories about great people were received with a greedy ear, he was an especial favourite; and, knowing the kind of people he had to deal with, he carried his passion of claiming acquaintance with everybody, to the most immoderate length. He had rather a singular way of telling his greatest lies in a parenthesis, and with an air of self-denial, as if he feared being thought egotistical. &quot;Why, no, I don’t know him by that name,&quot; returned Flamwell, in a low tone, and with an air of immense importance. &quot;I have no doubt I know him though. Is he tall?&quot; &quot;Middle-sized,&quot; said Miss Teresa. &quot;With black hair?&quot; inquired Flamwell, hazarding a bold guess. &quot;Yes,&quot; returned Miss Teresa, eagerly. &quot;Rather a snub nose?&quot; &quot;No,&quot; said the disappointed Teresa, &quot;he has a Roman nose.&quot; &quot;I said a Roman nose, didn’t I?&quot; inquired Flamwell. &quot;He’s an elegant young man?&quot; &quot;Oh, certainly.&quot; &quot;With remarkably prepossessing manners?&quot; &quot;Oh, yes!&quot; said all the family together. &quot;You must know him.&quot; &quot;Yes, I thought you knew him, if he was anybody,&quot; triumphantly exclaimed Mr. Malderton. &quot;Who d’ye think he is?&quot; &#039;Why, from your description,&quot; said Flamwell, ruminating, and sinking his voice, almost to a whisper, &#039;he bears a strong resemblance to the Honourable Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne. He’s a very talented young man, and rather eccentric. It’s extremely probable he may have changed his name for some temporary purpose.&quot; Teresa’s heart beat high. Could he be the Honourable Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne? What a name to be elegantly engraved over two glazed cards, tied together with a piece of white satin ribbon! &quot;The Honourable Mrs. Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne!&quot; The thought was transport. &quot;It’s five minutes to five,&quot; said Mr. Malderton, looking at his watch: &quot;I hope he’s not going to disappoint us.&quot; &quot;There he is!&quot; exclaimed Miss Teresa, as a loud double-knock was heard at the door. Every body endeavoured to look—as people when they particularly expect a visitor alway do—as if they were perfectly unsuspicious of the approach of any one. The room door opened—&quot;Mr. Barton!&quot; said the servant. &quot;Confound the man!&quot; murmured Malderton.—&quot;Ah! my dear sir, how d’ye do! Any news?&quot; &quot;Why no,&quot; returned the grocer, in his usual honest, bluff manner. &quot;No, none partickler. None that I am much aware of.—How d’ye do, gals and boys?—Mr. Flamwell, sir—glad to see you.&quot; &quot;Here’s Mr. Sparkins!&quot; said Tom, who had been looking out at the window, &quot;on such a black horse!&quot; —There was Horatio sure enough, on a large black horse, curvetting and prancing along like an Astley’s supernumerary. After a great deal of reining in and pulling up, with the accompaniments of snorting, rearing, and kicking, the animal consented to stop at about a hundred yards from the gate, where Mr. Sparkins dismounted and confided him to the care of Mr. Malderton’s groom. The ceremony of introduction was gone through in all due form. Mr. Flamwell looked from behind his green spectacles at Horatio with an air of mysterious importance; and the gallant Horatio looked unutterable things at Teresa, who tried in her turn to appear uncommonly lackadaisycal. &quot;Is he the Honourable Mr. Augustus—what’s-his-name?&quot; whispered Mrs. Malderton, to Flamwell, as he was escorting her to the dining-room. &quot;Why, no—at least not exactly,&quot; returned that great authority—&quot;not exactly.&quot; &quot;Who is he then?&quot; &quot;Hush!&quot; said Flamwell, nodding his head with a grave air, importing that he knew very well; but was prevented, by some grave reasons of state from disclosing the important secret. It might be one of the ministers making himself acquainted with the views of the people. &quot;Mr. Sparkins,&quot; said the delighted Mrs. Malderton, &quot;pray divide the ladies. John, put a chair for the gentleman between Miss Teresa and Miss Marianne.&quot; This was addressed to a man who on ordinary occasions acted as half-groom, half-gardener; but who, as it was important to make an impression on Mr. Sparkins, had been forced into a white neckerchief and shoes, and touched up and brushed to look like a second footman. The dinner was excellent; Horatio was most attentive to Miss Teresa, and every one felt in high spirits, except Mr. Malderton, who, knowing the propensity of his brother-in-law, Mr. Barton, endured that sort of agony which the newspapers inform us is experienced by the surrounding neighbourhood when a pot-boy hangs himself in a hay-loft, and which is &quot;much easier to be imagined than described.&quot; &quot;Have you seen your friend, Sir Thomas Noland, lately, Flamwell?&quot; inquired Mr. Malderton, casting a sidelong look at Horatio, to see what effect the mention of so great a man had upon him. &quot;Why, no—not very lately. I saw Lord Gubbleton the day before yesterday.&quot; &quot;I hope his lordship is very well?&quot; said Malderton, in a tone of the greatest interest. It is scarcely necessary to say that until that moment he was quite innocent of the existence of such a person. &quot;Why, yes; he was very well—very well indeed. He’s a devilish good fellow: I met him in the City, and had a long chat with him. Indeed, I’m rather intimate with him. I couldn’t stop to talk to him as long as I could wish though, because I was on my way to a banker’s, a very rich man, and a member of Parliament, with whom I am also rather, indeed I may say very, intimate.&quot; &quot;I know whom you mean,&quot; returned the host, consequentially, in reality knowing as much about the matter as Flamwell himself. &quot;He has a capital business.&quot; This was touching on a dangerous topic. &quot;Talking of business,&quot; interposed Mr. Barton, from the centre of the table. &quot;A gentleman whom you knew very well, Malderton, before you made that first lucky spec of your&#039;s, called at our shop the other day, and—&quot; &quot;Barton, may I trouble you for a potatoe?&quot; interrupted the wretched master of the house, hoping to nip the story in the bud. &quot;Certainly,&quot; returned the grocer, quite insensible of his brother-in-law’s object—&quot;and he said in a very plain manner—&quot; &quot;Flowery, if you please,&quot; interrupted Malderton again; dreading the termination of the anecdote, and fearing a repetition of the word &quot;shop.&quot; &quot;He said, says he,&quot; continued the culprit, after despatching the potatoe;—&quot;says he, how goes on your business? So I said, jokingly—you know my way—says I, I’m never above my business, and I hope my business will never be above me. Ha, ha, ha!&quot; &quot;Mr. Sparkins,&quot; said the host, vainly endeavouring to conceal his dismay, &quot;a glass of wine?&quot; &quot;With the utmost pleasure, sir.&quot; &quot;Happy to see you.&quot; &quot;Thank you.&quot; &quot;We were talking the other evening,&quot; resumed the host, addressing Horatio, partly with the view of displaying the conversational powers of his new acquaintance, and partly in the hope of drowning the grocer’s stories; &quot;we were talking the other night about the nature of man. Your argument struck me very forcibly.&quot; &quot;And me,&quot; said Mr. Frederick. Horatio made a graceful inclination of the head. &quot;Pray, what is your opinion of women, Mr. Sparkins?&quot; inquired Mrs. Malderton. The young ladies simpered. &quot;Man,&quot; replied Horatio, &quot;man, whether he ranged the bright, gay, flowery plains of a second Eden, or the more sterile, barren, and I may say common-place regions, to which we are compelled to accustom ourselves in times such as these; man, I say, under any circumstances, or in any place—whether he were bending beneath the withering blasts of the frigid zone, or scorching under the rays of a vertical sun—man, without woman, would be—alone.&quot; &quot;I am very happy to find you entertain such honourable opinions, Mr. Sparkins,&quot; said Mrs. Malderton. &quot;And I,&quot; added Miss Teresa. Horatio looked his delight, and the young lady blushed like a full-blown peony. &quot;Now, it’s my opinion—&quot; said Mr. Barton.— &quot;I know what you’re going to say,&quot; interposed Malderton, determined not to give his relation another opportunity, &quot;and I don’t agree with you.&quot; &quot;What!&quot; inquired the astonished grocer. &quot;I am sorry to differ from you, Barton,&quot; said the host, in as positive a manner as if he really were contradicting a position which the other had laid down, &quot;but I cannot give my assent to what I consider a very monstrous proposition.&quot; &quot;But I meant to say—&quot; &quot;You never can convince me,&quot; said Malderton, with an air of obstinate determination. &quot;Never.&quot; &quot;And I,&quot; said Mr. Frederick, following up his father’s attack, &quot;cannot entirely agree in Mr. Sparkins’s argument.&quot; &quot;What!&quot; said Horatio, who became more metaphysical, and more argumentative, as he saw the female part of the family listening in wondering delight. &quot;What! is effect the consequence of cause? Is cause the precursor of effect?&quot; &quot;That’s the point,&quot; said Flamwell, in a tone of concurrence. &quot;To be sure,&quot; said Mr. Malderton. &quot;Because, if effect is the consequence of cause, and if cause does precede effect, I apprehend you are decidedly wrong,&quot; added Horatio. &quot;Decidedly,&quot; said the toad-eating Flamwell. &quot;At least, I apprehend that to be the just and logical deduction,&quot; said Sparkins, in a tone of interrogation. &quot;No doubt of it,&quot; chimed in Flamwell again. &quot;It settles the point.&quot; &quot;Well, perhaps it does,&quot; said Mr. Frederick; &quot;I didn’t see it before.&quot; &quot;I don’t exactly see it now,&quot; thought the grocer; &quot;but I suppose it’s all right.&quot; &quot;How wonderfully clever he is!&quot; whispered Mrs. Malderton to her daughters as they retired to the drawing-room. &quot;Oh! he’s quite a love,&quot; said both the young ladies together; &quot;he talks like a second Pelham. He must have seen a great deal of life.&quot; The gentlemen being left to themselves a pause ensued, during which everybody looked very grave, as if they were quite overcome by the profound nature of the previous discussion. Flamwell, who had made up his mind to find out who and what Mr. Horatio Sparkins really was, first broke silence. &quot;Excuse me, sir,&quot; said that distinguished personage. &quot;I presume you have studied for the bar; I thought of entering once, myself—indeed, I’m rather intimate with some of the highest ornaments of that distinguished profession. &quot;No—no!&quot; said Horatio, with a little hesitation, &quot;not exactly.&quot; &quot;But you have been much among the silk gowns, or I mistake?&quot; inquired Flamwell, deferentially. &quot;Nearly all my life,&quot; returned Sparkins. The question was thus pretty well settled in the mind of Mr. Flamwell.—He was a young gentleman &quot;about to be called.&quot; &quot;I shouldn’t like to be a barrister,&quot; said Tom, speaking for the first time, and looking round the table to find somebody who would notice the remark. No one made any reply. &quot;I shouldn’t like to wear a wig,&quot; said Tom, hazarding another observation. &quot;Tom, I beg you will not make yourself ridiculous,&quot; said his father. &quot;Pray listen, and improve yourself by the conversation you hear, and don’t be constantly making these absurd remarks.&quot; &quot;Very well, father,&quot; replied the unfortunate Tom, who had not spoken a word since he had asked for another slice of beef at a quarter-past five o’clock P.M., and it was then eight. &quot;Well, Tom,&#039; observed his good-natured uncle, &quot;never mind; I think with you. I shouldn’t like to wear a wig. I’d rather wear an apron.&quot; Mr. Malderton coughed violently. Mr. Barton resumed—&quot;For if a man’s above his business—&quot; The cough returned with tenfold violence, and did not cease until the unfortunate cause of it, in his alarm, had quite forgotten what he intended to say. &quot;Mr. Sparkins,&quot; said Flamwell, returning to the charge, &quot;do you happen to know Mr. Delafontaine, of Bedford-square?&quot; &quot;I have exchanged cards with him; since which, indeed, I have had an opportunity of serving him considerably,&quot; replied Horatio, slightly colouring; no doubt, at having been betrayed into making the acknowledgment. &quot;You are very lucky, if you have had an opportunity of obliging that great man,&quot; observed Flamwell, with an air of profound respect. &quot;I don’t know,&quot; whispered Flamwell to Mr. Malderton confidentially as they followed Horatio up to the drawing-room. &quot;It’s quite clear, however, that he belongs to the law, and that he is somebody of great importance, and very highly connected.&quot; &quot;No doubt, no doubt,&quot; returned his companion. The remainder of the evening passed away most delightfully. Mr. Malderton, relieved from his apprehensions by the circumstance of Mr. Barton’s falling into a profound sleep, was as affable and gracious as possible. Miss Teresa played &quot;The Falls of Paris,&quot; as Mr. Sparkins declared, in a most masterly manner, and both of them assisted by Mr. Frederick, tried over glees and trios without number; they having made the pleasing discovery that their voices harmonised beautifully. To be sure they all sang the first part; and Horatio, in addition to the slight drawback of having no ear, was perfectly innocent of knowing a note of music; still, they passed the time very agreeably, and it was past twelve o’clock before Mr. Sparkins ordered the mourning-coach-looking steed to be brought out—an order which was only complied with on the distinct understanding that he was to repeat his visit on the following Sunday.&quot; &quot;But, perhaps, Mr. Sparkins will form one of our party to-morrow evening?’ suggested Mrs. M. &quot;Mr. Malderton intends taking the girls to see St. George and the Dragon&quot;—Mr. Sparkins bowed and promised to join the party in box 48 in the course of the evening. &quot;We will not tax you for the morning,&quot; said Miss Teresa, bewitchingly; &quot;for ma is going to take us to all sorts of places, shopping. But I know that gentlemen have a great horror of that employment.&quot; Mr. Sparkins bowed again, and declared he should be delighted, but business of importance occupied him in the morning. Flamwell looked at Malderton significantly.—&quot;It’s term time!&quot; he whispered. At twelve o’clock on the following morning the &quot;fly&quot; was at the door of Oak Lodge, to convey Mrs. Malderton and her daughters on their expedition for the day. They were to dine and dress for the play at a friend’s house, first driving thither with their bandboxes; thence they departed on their first errand to make some purchases at Messrs. Jones, Spruggins, and Smith’s, of Tottenham-court-road; after which to Redmayne, in Bond-street; and thence to innumerable places that no one ever heard of. The young ladies beguiled the tediousness of the ride by eulogising Mr. Horatio Sparkins, scolding their mamma for taking them so far to save a shilling, and wondering whether they should ever reach their destination. At length, the vehicle stopped before a dirty-looking ticketed linen-draper’s shop, with goods of all kinds, and labels of all sorts and sizes, in the window. There were dropsical figures of a seven with a little three-quarter in the corner; something like the acquatic animalculæ disclosed by the gas microscope &quot;perfectly invisible to the naked eye;&quot; three hundred and fifty thousand ladies’ boas, from one shilling and a penny halfpenny; real French kid shoes, at two and nine-pence per pair; green parasols, with handles like carving-forks, at an equally cheap rate; and &quot;every description of goods,&quot; as the proprietors said—and they must know best—&quot;fifty per cent. under cost price.&quot; &quot;Lor! ma&#039;, what a place you have brought us to!&quot; said Miss Teresa; &quot;what would Mr. Sparkins say if he could see us!&quot; &quot;Ah! what, indeed!&quot; said Miss Marianne, horrified at the idea. &quot;Pray be seated, ladies. What is the first article?&quot; inquired the obsequious master of the ceremonies of the establishment, who, in his large white neckcloth and formal tie, looked like a bad &quot;portrait of a gentleman&quot; in the Somerset-house exhibition. &quot;I want to see some silks,&quot; answered Mrs. Malderton. &quot;Directly, ma’am.—Mr. Smith! Where is Mr. Smith?&quot; &quot;Here, sir,&quot; cried a voice at the back of the shop. &quot;Pray make haste, Mr. Smith,&quot; said the M.C. &quot;You never are to be found when you’re wanted, sir.&quot; Mr. Smith thus enjoined to use all possible despatch, leaped over the counter with great agility, and placed himself before the newly-arrived customers. Mrs. Malderton uttered a faint scream; Miss Teresa, who had been stooping down to talk to her sister, raised her head and beheld—Horatio Sparkins! &quot;We will draw a veil,&quot; as novel-writers say, over the scene that ensued. The mysterious, philosophical, romantic, metaphysical Sparkins—he who, to the interesting Teresa, seemed like the embodied idea of the young dukes and poetical exquisites in blue silk dressing-gowns, and ditto ditto slippers, of whom she had read and dreamt, but had never expected to behold—was suddenly converted into Mr. Samuel Smith, the assistant at a &quot;cheap shop;&quot; the junior partner in a slippery firm of some three weeks’ existence. The dignified evanishment of the hero of Oak Lodge on this unexpected announcement could only be equalled by that of a furtive dog with a considerable kettle at his tail. All the hopes of the Maldertons were destined at once to melt away, like the lemon ices at a Company’s dinner; Almacks was still to them as distant as the North Pole&quot; and Miss Teresa had as much chance of a husband as Captain Ross had of the north-west passage. Years have elapsed since the occurrence of this dreadful morning. The daisies have thrice bloomed on Camberwell-green—the sparrows have thrice repeated their vernal chirps in Camberwell-grove; but the Miss Maldertons are still unmated. Miss Teresa’s case is more desperate than ever; but Flamwell is yet in the zenith of his reputation; and the family have the same predilection for aristocratic personages, with an increased aversion to anything low.18340201https://dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/Horatio_Sparkins/1834-02-Horatio_Sparkins.pdf
133https://dickenssearch.com/items/show/133'Mrs. Joseph Porter, "Over the Way"'Published in <em>The Monthly Magazine, or The British Register of Politics, Art, Science, and the Belles-Lettres</em>,<span> February 1834, pp. 11-18.</span>Dickens, Charles<em>Internet Archive,<br /></em><a href="https://archive.org/details/monthlymagazineo17lond/page/n9/mode/2up">https://archive.org/details/monthlymagazineo17lond/page/n9/mode/2up</a><span>.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1834-02">1834-02</a><em>Internet Archive,</em><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="https://archive.org/about/terms.php">https://archive.org/about/terms.php</a><span>. Access to the Archive’s Collections is granted for scholarship and research purposes only.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+story">Short story</a>1834-02-Mrs_Joseph_Porter_Over_The_Way<span>Dickens, Charles. "Mrs. Joseph Porter, 'Over the Way.'"&nbsp;</span><em>The Monthly Magazine, or The British Register of Politics, Art, Science, and the Belles-Lettres.</em><span>&nbsp;February 1834, pp. 11-18.&nbsp;</span><em>Dickens Search.</em><span>&nbsp;Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date].&nbsp;</span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1834-02-Mrs_Joseph_Porter_Over_The_Way">https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1834-02-Mrs_Joseph_Porter_Over_The_Way</a><span>.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Periodical">Periodical</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EThe+Monthly+Magazine%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>The Monthly Magazine</em></a>Most extensive were the preparations at Rose Villa, Clapham Rise, in the occupation of Mr. Gattleton (a stock-broker in especially comfortable circumstances), and great was the anxiety of Mr. Gattleton’s interesting family as the day fixed for the representation of the Private Play, which had been &quot;many months in preparation,&quot; approached. The whole family was infected with the mania for Private Theatricals; the house, usually so clean and tidy, was, to use Mr. Gattleton’s expressive description &quot;regularly turned out o’ windows;&quot; the large dining-room, dismantled of it&#039;s furniture and ornaments, presented a strange jumble of flats, flies, wings, lamps, bridges, clouds, thunder and lightning, festoons and flowers, daggers and foil, and all the other messes which in theatrical slang are included under the comprehensive name of &quot;properties.&quot; The bedrooms were crowded with scenery, the kitchen was occupied by carpenters. Rehearsals took place every other night in the drawing-room, and every sofa in the house was more or less damaged by the perseverance and spirit with which Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, and Miss Lucina, rehearsed the smothering scene in &quot;Othello&quot;—it having been determined that that tragedy should form the first portion of the evening’s entertainments. &quot;When we’re a leetle more perfect, I think it will go off admirably,&quot; said Mr. Sempronius, addressing his corps dramatique, at the conclusion of the hundred and fiftieth rehearsal. In consideration of his sustaining the trifling inconvenience of bearing all the expenses of the play, Mr. Sempronius had been in the most handsome manner unanimously elected stage-manager. - &quot;Evans,&quot; continued Mr. Gattleton, the younger, addressing a tall, thin, pale young gentleman, with extensive whiskers—&quot;Evans, upon my word, you play Roderigo beautifully.&quot; &quot;Beautifully,&quot; echoed the three Miss Gattletons; for Mr. Evans was pronounced by all his lady-friends to be &quot;quite a dear.&quot; He looked so interesting and had such lovely whiskers, to say nothing of his talent for writing verses in albums and playing the flute! The interesting Roderigo simpered and bowed. &quot;But I think,&quot; added the manager, &quot;you are hardly perfect in the—fall—in the fencing-scene, where you are—you understand?&quot; &quot;It’s very difficult,&quot; said Mr. Evans, thoughtfully; &quot;I’ve fallen about a good deal in our counting-house lately, for practice; only it hurts one so. Being obliged to fall backward you see, it bruises one’s head a good deal.&quot; &quot;But you must take care you don’t knock a wing down,&quot; said Mr. Gattleton, sen., who had been appointed prompter, and who took as much interest in the play as the youngest of the company. &quot;The stage is very narrow, you know.&quot; &quot;Oh! don’t be afraid,&quot; said Mr. Evans, with a very self-satisfied air; &quot;I shall fall with my head &#039;off,&#039; and then I can’t do any harm.&quot; &quot;But, egad!&quot; said the manager, rubbing his hands, &quot;we shall make a decided hit in &#039;Masaniello.&#039; Harfield sings that music admirably.&quot; Everybody echoed the sentiment. Mr. Harfield smiled, and looked foolish,—not an unusual thing with him—hummed &quot;Behold how brightly breaks the morning,&quot; and blushed as red as the fisherman’s night-cap he was trying on. &quot;Let’s see,&quot; resumed the manager, telling the number on his fingers, we shall have three dancing female peasants, besides Fenella, and four fishermen. Then there’s our man Tom, he can have a pair of ducks of mine, and a check-shirt of Bob’s, and a red night-cap, and he’ll do for another—that’s five. In the chorusses, of course, we can sing at the sides, and in the market-scene we can walk about in cloaks and things. When the revolt takes place, Tom must keep rushing in on one side and out on the other, with a pickaxe, as fast as he can. The effect will be electrical; it will look exactly as if there were an immense number of ’em: and in the eruption scene we must burn the red fire, and upset the tea-trays, and halloo and make all sorts of noises—and it’s sure to do.&quot; &quot;Sure! sure!&quot; cried all the performers unâ voce—and away hurried Mr. Sempronius Gattleton to wash the burnt cork off his face, and superintend the &quot;setting up&quot; of some of the amateur-painted and never-sufficiently-to-be-admired scenery. Mrs. Gattleton was a kind, good-tempered, vulgar old soul, exceedingly fond of her husband and children, and entertaining only three dislikes. In the first place, she had a natural antipathy to anybody else’s unmarried daughters; in the second, she was in bodily fear of anything in the shape of ridicule; and, lastly—almost a necessary consequence of this feeling—she regarded with feelings of the utmost horror, one &quot;Mrs. Joseph Porter over the way.&quot; However, the good folks of Clapham and its vicinity stood very much in awe of scandal and sarcasm; and thus Mrs. Joseph Porter was courted, and flattered, and caressed, and invited, for very much the same reason that a poor author, without a farthing in his pocket behaves with extraordinary civility to a twopenny postman. &quot;Never mind, Ma,&quot; said Miss Emma Porter, in colloquy with her respected relative, and trying to look unconcerned; &quot;if they had invited me, you know that neither you nor Pa would have allowed me to take part in such an exhibition.&quot; &quot;Just what I should have thought from your high sense of propriety,&quot; returned the mother. &quot;I am glad to see, Emma, you know how to designate the proceeding.&quot; Miss P., by-the-by, had only the week before made an &quot;exhibition&quot; of herself for four days, behind a counter at a fancy fair, to all and every of her Majesty’s liege subjects who were disposed to pay a shilling each for the privilege of seeing some four dozen girls flirting with strangers, and playing at shop. &quot;There!&quot; said Mrs. Porter, looking out of window; &quot;there are two rounds of beef and a ham going in—clearly for sandwiches; and Thomas, the pastry-cook, says, there have been twelve dozen tarts ordered, besides blancmange and jellies. Upon my word! think of the Miss Gattletons in fancy dresses, too!&quot; &quot;Oh, it’s too ridiculous,&quot; said Miss Porter, with a sort of hysterical chuckle. &quot;I’ll manage to put them a little out of conceit with the business, however,&quot; said Mrs. Porter; and out she went on her charitable errand. &quot;Well, my dear Mrs. Gattleton, &quot; said Mrs. Joseph Porter - after they had been closeted for some time, and when, by dint of indefatigable pumping, she had managed to extract all the news about the play; - &quot;well, my dear, people may say what they please; indeed we know they will, for some folks are so ill-natured. - Ah, my dear Miss Lucina, how d’ye do? - I was just telling your mama that I have heard it said, that—&quot; &quot;What?&quot; inquired the Desdemona. &quot;Mrs. Porter is alluding to the play, my dear,&quot; said Mrs. Gattleton; &quot;she was, I am sorry to say, just informing me that—&quot; &quot;Oh, now pray don’t mention it,: interrupted Mrs. Porter; &quot;it’s most absurd—quite as absurd as young what’s-his-name saying he wondered how Miss Caroline, with such a foot and ankle, could have the vanity to play Fenella.&quot; &quot;Highly impertinent, whoever said it,&quot; said Mrs. Gattleton, bridling up. &quot;Certainly, my dear,&quot; chimed in the delighted Mrs. Porter; &quot;most undoubtedly! Because, as I said, if Miss Caroline does play Fenella, it doesn’t follow, as a matter of course, that she should think she has a pretty foot; and then such puppies as these young men are; he had the impudence to say, that—’ How far the amiable Mrs. Porter might have succeeded in her pleasant purpose, it is impossible to say, had not the entrance of Mr. Thomas Balderstone, Mrs. Gattleton’s brother, familiarly called in the family &quot;Uncle Tom,&quot; changed the course of conversation, and suggested to her mind an excellent plan of operation on the evening of the play. Uncle Tom was very rich, and exceedingly fond of his nephews and nieces; as a matter of course, therefore, he was an object of great importance in his own family. He was one of the best-hearted men in existence; always in a good temper, and always talking. It was his boast that he wore top-boots on all occasions, and had never worn a black silk neck-kerchief; and it was his pride, that he remembered all the principal plays of Shakspeare from beginning to end—and so he did. The result of this parrot-like accomplishment was, that he was not only perpetually quoting himself, but that he could never sit by, and hear a mis-quotation from &quot;The Swan of Avon&quot; without setting the unfortunate delinquent right. He was also something of a wag: never missed an opportunity of saying what he considered a good thing, and invariably laughed until he cried at anything that appeared to him mirth-moving or ridiculous. &quot;Well, girls, well,&quot; said Uncle Tom, after the preparatory ceremony of kissing and how-d’ye-do-ing had been gone through—&quot;how d’ye get on? Know your parts, eh?—Lucina, my dear, act 2, scene 1—place, left-cue—&#039;Unknown fate,&#039;—What’s next, eh?—Go on—&#039;The heavens—&#039;&quot; &quot;Oh, yes,&quot; said Miss Lucina, &quot;I recollect - “ &#039;The heavens forbid But that our loves and comforts should increase Even as our days do grow!&#039;&quot; &quot;Make a pause here and there,&quot; said the old gentleman, who was a great critic. &#039;But that our loves and comforts should increase&#039;—emphasis on the last syllable, &#039;crease,&#039;—loud &#039;even,&#039;—one, two, three, four; then loud again, &#039;as our days do grow;&#039; emphasis on days. That’s the way, my dear; trust to your uncle for emphasis. Ah! Sem, my boy, how are you?&quot; &quot;Very well, thanky&#039;e, uncle,&quot; returned Mr. Sempronius, who had just appeared, looking something like a ringdove, with a small circle round each eye: the result of his constant corking. &quot;Of course we see you on Thursday.&quot; &quot;Of course, of course, my dear boy.&quot; &quot;What a pity it is your nephew didn’t think of making you prompter, Mr. Balderstone,&quot; whispered Mrs. Joseph Porter; &quot;you would have been invaluable.&quot; &quot;Well, I flatter myself, I should have been tolerably up to the thing,&quot; responded Uncle Tom. &quot;I must bespeak sitting next you on the night,&quot; resumed Mrs. Porter; &quot;and then, if our dear young friends here, should be at all wrong, you will be able to enlighten me. I shall be so interested.&quot; &quot;I am sure I shall be most happy to give you any assistance in my power, mem.&quot; &quot;Mind, it’s a bargain.&quot; &quot;Certainly.&quot; &quot;I don’t know how it is,&quot; said Mrs. Gattleton to her daughters, as they were sitting round the fire in the evening, looking over their parts, &quot;but I really very much wish Mrs. Joseph Porter wasn’t coming on Thursday. I am sure she’s scheming something.&quot; &quot;She can’t make us ridiculous, however,&quot; observed Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, haughtily. The long-looked-for Thursday arrived in due course, and brought with it, as Mr. Gattleton, senior, philosophically observed, &quot;no disappointments, to speak of.&quot; True, it was yet a matter of doubt whether Cassio would be enabled to get into the dress which had been sent for him from the masquerade warehouse. It was equally uncertain whether the principal female singer would be sufficiently recovered from the influenza to make her appearance; Mr. Harfield, the Masaniello of the night, was hoarse, and rather unwell, in consequence of the great quantity of lemon and sugar-candy he had eaten to improve his voice; and two flutes and a violoncello had pleaded severe colds. What of that? the audience were all coming. Everybody knew his part; the dresses were covered with tinsel and spangles; the white plumes looked beautiful; Mr. Evans had practised falling, till he was bruised from head to foot and quite perfect; Iago was sure that, in the stabbing-scene, he should make &quot;a decided hit.&quot; A self-taught deaf gentleman, who had kindly offered to bring his flute, would be a most valuable addition to the orchestra; Miss Jenkins’s talent for the piano was too well known to be doubted for an instant; Mr. Cape had practised the violin accompaniment with her frequently and Mr. Brown, who had kindly undertaken, at a few hours’ notice, to bring his violoncello, would, no doubt, manage extremely well. Seven o’clock came, and so did the audience; all the rank and fashion of Clapham and its vicinity was fast filling the theatre. There were the Smiths, the Stubbs&#039;s, the Halfpennys, the Gubbins&#039;s, the Nixons, the Dixons, the Hicksons, people with all sorts of names, two aldermen, a sheriff in perspective, Sir Thomas Glumper (who had been knighted in the last reign for carrying up an address on somebody’s escaping from something); and last, not least, there were Mrs. Joseph Porter and Uncle Tom, seated in the centre of the third row from the stage; Mrs. P. amusing Uncle Tom with all sorts of stories, and Uncle Tom amusing every one else by laughing most immoderately. Ting, ting, ting! went the prompter’s bell at eight o’clock precisely, and dash went the orchestra into the overture to &quot;The Men of Prometheus.&quot; The pianoforte player hammered away with the most laudable perseverance; and the violoncello, which struck in at intervals, &quot;sounded very well, considering.&quot; The unfortunate individual, however, who had undertaken to play the flute accompaniment &quot;at sight,&quot; found, from fatal experience, the perfect truth of the old adage, &quot;out of sight, out of mind;&quot; for being very near-sighted, and being placed at a considerable distance from his music-book, all he had an opportunity of doing was to play a bar now and then in the wrong place, and put the other performers out. It is, however, but justice to Mr. Brown to say that he did this to admiration. The overture, in fact, was not unlike a race between the different instruments; the piano came in first by several bars, and the violoncello next, quite distancing the poor flute; for the deaf gentleman too-too’d away, quite unconscious that he was at all wrong, until apprised, by the applause of the audience, that the overture was concluded. A considerable bustle and shuffling of feet was then heard upon the stage, accompanied by whispers of &quot;Here’s a pretty go!—what’s to be done?&quot; &amp;c. The audience applauded again, by way of raising the spirits of the performers; and then Mr. Sempronius desired the prompter, in a very audible voice, to &quot;clear the stage, and ring up.&quot; Ting, ting, ting! went the bell again. Everybody sat down; the curtain shook; rose sufficiently high to display several pair of yellow boots paddling about; and there remained. Ting, ting, ting! went the bell again. The curtain was violently convulsed, but rose no higher; the audience tittered; Mrs. Porter looked at Uncle Tom, Uncle Tom looked at every body, rubbing his hands, and laughing with perfect rapture. After as much ringing with the little bell as a muffin boy would make in going down a tolerably long street, and a vast deal of whispering, hammering, and calling for nails and cord, the curtain at length rose, and discovered Mr. Sempronius Gattleton solus and decked for Othello. After three distinct rounds of applause, during which Mr. Sempronius applied his right hand to his left breast, and bowed in the most approved manner, the manager advanced and said - &quot;Ladies and Gentlemen, I assure you it is with sincere regret, that I regret to be compelled to inform you, that Iago who was to have played Mr. Wilson—I beg your pardon, Ladies and Gentlemen; but I am naturally somewhat agitated (applause)—I mean, Mr. Wilson, who was to have played Iago, is—that is, has been—or, in other words, Ladies and Gentlemen, the fact is, that I have just received a note, in which I am informed that Iago is unavoidably detained at the Post-office this evening. Under these circumstances, I trust—a—a—amateur performance—a—another gentleman undertaken to read the part—request indulgence for a short time—courtesy and kindness of a British audience.&quot; Overwhelming applause. Exit Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, and curtain falls. The audience were, of course, exceedingly good-humoured; the whole business was a joke; and accordingly they waited for an hour with the utmost patience, being enlivened by an interlude of rout-cakes and lemonade. It appeared by Mr. Sempronius’s subsequent explanation, that the delay would not have been so great, had it not so happened that when the substitute Iago had finished dressing, and just as the play was on the point of commencing, the original Iago unexpectedly arrived. The former was, therefore, compelled to undress, and the latter to dress for his part, which, as he found some difficulty in getting into his clothes, occupied no inconsiderable time. At last, the tragedy began in real earnest. It went off well enough, until the third scene of the first act, in which Othello addresses the Senate, the only remarkable circumstance being, that as Iago could not get on any of the stage boots, in consequence of his feet being violently swelled with the heat and excitement, he was under the necessity of playing the part in a pair of common hessians, which contrasted rather oddly with his richly embroidered pantaloons. When Othello started with his address to the Senate (whose dignity was represented by, the Duke, a carpenter; two men engaged on the recommendation of the gardener; and a boy); Mrs. Porter found the opportunity she so anxiously sought. Mr. Sempronius proceeded - &quot;&#039; Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approv’d good masters, That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter, It is most true;—rude am I in my speech—&#039;&quot; &quot;Is that right?&quot; whispered Mrs. Porter to Uncle Tom. &quot;No.&quot; &quot;Tell him so, then.&quot; &quot;I will. - Sem!&quot; called out Uncle Tom, &quot;that’s wrong, my boy.&quot; &quot;What’s wrong, Uncle?&quot; demanded Othello, quite forgetting the dignity of his situation. &quot;You’ve left out something. &#039;True I have married—&#039;&quot; &quot;Oh, ah!&quot; said Mr. Sempronius, endeavouring to hide his confusion as much and as ineffectually as the audience attempted to conceal their half-suppressed tittering, by coughing with extraordinary violence - - &quot; &#039;true I have married her; - The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent; no more.&#039; (Aside). Why don’t you prompt, father?&quot; &quot;Because I’ve mislaid my spectacles,&quot; said poor Mr. Gattleton, almost dead with the heat and bustle. &quot;There, now it’s &#039;rude am I,&#039;&quot; said Uncle Tom.&quot; &quot;Yes, I know it is,&quot; returned the unfortunate manager, proceeding with his part. It would be useless and tiresome to quote the number of instances in which Uncle Tom, now completely in his element, and instigated by the mischievous Mrs. Porter, corrected the mistakes of the performers; suffice it to say, that having once mounted his hobby, nothing could induce him to dismount; so, during the whole remainder of the play, he performed a kind of running accompaniment, by muttering every body’s part, as it was being delivered, in an under tone. The audience were highly amused, Mrs. Porter delighted, the performers embarrassed; Uncle Tom never was better pleased in all his life; and Uncle Tom’s nephews and nieces had never, although the declared heirs to his large property, so heartily wished him gathered to his fathers as on that memorable occasion. Several other minor causes, too, united to damp the ardour of the dramatis personæ. None of the performers could walk in their tights, or move their arms in their jackets; the pantaloons were too small, the boots too large, and the swords of all shapes and sizes. Mr. Evans, naturally too tall for the scenery, wore a black velvet hat with immense white plumes, the glory of which was lost in &quot;the flies;&quot; and the only other inconvenience of which was, that when it was off his head he could not put it on, and when it was on he couldn&#039;t take it off. Notwithstanding all his practice, too, he fell with his head and shoulders as neatly through one of the side scenes, as a harlequin would jump through a panel in a Christmas pantomime. The pianoforte player, overpowered by the extreme heat of the room, fainted away at the commencement of the entertainments, leaving the music of &quot;Masaniello&quot; to the flute and violoncello. The orchestra complained that Mr. Harfield put them out, and Mr. Harfield declared that the orchestra prevented his singing at all. The fishermen, who were hired for the occasion, revolted to the very life, positively refusing to play without an increased allowance of spirits; and, their demand being complied with, they got drunk in the eruption-scene as naturally as possible. The red fire which was burnt at the conclusion of the second act not only nearly suffocated the audience, but they narrowly escaped setting the house on fire; as it was, the remainder of the piece was acted in a thick fog. In short, the whole affair was, as Mrs. Joseph Porter triumphantly told every body, &quot;a complete failure.&quot; The audience went home at four o’clock in the morning, exhausted with laughter, suffering from severe head aches, and smelling terribly of brimstone and gunpowder. The Messrs. Gattleton, senior and junior, retired to rest with a vague idea of emigrating to Swan River early in the ensuing week. Rose Villa has once again resumed its wonted appearance: the dining-room furniture has been replaced; the tables are as nicely polished as formerly; the horsehair chairs are ranged against the wall as regularly as ever; Venetian blinds have been fitted to every window in the house to intercept the prying gaze of Mrs. Joseph Porter. The subject of theatricals is never mentioned in the Gattleton family, unless, indeed, by Uncle Tom, who cannot refrain from sometimes expressing his surprise and regret at finding that his nephews and nieces appear to have lost the relish they once possessed for the beauties of Shakspeare and quotations from the works of the immortal bard.18340201https://dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/Mrs._Joseph_Porter_Over_the_Way/1834-02-Mrs_Joseph_Porter_Over_The_Way.pdf
150https://dickenssearch.com/items/show/150'Passage in the Life of Mr. Watkins Tottle' (Chapter the First)Published in <em>The Monthly Magazine</em> (January 1835), pp. 15-24.Dickens, Charles<em>Biodiversity Heritage Library, </em>(National History Museum): <a href="https://www.biodiversitylibrary.org/item/19851#page/29/mode/1up">https://www.biodiversitylibrary.org/item/19851#page/29/mode/1up</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1835-01">1835-01</a>Public domain. The BHL considers that this work is no longer under copyright protection.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+story">Short story</a>1835-01-Watkins_Tottle_Chapter_IDickens, Charles. (January 1835). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-01-Watkins_Tottle_Chapter_I">https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1835-01-Watkins_Tottle_Chapter_I</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Periodical">Periodical</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EThe+Monthly+Magazine%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>The Monthly Magazine</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=BOZ">BOZ</a>Matrimony is proverbially a serious undertaking. Like an over-weening predilection for brandy and water, it is a misfortune into which a man easily falls, and from which he finds it remarkably difficult to extricate himself. It is no use telling a man who is timorous on these points, that it is but one plunge, and all is over. They say the same thing at the Old Bailey, and the unfortunate victims derive as much comfort from the assurance in the one case as in the other. Mr. Watkins Tottle was a rather uncommon compound of strong uxorious inclinations, and an unparalleled degree of anti-connubial timidity. He was about fifty years of age; stood four feet six inches and three-quarters in his socks—for he never stood in stockings at all—plump, clean, and rosy. He looked something like a vignette to one of Richardson’s novels, and had a clean cravatish formality of manner, and kitchen-pokerness of carriage, which Sir Charles Grandison himself might have envied. He lived on an annuity, which was well adapted to the individual who received it, in one respect—it was rather small. He received it in periodical payments on every alternate Monday; but he ran himself out about a day after the expiration of the first week as regularly as an eight-day clock, and then, to make the comparison complete, his landlady wound him up, and he went on with a regular tick. Mr. Watkins Tottle had long lived in a state of single blessedness, as bachelors say, or single cursedness, as spinsters think, but the idea of matrimony had never ceased to haunt him. Wrapt in profound reveries on this never-failing theme, fancy transformed his small parlour in Cecil-street into a neat house in the suburbs—the half-hundred weight of coals under the kitchen-stairs suddenly sprang up into three tons of the best Walls-End—his small French bedstead was converted into a regular matrimonial four-poster—and in the empty chair on the opposite side of the fireplace imagination seated a beautiful young lady with a very little independence or will of her own, and a very large independence under a will of her father’s. &quot;Who’s there?&quot; inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle, as a gentle tap at his room-door disturbed these meditations one evening. &quot;Tottle, my dear fellow, how do you do?&quot; said a short elderly gentleman with a gruffish voice, bursting into the room, and replying to the question by asking another, and then they shook hands with a great deal of solemnity. &quot;Told you I should drop in some evening,&quot; said the short gentleman, as he delivered his hat into Tottle’s hand, after a little struggling and dodging. &quot;Delighted to see you, I’m sure,&quot; said Mr. Watkins Tottle, wishing internally that his visitor had ‘dropped in’ to the Thames at the bottom of the street, instead of dropping into his parlour. The fortnight was nearly up, and Watkins was hard up. &quot;How is Mrs. Gabriel Parsons?&quot; inquired Tottle. &quot;Quite well, thank you,&quot; replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons, for that was the name the short gentleman revelled in. Here there was a pause; the short gentleman looked at the left hob of the fire-place; Mr. Watkins Tottle stared vacancy out of countenance. &quot;Quite well,&quot; repeated the short gentleman, when five minutes had expired. &quot;I may say remarkably well,&quot; and he rubbed the palms of his hands together as hard as if he were going to strike a light by friction. &quot;What will you take?&quot; inquired Tottle, with the desperate suddenness of a man who knew that unless the visitor took his leave he stood very little chance of taking any thing else. &quot;Oh, I don’t know.—Have you any whiskey?&quot; &quot;Why,&quot; replied Tottle very slowly, for all this was gaining time, &quot;I had some capital, and remarkably strong whiskey last week; but it’s all gone—and therefore its strength—&quot; &quot;Is much beyond proof; or, in other words, impossible to be proved,&quot; said the short gentleman; and he laughed very heartily, and seemed quite glad the whiskey had been drank. Mr. Tottle smiled—but it was the smile of despair. When Mr. Gabriel Parsons had done laughing, he delicately insinuated that, in the absence of whiskey, he would not be averse to brandy. And Mr. Watkins Tottle, lighting a flat candle very ostentatiously, and displaying an immense key, which belonged to the street-door—but which, for the sake of appearances, occasionally did duty in an imaginary wine-cellar, left the room to entreat his landlady to charge their glasses, and charge them in the bill. The application was successful—the spirits were speedily called;—not from &quot;the vasty deep,&quot; but the adjacent wine-vaults. The two short gentlemen mixed their grog; and then sat cosily down before the fire—a pair of shorts, airing themselves. &quot;Tottle,&quot; said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, &quot;you know my way—off-hand, open, say what I mean, and mean what I say, damn reserve, and can’t bear affectation. One is a bad domino which only hides what good-people have about ’em, without making the bad look better; and the other is much about the same thing as pinking a white cotton stocking to make it look like a silk one.—Now listen to what I’m going to say.&quot; Here, the little gentleman paused, and took a long pull at his brandy-and-water. Mr. Watkins Tottle took a sip of his, stirred the fire, and assumed an air of profound attention. &quot;It’s of no use humming and ha’ing about the matter,&quot; resumed the short gentleman.—&quot;You want to get married—don&#039;t you?&quot; &quot;Why,&quot; —replied Mr. Watkins Tottle evasively; for he trembled violently, and felt a sudden tingling throughout his whole frame—&quot;why—I should certainly—at least, I think I should like it.&quot; &quot;Won’t do,&quot; said the short gentleman.—&quot;Plain and free—or there’s an end of the matter. Do you want money?&quot; &quot;You know I do.&quot; &quot;You admire the sex?&quot; &quot;I do.&quot; &quot;And you’d like to be married?&quot; &quot;Certainly.&quot; &quot;Then you shall be.—There’s an end of that.&quot; And thus saying, Mr. Gabriel Parsons took a pinch of snuff, and mixed another glass. &quot;Let me entreat you to be more explanatory,&quot; said Tottle. —&quot;Really, as the party principally interested, I cannot consent to be disposed of in this way.&quot; &quot;I’ll tell you,&quot; replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons, warming with the subject, and the brandy-and-water—&quot;I know a lady—she’s stopping with my wife now—who is just the thing for you. Well educated; talks French; plays the piano; knows a good deal about flowers and shells—and all that sort of thing; and has five hundred a year, with an uncontrolled power of disposing of it by her last will and testament.&quot; &quot;I’ll pay my addresses to her,&quot; said Mr. Watkins Tottle.—&quot;She isn’t very young—is she?&quot; &quot;Not very; just the thing for you.—I’ve said that already.&quot; &quot;What coloured hair has the lady?&quot; inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle. &quot;Egad, I hardly recollect,&quot; replied Gabriel, with great coolness. &quot;Perhaps I ought to have observed, at first, she wears a front.&quot; &quot;A what!&quot; ejaculated Tottle. &quot;One of those things with curls along here,&quot; said Parsons, drawing a straight line across his forehead, just over his eyes, in illustration of his meaning. —&quot;I know the front’s black; I can’t speak quite positively about her own hair; because, unless one walks behind her, and catches a glimpse of it under her bonnet, one seldom sees it; but I should say that it was rather lighter than the front—a shade of a greyish tinge, perhaps.&quot; Mr. Watkins Tottle, looked as if he had certain misgivings of mind. Mr. Gabriel Parsons perceived it, and thought it would be safe to begin the next attack without delay. &quot;Were you ever in love, Tottle?&quot; he inquired. Mr. Watkins Tottle blushed up to the eyes, and down to the chin, and exhibited a most extensive combination of colours, as he confessed the soft impeachment. &quot;I suppose you popped the question more than once, when you were a young—,I beg your pardon—a younger—man,&quot; said Parsons. &quot;Never in my life,&quot; replied his friend, apparently indignant at being suspected of such an act. &quot;Never! the fact is, that I entertain, as you know, peculiar opinions on these subjects. I am not afraid of ladies, young or old—far from it; but, I think, that in compliance with the custom of the present day, they allow too much freedom of speech and manner to marriageable men. Now the fact is, that any thing like this easy freedom I never could acquire; and as I am always afraid of going too far, I am generally, I dare say, considered formal and cold.&quot; &quot;I shouldn’t wonder if you were,&quot; replied Parsons, gravely; &quot;I shouldn’t wonder. However, you’ll be all right in this case; for the strictness and delicacy of this lady’s ideas, greatly exceed your own. Lord bless you, why when she came to our house, there was an old portrait of some man or other, with two large black staring eyes, hanging up in her bed-room; she positively refused to go to bed there till it was taken down, considering it decidedly improper.&quot; &quot;I think so too,&quot; said Mr. Watkins Tottle; &quot;certainly.&quot; &quot;And then the other night—I never laughed so much in my life,&quot; resumed Mr. Gabriel Parsons; :I had driven home in a strong easterly wind, and caught a devil of a face-ache. Well; as Fanny—that’s Mrs. Parsons, you know—and this friend of hers, and I, and Frank Ross, were playing a rubber, I said, jokingly, that when I went to bed I should wrap my head up in Fanny’s flannel petticoat. She instantly threw up her cards and left the room.&quot; &quot;Quite right!&quot; said Mr. Watkins Tottle, &quot;she couldn&#039;t possibly have behaved in a more dignified manner. What did you do?&quot; &quot;Do?—Frank took dummy; and I won sixpence.&quot; &quot;But, didn’t you apologize for hurting her feelings?&quot; &quot;Devil a bit. Next morning at breakfast we talked it over. She contended that any reference to a flannel petticoat was highly improper;—men ought not to be supposed to know that such things were. I pleaded my coverture; being a married man.&quot; &quot;And what did the lady say to that?&quot; inquired Tottle; deeply interested. &quot;Changed her ground, and said that Frank being a single man, its impropriety was obvious.&quot; &quot;Noble-minded creature!&quot; exclaimed the enraptured Tottle. &quot;Oh! both Fanny and I, said at once, that she was regularly cut out for you.&quot; A gleam of placid satisfaction shone on the circular face of Mr. Watkins Tottle, as he heard the prophecy. &quot;There’s one thing I can’t understand,&quot; said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he rose to depart, &quot;I cannot for the life and soul of me, imagine how the deuce you’ll ever contrive to come together. The lady would certainly go into convulsions if the subject were mentioned.&quot; Mr. Gabriel Parsons sat down again, and laughed until he was weak. Tottle owed him money: so he had a perfect right to laugh at Tottle’s expense. Mr. Watkins Tottle, feared in his own mind, that this was another characteristic which he had in common with this modern Lucretia. He, however, accepted the invitation to dine with the Parsons&#039; on the next day but one, with great firmness; and looked forward to the introduction, when again left alone, with tolerable composure. The sun that rose on the next day but one, had never beheld a sprucer personage on the outside of the Norwood-stage than Mr. Watkins Tottle, and when the coach drew up before a cardboard-looking house with disguised chimnies, and a lawn like a large sheet of green letter paper, he certainly had never lighted to his place of destination a gentleman who felt more awkward or uncomfortable. The coach stopped and Mr. Watkins Tottle jumped—we beg his pardon—alighted with great dignity. &quot;All right!&quot; said he, and away went the coach up the hill with that beautiful equanimity of pace for which &quot;short&quot; stages are generally remarkable. Mr. Watkins Tottle gave a faultering jerk to the handle of the garden-gate bell, in shape something like a gigantic note of admiration, and he stood for some minutes like the Duke of Wellington waiting in vain for a peal. He essayed a more energetic tug, and his previous nervousness was not at all diminished by hearing the bell ringing like a fire alarum. &quot;Is Mr. Parsons at home?&quot; inquired Tottle of the man who opened the gate. He could hardly hear himself speak, for the bell had not yet done tolling. &quot;Here I am,&quot; shouted a voice on the lawn,—and there was Mr. Gabriel Parsons in a flannel jacket, running backwards and forwards from a wicket to two hats piled on each other, and from the two hats to the wicket, in the most violent manner, while another gentleman with his coat off was getting down the area of the house, after a ball. When the gentleman without the coat had found it—which he did in less than ten minutes—he ran back to the hats, and Gabriel Parsons pulled up. Then, the gentleman without the coat called out &quot;play&quot; very loudly and bowled; Mr. Gabriel Parsons knocked the ball several yards and took another run. Then the other gentleman aimed at the wicket, and didn’t hit it; and Mr. Gabriel Parsons, having finished running on his own account, laid down the bat and ran after the ball which went into a neighbouring field. They called this cricket. &quot;Tottle, will you &#039;go in?&#039;&quot; inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he approached him, wiping the perspiration off his face. Mr. Watkins Tottle declined the offer, the bare idea of accepting which, made him even warmer than his friend. &quot;Then we’ll go into the house as it’s past four, and I shall have to wash my hands before dinner,&quot; said Mr. Gabriel Parsons. &quot;Here, I hate ceremony, you know! Timson, that is Tottle—Tottle, that’s Timson, bred for the church, which I fear will never be bread for him,&quot; and he chuckled at the old joke. Mr. Timson bowed carelessly; Mr. Watkins Tottle bowed stiffly, and Mr. Gabriel Parsons led the way to the house. He was a rich sugar-baker, who mistook rudeness for honesty, and abrupt bluntness for an open and candid manner; many besides Gabriel mistake bluntness for sincerity. Mrs. Gabriel Parsons received the visitors most graciously on the steps, and preceded them to the drawing-room. On the sofa was seated a lady of very prim appearance, and remarkably inanimate. She was just one of those persons at whose age it is impossible to make any reasonable guess—her features might have been remarkably pretty when she was younger, and they might always have presented the same appearance. Her complexion—with a slight trace of powder here and there—was as clear as that of a well-made wax doll, and her face as expressive. She was handsomely dressed, and was winding up a gold watch for effect. &quot;Miss Lillerton, my dear, this is our friend Mr. Watkins Tottle; a very old acquaintance I assure you,&quot; said Mrs. Parsons, presenting the Strephon of Cecil-street, Strand. The lady rose, and made a deep courtesy; Mr. Watkins Tottle made a serio-comic bow. &quot;Splendid, majestic creature!&quot; thought Tottle. She was his beau idéal of a desirable female. Mr. Timson advanced, and Mr. Watkins Tottle began to hate him. Men generally discover a rival instinctively, and Mr. Watkins Tottle felt that his hate was deserved. &quot;May I beg,&quot; said the reverend gentleman—&quot;May I beg to call upon you, Miss Lillerton, for some trifling donation to my soup, coals, and blanket distribution society?&quot; &quot;Put my name down, for two sovereigns, if you please,&quot; responded the automaton-like Miss Lillerton. &quot;You are truly charitable, madam,&quot; said the Reverend Mr. Timson, &quot;and we know that charity will cover a multitude of sins. Let me beg you to understand that I do not say this from the supposition that you have many sins which require palliation; believe me when I say that I never yet met any one who had fewer to atone for than Miss Lillerton.&quot; Something like a bad imitation of animation lighted up the lady’s face, as she acknowledged the compliment. Watkins Tottle incurred the sin of wishing that the ashes of the Rev. Charles Timson were quietly deposited in the churchyard of his curacy, wherever it might be. &quot;I’ll tell you what,&quot; interrupted Parsons, who had just appeared with clean hands, and a black coat, &quot;it’s my private opinion Timson, that your &#039;distribution society&#039; is rather a humbug.&quot; &quot;You are so severe,&quot; replied Timson, with a christian smile;—he disliked Parsons, but liked his dinners. &quot;So positively unjust,&quot; said Miss Lillerton. &quot;Certainly,&quot; observed Tottle. The lady looked up; her eyes met those of Mr. Watkins Tottle. She withdrew them in a sweet confusion, and Watkins Tottle did the same—the confusion was mutual. &quot;Why,&quot; urged Mr. Parsons, pursuing his objections, &quot;what on earth is the use of giving a man coals who has nothing to cook; or giving him blankets when he hasn’t a bed; or giving him soup when he requires substantial food—like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt. Why not give ’em a trifle of money, as I do, when I think they deserve it, and let them purchase what they think best? Why?—because your subscribers wouldn’t see their names flourishing in print on the church-door—that’s the reason.&quot; &quot;Really, Mr. Parsons, I hope you don’t mean to insinuate that I wish to see my name in print, on the church-door,&quot; interrupted Miss Lillerton, indignantly. &quot;I hope not,&quot; said Mr. Watkins Tottle, putting in another word, and getting another glance. &quot;Certainly not,&quot; replied Parsons. &quot;I dare say you wouldn’t mind seeing it in writing though, in the church register—eh?&quot; &quot;Register! What register?&quot; enquired the lady gravely. &quot;Why, the register of marriages, to be sure,&quot; replied Parsons, chuckling at the sally, and glancing at Tottle. Mr. Watkins Tottle thought he should have fainted for very shame, and it is quite impossible to imagine what effect the joke would have had upon the lady, if dinner had not been that moment announced. Mr. Watkins Tottle, with an unprecedented effort of gallantry, offered the tip of his little finger; Miss Lillerton accepted it gracefully, with maiden modesty; and they proceeded in due state to the dinner table, where they were soon deposited side by side. The room was very snug, the dinner very good, and the little party in tolerable spirits. The conversation became pretty general, and when Mr. Watkins Tottle had extracted one or two cold observations from his neighbour, and taken wine with her, he began to acquire confidence rapidly. The cloth was removed; Mrs. Gabriel Parsons drank four glasses of port, on the plea of being a nurse just then; and Miss Lillerton took about the same number of sips, on the plea of not wanting any at all. At length the ladies retired, to the great gratification of Mr. Gabriel Parsons, who had been coughing and frowning at his wife, for half an hour previously—signals which Mrs. Parsons never happened to observe, until she had been pressed to take her ordinary quantum, which, to avoid giving trouble, she always did at once. &quot;What do you think of her?&quot; inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons of Mr. Watkins Tottle, in an under tone. &quot;I dote on her with enthusiasm already,&quot; replied Mr. Watkins Tottle. &quot;Gentlemen, pray let us drink &#039;the ladies,&#039;&quot; said the Reverend Mr. Timson. &quot;The ladies!&quot; said Mr. Watkins Tottle, emptying his glass. In the fullness of his confidence he felt as if he could make love to a dozen ladies, off hand. &quot;Ah!&quot; said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, &quot;I remember when I was a younger man—fill your glass, Timson.&quot; &quot;I have this moment emptied it.&quot; &quot;Then fill again.&quot; &quot;I will,&quot; said Timson, suiting the action to the word. &quot;I remember,&quot; resumed Mr. Gabriel Parsons, &quot;when I was a younger man, with what a strange compound of feelings I used to drink that toast, and how I used to think every woman was an angel—quite a superior being.&quot; &quot;Was that before you were married?&quot; mildly inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle. &quot;Oh! certainly,&quot; replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons. I have never thought so since; and a precious milksop I must have been, ever to have thought so at all. Why, you know, I married Fanny under the oddest, and most ridiculous circumstances possible.&quot; &quot;What were they, if one may inquire?&quot; asked Timson, who had heard the story, on an average twice a week for the last six months. Mr. Watkins Tottle listened attentively, in the hope of picking up some suggestion that might be useful to him in his new undertaking. &quot;I spent my wedding-night in a back-kitchen chimney,&quot; said Parsons, by way of a beginning. &quot;In a back-kitchen chimney!&quot; ejaculated Watkins Tottle. &quot;How dreadful!&quot; &quot;Yes, it wasn’t very pleasant,&quot; replied the small host. &quot;The fact is, that Fanny’s father and mother liked me well enough as an individual, but had a decided objection to my becoming a husband. You see, I hadn’t any money in those days, and they had; and so they wanted Fanny to pick up somebody else. However, we managed to discover the state of each other’s affections somehow. I used to meet her at some mutual friends’ parties; at first we danced together, and talked, and flirted, and all that sort of thing; then I used to like nothing so well as sitting by her side—we didn’t talk so much then, but I remember I used to have a great notion of looking at her out of the extreme corner of my left eye, and then I got very miserable and sentimental, and began to write verses, and use macassar. At last I couldn’t bear it any longer, and after I had walked up and down the sunny side of Oxford-street, in tight boots for a week—and a devilish hot summer it was too—in the hope of meeting her, I sat down and wrote a letter, and begged her to manage to see me clandestinely, for I wanted to hear her decision from her own mouth. I said I had discovered, to my perfect satisfaction, that I couldn’t live without her, and that if she didn’t have me, I had made up my mind to take prussic acid, or take to drinking, or emigrate so as to take myself off in some way or other. Well, I borrowed a pound, and bribed the housemaid to give her the note which she did.&quot; &quot;And what was the reply?&quot; enquired Timson, who had found before, that to encourage the repetition of old stories, is sure to end in a general invitation. &quot;Oh, the usual way you know—Fanny expressed herself very miserable; hinted at the possibility of an early grave; said that nothing should induce her to swerve from the duty she owed her parents; and implored me to forget her, and find out somebody more deserving, and all that sort of thing. She said she could on no account think of meeting me unknown to her pa and ma; and entreated me, as she should be in a particular part of Kensington Gardens at eleven o’clock next morning, not to attempt to meet her there.&quot; &quot;You didn’t go, of course?&quot; said Watkins Tottle. &quot;Didn’t I?—Of course I did. There she was, with the identical housemaid in perspective, in order that there might be no interruption. We walked about for a couple of hours; made ourselves delightfully miserable; and were regularly engaged. Then we began to &#039;correspond&#039;—that is to say, we used to exchange about four letters a day: what we used to say in ’em I can’t imagine. And I used to have an interview in the kitchen, or the cellar, or some such place, every evening. Well, things went on in this way for some time; and we got fonder of each other every day. At last, as our love was raised to such a pitch, and as my salary had been raised too shortly before, we determined on a secret marriage. Fanny arranged to sleep at a friend’s the night before; we were to be married early in the morning, and then we were to return to her home and be pathetic. She was to fall at the old gentleman’s feet, and bathe his boots with her tears; and I was to hug the old lady, and call her &#039;mother,&#039; and use my pocket-handkerchief as much as possible. Married we were the next morning; two girls—friends of Fanny’s—acting as brides&#039;s-maids; and a man, who was hired for five shillings and a pint of porter, officiating as father. Now, the old lady unfortunately put off her return from Ramsgate, where she had been paying a visit, until the next morning; and as we placed great reliance on her, we agreed to postpone our confession for four-and-twenty hours. My newly-made wife returned home, and I spent my wedding-day in strolling about Hampstead-heath, and damning my father-in-law. Of course I went to comfort my dear little wife at night as much as I could, with the assurance that our troubles would soon be over. I opened the garden-gate, of which I had a key, and was shewn by the servant to our old place of meeting—a back kitchen, with a stone-floor, and a dresser, upon which, in the absence of chairs, we used to sit, and make love.&quot; &quot;Make love upon a kitchen-dresser!&quot; interrupted Mr. Watkins Tottle, whose ideas of decorum were greatly outraged. &quot;Ah!—on a kitchen-dresser!&quot; replied Parsons. —&quot;And let me tell you, old fellow, that, if you were really over head-and-ears in love, and had no other place to make love in, you’d be devilish glad to avail yourself of such an opportunity. However, let me see;—where was I?&quot; &quot;On the dresser,&quot; suggested Timson. &quot;Oh—ah! Well, here I found poor Fanny—quite disconsolate, and uncomfortable. The old boy had been very cross all day, which made her feel still more lonely; and she was quite out of spirits. So I put a good face on the matter, and laughed it off, and said we should enjoy the pleasures of a matrimonial life more by contrast; and, at length, poor Fanny brightened up a little. I stopped there, till about eleven o’clock; and, just as I was taking my leave for the fourteenth time, the girl came running down stairs, without her shoes, in a great fright, to tell us that the old villain—God forgive me for calling him so! for he is dead and gone now—prompted I suppose by the prince of darkness, was coming down, to draw his own beer for supper—a thing he had not done before for six months, to my certain knowledge; for the cask stood in that very back kitchen. If he discovered me there, explanation would have been out of the question; for he was so outrageously violent, when at all excited that he never would have listened to me. There was only one thing to be done.—The chimney was a very wide one: it had been originally built for an oven; went up perpendicularly for a few feet, and then shot backward, and formed a sort of small cavern. My hopes and fortune—the means of our joint existence almost—were at stake. I scrambled in like a squirrel; coiled myself up in this recess; and, as Fanny and the girl replaced the deal chimney-board, I could see the light of the candle which my unconscious father-in-law carried in his hand. I heard him draw the beer; and I never heard beer run so slowly. He was just leaving the kitchen, and I was preparing to descend, when down came the infernal chimney-board with a tremendous crash. He stopped, and put down the candle and the jug of beer on the dresser: he was a nervous old fellow; and any unexpected noise annoyed him. He, coolly observed that the fire-place was never used, and sending the frightened servant into the next kitchen for a hammer and nails, actually nailed up the board, and locked the door on the outside. So there was I, on my wedding night, in the light kerseymere trousers, fancy waistcoat, and blue coat, that I had been married in in the morning, in a back-kitchen chimney, the bottom of which was nailed up, and the top of which had been formerly raised some fifteen feet, to prevent the smoke from annoying the neighbours. And there,&quot; added Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he passed the bottle—&quot;there I remained till half-past seven o&#039;clock next morning, when the housemaid’s sweetheart, who was a carpenter, unshelled me. The old dog had nailed me up so securely, that, to this very hour, I firmly believe that no one but a carpenter could ever have got me out.&quot; &quot;And what did Mrs. Parsons’s father say, when he found you were married?&quot; enquired Watkins Tottle, who, although he never saw a joke, was not satisfied until he heard a story to the very end. &quot;Why, the affair of the chimney so tickled his fancy, that he pardoned us off-hand, and allowed us something to live upon, till he went the way of all flesh. I spent the next night in his second-floor front much more comfortably than I did the preceding one; for, as you will probably guess—&quot; &quot;Please Sir, missis has made tea,&quot; said a middle-aged female servant, bobbing into the room. &quot;That’s the very housemaid that figures in my story,&quot; said Mr. Gabriel Parsons. —&quot;She went into Fanny’s service when we were first married, and has been with us ever since; but I don’t think she has felt one atom of respect for me since the morning she saw me released, when she went into violent laughing hysterics, to which she has been subject ever since. Now, shall we join the ladies?&quot; &quot;If you please,&quot; said Mr. Watkins Tottle. &quot;By all means,&quot; added the obsequious Mr. Timson; and the trio made for the drawing-room accordingly. Tea being concluded, and the toast and cups having been duly handed, and occasionally upset, by Mr. Watkins Tottle, a rubber was proposed&#039; They cut for partners—Mr. and Mrs. Parsons; and Mr. Watkins Tottle and Miss Lillerton. Mr. Timson being a clergyman, and having conscientious scruples on the subject of card-playing, drank brandy-and-water, and kept up a running spar with Mr. Watkins Tottle. The evening went off well; Mr. Watkins Tottle was in high spirits, having some reason to be gratified with his reception by Miss Lillerton; and before he left, a small party was made up to visit the Beulah Spa on the following Saturday. &quot;It’s all right, I think,&quot; said Mr. Gabriel Parsons to Mr. Watkins Tottle, as he opened the garden-gate for him. &quot;I hope so,&quot; he replied, squeezing his friend’s hand. &quot;You’ll be down by the first coach on Saturday,&quot; said Mr. Gabriel Parsons. &quot;Certainly,&quot; replied Mr. Watkins Tottle. &quot;Undoubtedly.&quot; But fortune had decreed that Mr. Watkins Tottle should not be down by the first coach on Saturday. His adventures on that day, however, and the success of his wooing, are subjects which must be reserved for another chapter.18350101https://dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/Passage_in_the_Life_of_Mr._Watkins_Tottle_[Chapter_the_First]/1835-01-Watkins_Tottle_Chapter_I.pdf
151https://dickenssearch.com/items/show/151'Passage in the Life of Mr. Watkins Tottle' (Chapter the Second)Published in <em>The Monthly Magazine</em> (February 1835), pp. 121-137.Dickens, Charles<em>Biodiversity Heritage Library</em> (National History Museum): <a href="https://www.biodiversitylibrary.org/item/19851#page/135/mode/1up">https://www.biodiversitylibrary.org/item/19851#page/135/mode/1up</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1835-02">1835-02</a>Public domain. The BHL considers that this work is no longer under copyright protection.<br /> <a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+story">Short story</a>1835-02-Watkins_Tottle_Chapter_2Dickens, Charles. (February 1835). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/02-1835-Watkins_Tottle_Chapter_2">https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/02-1835-Watkins_Tottle_Chapter_2</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Periodical">Periodical</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EThe+Monthly+Magazine%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>The Monthly Magazine</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=BOZ">BOZ</a>&quot;The first coach has not come in yet, has it, Tom?&quot; inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he very complacently paced up and down the fourteen feet of gravel which bordered the &quot;lawn,&quot; on the Saturday morning which had been fixed upon for the Beulah Spa jaunt. &quot;No, Sir; I haven’t seen it,&quot; replied a gardener in a blue apron, who let himself out to do the ornamental for half-a-crown a day and his &quot;keep.&quot; &quot;Time Tottle was down,&quot; said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ruminating—&quot;Oh, here he is, no doubt,&quot; added Gabriel, as a cab drove rapidly up the hill; and he buttoned his dressing-gown, and opened the gate to receive the expected visitor. The cab stopped, and out jumped a man in a coarse Petersham great coat, whitey-brown neckerchief, faded black suit, gamboge-coloured top-boots, and one of those large crowned hats, formerly seldom met with, but now very generally patronised by gentlemen and costermongers. &quot;Mr. Parsons?&quot; said the man, looking at the superscription of a note he held in his hand, and addressing Gabriel with an inquiring air. &quot;My name is Parsons,&quot; responded the sugar-baker. &quot;I’ve brought this here note,&quot; replied the individual in the painted tops, in a hoarse whisper, &quot;I’ve brought this here note from a gen’lm’n as come to our house this mornin’.&quot; &quot;I expected the gentleman at my house,&quot; said Parsons, as he broke the seal, which bore the impression of his majesty’s profile, as it is seen on a sixpence. &quot;I’ve no doubt the gen’lm’n would ha’ been here,&quot; replied the stranger, &quot;if he hadn’t happened to call at our house first; but we never trusts no gen’lm’n furder nor we can see him—no mistake about that there&quot;—added the unknown, with a facetious grin; &quot;beg your pardon, Sir, no offence meant, only—once in, and I wish you may—catch the idea, Sir?&quot; Mr. Gabriel Parsons was not remarkable for catching anything suddenly, but a cold. He therefore only bestowed a glance of profound astonishment on his mysterious companion, and proceeded to unfold the note of which he had been the bearer. Once opened, and the idea was caught with very little difficulty. Mr. Watkins Tottle had been suddenly arrested for 33l. 10s. 4d., and dated his communication from a lock-up house in the vicinity of Chancery-lane. &quot;Unfortunate affair this!&quot; said Parsons, refolding then ote. &quot;Nothin’ ven you’re used to it,&quot; coolly observed the man in the Petersham. &quot;Tom!&quot; exclaimed Parsons, after a few minutes’ consideration, &quot;just put the horse in, will you?—Tell the gentleman that I shall be there almost as soon as you are,&quot; he continued, addressing the sheriff officer’s Mercury. &quot;Werry well,&quot; replied that important functionary; adding in a confidential manner, &quot;I’d adwise the gen’lm’n’s friends to settle. You see it’s a mere trifle; and, unless the gen’lm’n means to go up afore the court, it’s hardly worth while waiting for detainers, you know. Our governor’s wide awake, he is. I’ll never say nothin’ agin him, nor no man; but he knows what’s o’clock, he does, uncommon.&quot; Having delivered this eloquent, and, to Parsons, particularly intelligible harangue, the meaning of which was eked out by divers nods and winks, the gentleman in the boots reseated himself in the cab, which went rapidly off, and was soon out of sight. Mr. Gabriel Parsons continued to pace up and down the pathway for some minutes, apparently absorbed in deep meditation. The result of his cogitations seemed to be perfectly satisfactory to himself, for he ran briskly into the house; said that business had suddenly summoned him to town; that he had desired the messenger to inform Mr. Watkins Tottle of the fact; and that they would return together to dinner. He then hastily equipped himself for a drive, and mounting his gig, was soon on his way to the establishment of Mr. Solomon Jacobs, situate (as Mr. Watkins Tottle had informed him) in Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane. When a man is in a violent hurry to get on, and has a specific object in view, the attainment of which depends on the completion of his journey, the difficulties which interpose themselves in his way appear not only to be innumerable, but to have been called into existence especially for the occasion. The remark is by no means a new one, and Mr. Gabriel Parsons had practical and painful experience of its justice in the course of his drive. There are three classes of animated objects which prevent your driving with any degree of comfort or celerity through streets which are but little frequented—they are pigs, children, and old women. On the occasion we are describing, the pigs were luxuriating on cabbage-stalks, and the shuttlecocks fluttered from the little deal battledores, and the children played in the road; and women, with a basket in one hand and the street-door key in the other, would cross just before the horse’s head, until Mr. Gabriel Parsons was perfectly savage with vexation, and quite hoarse with hoi-ing and imprecating. Then, when he got into Fleet-street, there was &quot;a stoppage,&quot; in which people in vehicles have the satisfaction of remaining stationary for half an hour, and envying the slowest pedestrians; and where policemen rush about, and seize hold of horses’ bridles, and back them into shop windows, by way of clearing the road and preventing confusion. At length Mr. Gabriel Parsons turned into Chancery-lane, and having inquired for, and been directed to, Cursitor-street (for it was a locality of which he was quite ignorant), he soon found himself opposite the house of Mr. Solomon Jacobs. Confiding his horse and gig to the care of one of the fourteen boys who had followed him from the other side of Blackfriars-bridge on the chance of his requiring their services, Mr. Gabriel Parsons crossed the road and knocked at an inner door, the upper part of which was glass, grated like the windows of this inviting mansion with iron bars, painted white, to look comfortable. The knock was answered by a sallow-faced, red-haired, sulky boy, who, after surveying Mr. Gabriel Parsons through the glass applied a large key to an immense wooden excrescence, which was in reality a lock, but which, taken in conjunction with the iron nails with which the panels were studded, gave the door the appearance of being subject to warts. &quot;I want to see Mr. Watkins Tottle,&quot; said Parsons. &quot;It’s the gentleman that come in this morning, Jem,&quot; screamed a voice from the top of the kitchen-stairs, which belonged to a dirty woman who had just brought her chin to a level with the passage-floor. &quot;The gentleman’s in the coffee-room.&quot; &quot;Up stairs, Sir,&quot; said the boy, just opening the door wide enough to let Parsons in without squeezing him, and double-locking it the moment he had made his way through the aperture—&quot;First floor—door on the right.&quot; Mr. Gabriel Parsons thus instructed, ascended the uncarpeted and ill-lighted staircase, and after giving several subdued taps at the before-mentioned &quot;door on the right,&quot; which were rendered inaudible by the hum of voices within the room, and the hissing noise attendant on some frying operations which were carrying on below stairs, turned the handle, and entered the apartment. Being informed that the unfortunate object of his visit had just gone up stairs to write a letter, he had leisure to sit down and observe the scene before him. The room—which was a small, confined den—was partitioned off into boxes, like the common room of some inferior eating-house. The dirty floor had evidently been as long a stranger to the scrubbing-brush as to carpet or floor-cloth; and the ceiling was completely blackened by the flare of the oil-lamp by which the room was lighted at night. The grey ashes on the edges of the tables, and the cigar ends which were plentifully scattered about the dusty grate, fully accounted for the intolerable smell of tobacco which pervaded the place; and the empty glasses, and half-saturated slices of lemon on the tables, together with the porter pots beneath them, bore testimony to the frequent libations in which the individuals who honoured Mr. Solomon Jacobs by a temporary residence in his house indulged. Over the mantel-shelf was a paltry looking-glass, extending about half the width of the chimney-piece; but, by way of a counterpoise, the ashes were confined, by a rusty fender, about twice as long as the hearth. From this cheerful room itself, the attention of Mr. Gabriel Parsons was naturally directed to its inmates. In one of the boxes two men were playing at cribbage with a very dirty pack of cards, some with blue, some with green, and some with red backs—selections from decayed packs. The cribbage board had been long ago formed on the table by some ingenious visitor, with the assistance of a pocket-knife and a two-pronged fork, with which the necessary number of holes had been made in the table at proper distances for the reception of the wooden pegs. In another box a stout, hearty-looking man, of about forty, was eating some dinner, which his wife—an equally comfortable-looking personage—had brought him in a basket; and in a third, a genteel-looking young man was talking earnestly and in a low tone to a young female, whose face was concealed by a thick veil, but whom Mr. Gabriel Parsons immediately set down in his own mind as the debtor’s wife. A young fellow of vulgar manners, dressed in the very extremity of the prevailing fashion, was pacing up and down the room, with a lighted cigar in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, ever and anon puffing forth volumes of smoke, and occasionally applying with much apparent relish to a pint pot, the contents of which were &quot;chilling&quot; on the hob. &quot;Fourpence more, by G-d!&quot; exclaimed one of the cribbage-players, lighting a pipe, and addressing his adversary at the close of the game; &quot;one ’ud think you’d got luck in a pepper-cruet, and shook it out when you wanted it.&quot; &quot;Well, that a’n’t a bad un,&quot; replied the other, who was a horse-dealer from Islington. &quot;No; I’m blessed if it is,&quot; interposed the jolly-looking fellow, who, having finished his dinner, was drinking out of the same glass as his wife, in truly conjugal harmony, some hot gin-and-water. The faithful partner of his cares had brought a plentiful supply of the anti-temperance fluid in a large flat stone bottle, which looked like a half-gallon jar that had been successfully tapped for the dropsy. &quot;You’re a rum chap, you are, Mr. Walker—will you dip your beak into this, Sir?&quot; &quot;Thank’ee, Sir,&quot; replied Mr. Walker, leaving his box, and advancing to the other to accept the proffered glass. &quot;Here’s your health, Sir, and your good ’ooman’s here. Gentlemen all—your&#039;s, and better luck still. Well, Mr. Willis,&quot; continued the facetious prisoner, addressing the young man with the cigar, &quot;you seem rather down to-day—floored, as one may say. What’s the matter, Sir? Never say die, you know.&quot; &quot;Oh! I’m all right,&quot; replied the smoker. &quot;I shall be bailed out to-morrow.&quot; &quot;Shall you, though?&quot; enquired the other. &quot;Damme, I wish I could say the same. I am as regularly over head and ears as the Royal George; and stand about as much chance of being bailed out. Ha! ha! ha!&quot; &quot;Why,&quot; said the young man, stopping short, and speaking in a very loud key, &quot;Look at me. What d’ye ye think I’ve stopped here two days for?&quot; &quot;&#039;Cause you couldn’t get out, I suppose,&quot; interrupted Mr. Walker, winking to the company. &quot;Not that you’re exactly obliged to stop here, only you can’t help it. No compulsion, you know, only you must—eh?&quot; &quot;A’n’t he a rum un?&quot; inquired the delighted individual, who had offered the gin-and-water, of his wife. &quot;Oh, he just is!&quot; replied the lady, who was quite overcome by these flashes of imagination. &quot;Why, my case,&quot; frowned the victim, throwing the end of his cigar into the fire, and illustrating his argument by knocking the bottom of the pot on the table, at intervals,—&quot;my case is a very singular one: my father’s a man of large property, and I am his son.&quot; &quot;That’s a very strange circumstance,&quot; interrupted the jocose Mr. Walker, en passant. &quot;—I am his son, and have received a liberal education. I don’t owe no man nothing—not the value of a farthing, but I was induced, you see, to put my name to some bills for a friend—bills to a large amount. I may say a very large amount, for which I didn’t receive no consideration. What’s the consequence?&quot; &quot;Why, I suppose the bills went out, and you came in. The acceptances were&#039;nt taken up, and you were, eh?&quot; inquired Walker. &quot;To be sure,&quot; replied the liberally educated young gentleman. &quot;To be sure; and so here I am, locked up for a matter of twelve hundred pound.&quot; &quot;Why don’t you ask your old governor to stump up?&quot; inquired Walker, with a somewhat sceptical air. &quot;Oh! bless you, he’d never do it,&quot; replied the other, in a tone of expostulation—&quot;Never!&quot; &quot;Well, it is very odd to—be—sure,&quot; interposed the owner of the flat bottle, mixing another glass, &quot;but I’ve been in difficulties, as one may say, now for thirty year. I went to pieces when I was in a milk-walk, thirty year ago; arterwards, when I was a fruiterer, and kept a spring wan; and arter that again in the coal and ’tatur line—but all that time, I never see a youngish chap come into a place of this kind, who wasn’t going out again directly, and who hadn’t been arrested on bills which he’d given a friend, and for which he’d received nothing whatsomever—not a fraction.&quot; &quot;Oh! it’s always the cry,&quot; said Walker. &quot;I can’t see the use on it; that’s what makes me so wild. Why, I should have a much better opinion of an individual, if he’d say at once, in an honourable and gentlemanly manner, as he’d done everybody he possibly could.&quot; &quot;Ay, to be sure,&quot; interposed the horse-dealer, with whose notions of bargain and sale the axiom perfectly coincided, &quot;so should I.&quot; The young gentleman, who had given rise to these observations, was on the point of offering a rather angry reply to these sneers, but the rising of the young man before noticed, and of the female who had been sitting by him, to leave the room, interrupted the conversation. She had been weeping bitterly, and the noxious atmosphere of the room acting upon her excited feelings and delicate frame, rendered the support of her companion necessary as they quitted it together. There was an air of superiority about them both, and something in their appearance so unusual in such a place, that a respectful silence was observed until the whirr—r—bang of the spring door announced that they were out of hearing. It was broken by the wife of the ex-fruiterer. &quot;Poor creetur!&quot; said she, quenching a sigh in a rivulet of gin-and-water. &quot;She’s very young.&quot; &quot;She’s a nice-loooking ’ooman, too,&quot; added the horse-dealer. &quot;What’s he in for, Ikey?&quot; inquired Walker, of an individual who was spreading a cloth, with numerous blotches of mustard upon it, on one of the tables, and whom Mr. Gabriel Parsons had no difficulty in recognizing as the man who had called upon him in the morning. &quot;Vy,&quot; responded the factotum, &quot;it’s one of the rummiest rigs you ever heard on. He come in here last Vensday, which, by the bye, he’s a-going over the water to-night—hows’ever that’s neither here nor there. You see I’ve been a going back’ards and for’ards about his business, and ha’ managed to pick up some of his story from the servants and them; and so far as I can make it out, it seems to be summat to this here effect—&quot; &quot;Cut it short, old fellow,&quot; interrupted Walker, who knew from former experience that he of the top-boots was neither very concise nor intelligible in his narratives. &quot;Let me alone,&quot; replied Ikey, &quot;and I’ll ha’ vound up, and made my lucky in five seconds. This here young gen’lm’n’s father—so I’m told, mind ye—and the father o’ the young voman, have always been on very bad, out-and-out, rig’lar knock-me-down, sort o’ terms; but somehow or another when he was a wisitin’ at some gentlefolk’s house, as he know&#039;d at college, he came into contract with the young lady. He seed her several times; and then he up and said he’d keep company with her, if so be as she vos agreeable. Vell, she vos as sweet upon him as he vos upon her, and so I s’pose they made it all right: for they got married ’bout six months arterwards, unbeknown mind ye to the two fathers—leastways so I’m told. When they heard on it—my eyes, there was such a combustion! Starvation vos the very least that vos to be done to ’em. The young gen’lm’n’s father cut him off vith a bob, ’cos he’d cut himself off vith a wife; and the young lady’s father he behaved even worser and more unnat’ral, for he not only blow’d her up dreadful, and swore he’d never see her again, but he employed a chap as I knows—and as you knows, Mr. Valker, a precious sight too well—to go about and buy up the bills and them things on which the young husband, thinking his governor ’ud come round agin, had raised the vind just to blow himself on vith for a time; besides vich, he made all the interest he could to set other people agin him. Consequence vos, that he paid as long as he could; but things he never expected to have to meet till he’d had time to turn himself round, come fast upon him, and he vos nabbed. He vos brought here, as I said afore, last Vensday, and I think there’s about—ah half-a-dozen detainers agin him down stairs now. I have been,&quot; added Ikey,&quot;‘in the purfession these fifteen year, and I never met vith such windictiveness afore!&quot; &quot;Poor creeturs!&quot; exclaimed the coal-dealer’s wife once more: again resorting to the same excellent prescription for nipping a sigh in the bud; &quot;Ah! when they’ve seen as much trouble as I and my old man here have, they’ll be as comfortable under it, as we are.&quot; &quot;The young lady’s a pretty creature,&quot; said Walker, &quot;only she’s a little too delicate for my taste—there an’t enough of her. As to the young cove, he may be very respectable and what not, but he’s too down in the mouth for me—he an’t game.&quot; &quot;Game!&quot; exclaimed Ikey, who had been altering the position of a green-handled knife and fork at least a dozen times in order that he might remain in the room under the pretext of having something to do. &quot;He’s game enough ven there’s anything to be fierce about; but who could be game as you call it, Mr. Walker, with a pale young creetur like that, hanging about him?—It’s enough to drive any man’s heart into his boots, to see ’em together—and no mistake at all about it. I never shall forget her first comin’ here; he wrote to her on the Thursday to come—I know he did ’cos I took the letter. Uncommon fidgetty he was all day to be sure, and in the evening he goes down into the office, and he says to Jacobs, says he &#039;Sir, can I have the loan of a private room for a few minutes this evening, without incurring any additional expense—just to see my wife in?&#039; says he. Jacobs looked as much as to say—&#039;Strike me bountiful if you an’t one of the modest sort;&#039; but as the gen’lm’n who had been in the back parlour, had just gone out, and had paid for it for that day, he says—werry grave—&#039;Sir,&#039; says he, &#039;it’s agin our rules to let private rooms to our lodgers on gratis terms, but,&#039; says he, &#039;for a gentleman, I don’t mind breaking through them, for once.&#039; So then he turns round to me and says, &#039;Ikey, put two mould candles in the back parlour, and charge ’em to this gen’lm’n’s account,&#039; vich I did. Vell, by-and-by a hackney-coach comes up to the door, and there, sure enough, was the young lady wrapped up in a hopera-cloak, as it might be, and all alone. I opened the gate that night, so I went up when the coach came, and he vos a watin’ at the parlour door—wasn’t he a trembling neither? The poor creetur see him, and could hardly walk to meet him. &#039;Oh, Harry!&#039; she says, &#039;that it should have come to this! and all for my sake,&#039; says she, putting her hand upon his shoulder. So he puts his arm round her pretty little waist, and leading her gently a little way into the room, so that he might be able to shut the door, he says, so kind and soft-like—&#039;Why, Kate,&#039; says he—&quot; &quot;Here’s the gentleman you want, Sir,&quot; said Ikey abruptly breaking off in his story, and introducing Mr. Gabriel Parsons to the crest-fallen Watkins Tottle, who at that moment entered the room. Watkins advanced with a wooden expression of passive endurance, and accepted the hand which Mr. Gabriel Parsons held out. &quot;I want to speak to you,&quot; said Gabriel, with a look strongly expressive of his dislike of the company. &quot;This way,&quot; replied the imprisoned one, leading the way to the front drawing-room, where rich debtors did the luxurious at the rate of a couple of guineas a day. &quot;Well, here I am,&quot; said Watkins, as he sat down on the sofa; and placing the palms of his hands on his knees, anxiously glanced at his friend’s countenance. &quot;Yes; and here you’re likely to be,&quot; said Gabriel coolly, as he rattled the money in his unmentionable-pockets, and looked out of the window. &quot;What’s the amount with the costs?&quot; inquired Parsons after an awkward pause. &quot;37l. 3s. 10d.&quot; &quot;Have you any money?&quot; &quot;Nine and sixpence,&quot; Mr. Gabriel Parsons walked up and down the room for a few seconds before he could make up his mind to disclose the plan he had formed; he was accustomed to drive hard bargains, but was always most anxious to conceal his avarice; at length he stopped short, and said,—&quot;Tottle, you owe me fifty pounds.&quot; &quot;I do.&quot; &quot;And from all I see, I infer that you are likely to owe it me.&quot; &quot;I fear I am.&quot; &quot;Though you have every disposition to pay me if you could?&quot; &quot;Certainly.&quot; &quot;Then,&quot; said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, &quot;listen; here’s my proposition. You know my way of old. Accept it—yes or no—I will or I won’t. I’ll pay the debt and costs, and I’ll lend you 10l. more (which, added to your annuity, will enable you to carry on the war well) if you’ll give me your note of hand to pay me one hundred and fifty pounds within six months after you are married to Miss Lillerton.&quot; &quot;My dear—&quot; &quot;Stop a minute—on one condition; and that is, that you propose to Miss Lillerton at once.&quot; &quot;At once! My dear Parsons, consider.&#039; &quot;It’s for you to consider, not me. She knows you well from reputation, though she did not know you personally, until lately. Notwithstanding all her maiden modesty, I think she’d be devilish glad to get married, out of hand, with as little delay as possible. My wife has sounded her on the subject, and she has confessed.&quot; &quot;What—what?&quot; eagerly interrupted the enamoured Watkins.&quot; &quot;Why,&quot; replied Parsons, &quot;to say exactly what she has confessed, would be rather difficult, because they only spoke in hints, and so forth; but my wife, who is no bad judge in these cases, declared to me that what she had confessed was as good as to say, that she was not insensible of your merits—in fact, that no other man should have her.&quot; Mr. Watkins Tottle rose hastily from his seat, and rang the bell. &quot;What’s that for?&quot; inquired Parsons. &quot;I want to send the man for the bill stamp,&quot; replied Mr. Watkins Tottle. &quot;Then you’ve made up your mind?&quot; &quot;I have,&quot;—and they shook hands most cordially. The note of hand was given—the debt and costs were paid—Ikey was satisfied for his trouble, and the two friends soon found themselves on that side of Mr. Solomon Jacobs’ establishment, on which most of his visitors were very happy when they found themselves once again—to wit, the outside. &quot;Now,&quot; said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as they drove to Norwood together—&quot;you shall have an opportunity to make the disclosure to-night, and mind you speak out, Tottle.&quot; &quot;I will—I will!&quot; replied Watkins, valorously. &quot;How I should like to see you together,&quot; ejaculated Mr. Gabriel Parsons.—&quot;What fun!&quot;— and he laughed so long and so loudly, that he disconcerted Mr. Watkins Tottle, and frightened the horse. &quot;There’s Fanny and your intended walking about on the lawn,&quot; said Gabriel, as they approached the house.—&quot;Mind your eye, Tottle.&quot; &quot;Never fear,&quot; replied Watkins, resolutely, as he made his way to the spot where the ladies were walking. &quot;Here’s Mr. Tottle, my dear,&quot; said Mrs. Parsons, addressing Miss Lillerton. The lady turned quickly round, and acknowledged his courteous salute with the same sort of confusion that Watkins had noticed on their first interview, but with something like a slight expression of disappointment or carelessness. &quot;Did you see how glad she was to see you?&quot; whispered Parsons to his friend. &quot;Why, I really thought she looked as if she would rather have seen somebody else,&quot; replied Tottle. Pooh, nonsense!&quot; whispered Parsons again—&quot;It’s always the way with women, young or old. They never show how delighted they are to see those whose presence makes their hearts beat. It’s the way with the whole sex, and no man should have lived to your time of life without knowing it. Fanny confessed it to me, when we were first married, over and over again—see what it is to have a wife.&quot; &quot;Certainly,&quot; whispered Tottle, whose courage was vanishing fast. &quot;Well, now, you’d better begin to pave the way,&quot; said Parsons; who, having invested some money in the speculation, assumed the office of director. &quot;Yes, yes, I will—presently,&quot; replied Tottle, greatly flurried. &quot;Say something to her, man,&quot; urged Parsons again. &quot;Damn it! pay her a compliment, can’t you?&quot; &quot;No! not till after dinner,&quot; replied the bashful Tottle, anxious to postpone the evil moment. &quot;Well, gentlemen,&quot; said Mrs. Parsons, &quot;you are really very polite; you stay away the whole morning, after promising to take us out, and when you do come home, you stand whispering together and take no notice of us.&quot; &quot;We were talking of the business, my dear, which detained us this morning,&quot; replied Parsons, looking significantly at Tottle. &quot;Dear me! how very quickly the morning has gone,&quot; said Miss Lillerton, referring to the gold watch, which was wound up on state occasions, whether it required it or not. &quot;I think it has passed very slowly,&quot; mildly suggested Tottle. (&quot;That’s right—bravo!&quot;) whispered Parsons. &quot;Indeed!&quot; said Miss Lillerton, with an air of majestic surprise. &quot;I can only impute it to my unavoidable absence from your society, Madam,&quot; said Watkins, &quot;and that of Mrs. Parsons.&quot; During this short dialogue, the ladies had been leading the way to the house. &quot;What the deuce did you stick Fanny into that last compliment for?&quot; enquired Parsons, as they followed together! &quot;it quite spoilt the effect.&quot; &quot;Oh! it really would have been too broad without,&quot; replied Watkins Tottle, &quot;much too broad!&quot; &quot;He’s mad!&quot; Parsons whispered his wife, as they entered the drawing-room, &quot;mad from modesty.&quot; &quot;Dear me!&quot; ejaculated the lady, &quot;I never heard of such a thing.&quot; &quot;You’ll find we have quite a family dinner, Mr. Tottle,&quot; said Mrs. Parsons, when they sat down to table: &quot;Miss Lillerton is one of us, and, of course, we make no stranger of you.&quot; Mr. Watkins Tottle expressed a hope that the Parsons family never would make a stranger of him, and wished internally that his bashfulness would allow him to feel a little less like a stranger himself. &quot;Take off the covers, Martha,&quot; said Mrs. Parsons, directing the shifting of the scenery with great anxiety. The order was obeyed, and a pair of boiled fowls, with tongue and et ceteras, were displayed at the top, and a fillet of veal at the bottom. On one side of the table two green sauce-tureens, with ladles of the same, were setting to each other in a green dish; and on the other was a curried rabbit, in a brown suit, turned up with lemon. &quot;Miss Lillerton, my dear,&quot; said Mrs. Parsons, &quot;shall I assist you?&quot; &quot;Thank you, no; I think I’ll trouble Mr. Tottle.&quot; Watkins started—trembled—helped the rabbit—and broke a tumbler. The countenance of the lady of the house, which had been all smiles previously, underwent an awful change. &quot;Extremely sorry,&quot; stammered Watkins, assisting himself to currie, and parsley and butter, in the extremity of his confusion. &quot;Not the least consequence,&quot; replied Mrs. Parsons, in a tone which implied that it was of the greatest consequence possible, directing aside the researches of the boy, who was groping under the table for the bits of broken glass. &quot;I presume,&quot; said Miss Lillerton, &quot;that Mr. Tottle is aware of the interest which bachelors usually pay in such cases; a dozen glasses for one is the lowest penalty.&quot; Mr. Gabriel Parsons gave his friend an admonitory tread on the toe. Here was a clear hint that the sooner he ceased to be a bachelor and emancipated himself from such penalties, the better. Mr. Watkins Tottle viewed the observation in the same light, and challenged Mrs. Parsons to take wine, with a degree of presence of mind, which, under all the circumstances, was really extraordinary. &quot;Miss Lillerton,&quot; said Gabriel, &quot;may I have the pleasure?&quot; &quot;I shall be most happy.&quot; &quot;Tottle, will you assist Miss Lillerton, and pass the decanter. Thank you.&quot; (The usual pantomimic ceremony of nodding and sipping gone through)— &quot;Tottle, were you ever in Suffolk?&quot; enquired the master of the house, who was burning to tell one of his seven stock stories. &quot;No,&quot; responded Watkins, adding, by way of a saving clause, &quot;but I’ve been in Devonshire.&quot; &quot;Ah!&quot; replied Gabriel, &quot;it was in Suffolk that a rather singular circumstance happened to me, many years ago. Did you ever happen to hear me mention it?&quot; Mr. Watkins Tottle had happened to hear his friend mention it some four hundred times. Of course he expressed great curiosity, and evinced the utmost impatience to hear the story again. Mr. Gabriel Parsons forthwith attempted to proceed, in spite of the interruptions to which, as our readers must frequently have observed, the master of the house is often exposed in such cases. We will attempt to give them an idea of our meaning. &quot;When I was in Suffolk—&quot; said Mr. Gabriel Parsons — &quot;Take off the fowls first, Martha,&quot; said Mrs. Parsons. &quot;I beg your pardon, my dear.&quot; &quot;When I was in Suffolk,&quot; resumed Mr. Parsons, with an impatient glance at his wife, who pretended not to observe it, &quot;which is now some years ago, business led me to the town of Bury St. Edmunds. I had to stop at the principal places in my way, and therefore, for the sake of convenience, I travelled in a gig. I left Sudbury one dark night—it was winter time—about nine o’clock; the rain poured in torrents, the wind howled among the trees that skirted the road-side, and I was obliged to proceed at a foot-pace, for I could hardly see my hand before me, it was so dark—&quot; &quot;John,&quot; interrupted Mrs. Parsons, in a low, hollow, voice, &quot;don’t spill that gravy.&quot; &quot;Fanny,&quot; said Parsons impatiently, &quot;I wish you’d defer these domestic reproofs to some more suitable time. Really, my dear, these constant interruptions are very annoying.&quot; &quot;My dear, I didn’t interrupt you,&quot; said Mrs. Parsons. &quot;But, my dear, you did interrupt me,&quot; remonstrated Mr. Parsons. &quot;How very absurd you are, my love! I must give directions to the servants; I am quite sure that if I sat here and allowed John to spill the gravy over the new carpet, you’d be the first to find fault when you saw the stain to-morrow morning.&quot; &quot;Well,&quot; continued Gabriel, with a resigned air, as if he knew there was no getting over the point about the carpet, &quot;I was just saying, it was so dark that I could hardly see my hand before me. The road was very lonely, and I assure you, Tottle (this was a device to arrest the wandering attention of that individual, which was distracted by a confidential communication between Mrs. Parsons and Martha, accompanied by the delivery of a large bunch of keys), I assure you, Tottle, I became somehow impressed with a sense of the loneliness of my situation—&quot; &quot;Pie to your master,&quot; interrupted Mrs. Parsons, again directing the servant. &quot;Now, pray, my dear,&quot; remonstrated Parsons once more, very pettishly. Mrs. P. turned up her hands and eyebrows, and appealed in dumb show to Miss Lillerton. &quot;As I turned a corner of the road,&quot; resumed Gabriel, &quot;the horse stopped short, and reared tremendously. I pulled up, jumped out, ran to his head, and found a man lying on his back in the middle of the road, with his eyes fixed on the sky. I thought he was dead; but no, he was alive, and there appeared to be nothing the matter with him. He jumped up, and putting his hand to his chest, and fixing upon me the most earnest gaze you can imagine, exclaimed—&quot; &quot;Pudding here,&quot; said Mrs. Parsons. &quot;Oh! it’s no use,&quot; exclaimed the host, who was now rendered desperate. &quot;Here, Tottle; a glass of wine. It’s useless to attempt relating any thing when Mrs. Parsons is present.&quot; This attack was received in the usual way. Mrs. Parsons talked to Miss Lillerton and at her bette half; expatiated on the impatience of men generally; hinted that her husband was peculiarly vicious in this respect, and wound up by insinuating that she must be one of the best tempers that ever existed, or she never could put up with it. Really what she had to endure sometimes, was more than any one who saw her in every-day life could by possibility suppose.—The story was now a painful subject, and therefore Mr. Parsons declined to enter into any details, and contented himself by stating that the man was a maniac, who had escaped from a neighbouring mad-house. The cloth was removed; the ladies soon afterwards retired, and Miss Lillerton played the piano in the drawing-room over head very loudly, for the edification of the visitor. Mr. Watkins Tottle and Mr. Gabriel Parsons sat chatting comfortably enough, until the conclusion of the second bottle, when the latter, in proposing an adjournment to the drawing-room, informed Watkins that he had concerted a plan with his wife, for leaving him and Miss Lillerton alone, soon after tea. &quot;I say,&quot; said Tottle, as they went up stairs, &quot;don’t you think it would be better if we put it off till—till—to-morrow?&quot; &quot;Don’t you think it would have been much better if I had left you in that wretched hole I found you in this morning?&quot; retorted Parsons, bluntly. &quot;Well—well—I only made a suggestion,&quot; said poor Watkins Tottle, with a deep sigh. Tea was soon concluded, and Miss Lillerton drawing a small work-table on one side of the fire, and placing a little wooden frame upon it, something like a miniature clay-mill without the horse, was soon busily engaged in making a watch-guard with brown silk. &quot;God bless me!&quot; exclaimed Parsons, starting up with well-feigned surprise, &quot;I’ve forgotten those confounded letters. Tottle, I know you’ll excuse me.&quot; If Tottle had been a free agent, he would have allowed no one to leave the room on any pretence, except himself. As it was, however, he was obliged to look cheerful when Parsons quitted the apartment. He had scarcely left, when Martha put her head into the room, with—&quot;please, Ma’am, you’re wanted.&quot; Mrs. Parsons left the room, shut the door carefully after her, and Mr. Watkins Tottle was left alone with Miss Lillerton. For the first five minutes there was a dead silence.—Mr. Watkins Tottle was thinking how he should begin, and Miss Lillerton appeared to be thinking of nothing. The fire was burning low; Mr. Watkins Tottle stirred it, and put some coals on. &quot;Hem!&quot; coughed Miss Lillerton; Mr. Watkins Tottle thought the fair creature had spoken— &quot;I beg your pardon,&quot; said he. &quot;Eh!&quot; &quot;I thought you spoke.&quot; &quot;No.&quot; &quot;Oh!&quot; &quot;There are some books on the sofa, Mr. Tottle, if you would like to look at them,&quot; said Miss Lillerton, after the lapse of another five minutes. &quot;No, thank you,&quot; returned Watkins; and then he added, with a courage which was perfectly astonishing, even to himself, &quot;Madam, that is Miss Lillerton, I wish to speak to you.&quot; &quot;To me!&quot; said Miss Lillerton, letting the silk drop from her hands, and sliding her chair back a few paces.—&quot;Speak—to me!&quot; &quot;To you, Madam—and on the subject of the state of your affections.&quot; The lady hastily rose, and would have left the room; but Mr. Watkins Tottle gently detained her by the hand, and holding it as far from him as the joint length of their arms would permit, he thus proceeded— &quot;Pray do not misunderstand me, or suppose that I am led to address you, after so short an acquaintance, by any feeling of my own merits—for merits I have none which could give me a claim to your hand. I hope you will acquit me of any presumption when I explain that I have been acquainted through Mrs. Parsons, with the state—that is, that Mrs. Parsons has told me—at least, not Mrs. Parsons, but—&quot; here Watkins began to wander, but Miss Lillerton relieved him. &quot;Am I to understand, Mr. Tottle, that Mrs. Parsons has acquainted you with my feeling—my affection—I mean my respect, for an individual of the opposite sex?&quot; &quot;She has.&quot; &quot;Then, what,&quot; inquired Miss Lillerton, averting her face, with a girlish air, &quot;what could induce you to seek such an interview as this? What can your object be? How can I promote your happiness, Mr. Tottle?&quot; Here was the time for a flourish—&quot;By allowing me,&quot; replied Watkins, falling bump on his knees, and breaking two brace-buttons and a waistcoat-string, in the act—&quot;By allowing me to be your slave, your servant—in short, by unreservedly making me the confidant of your heart’s feelings—may I say for the promotion of your own happiness—may I say, in order that you may become the wife of a kind and affectionate husband?&quot; &quot;Disinterested creature!&quot; exclaimed Miss Lillerton, hiding her face in a white pocket-handkerchief with an eyelet-hole border. Mr. Watkins Tottle thought that if the lady knew all, she might possibly alter her opinion on this last point. He raised the tip of her middle finger ceremoniously to his lips, and got off his knees, as gracefully as he could. &quot;My information was correct?&quot; he tremulously inquired, when he was once more on his feet. &quot;It was.&quot; Watkins elevated his hands, and looked up to the ornament in the centre of the ceiling, which had been made for a lamp, by way of expressing his rapture. &quot;Our situation, Mr. Tottle,&quot; resumed the lady, glancing at him through one of the eyelet-holes, &quot;is a most peculiar and delicate one.&quot; &quot;It is,&quot; said Mr. Tottle. &quot;Our acquaintance has been of so short duration,&quot; said Miss Lillerton. &quot;Only a week,&quot; assented Watkins Tottle. &quot;Oh! more than that,&#039; exclaimed the lady, in a tone of surprise. &quot;Indeed!&quot; said Tottle. &quot;More than a month—more than two months!&quot; said Miss Lillerton. Rather odd, this, thought Watkins. &quot;Oh!&quot; he said, recollecting Parsons’ assurance that she had known him from report, &quot;I understand. But, my dear madam, pray consider. The longer this acquaintance has existed, the less reason is there for delay now. Why not at once fix a period for gratifying the hopes of your devoted admirer?&quot; &quot;It has been represented to me again and again that this is the course I ought to pursue,&quot; replied Miss Lillerton, &quot;but—pardon my feelings of delicacy, Mr. Tottle—pray excuse this embarrassment—I have peculiar ideas on such subjects, and I am quite sure that I never could summon up fortitude enough to name the day to my future husband.&quot; &quot;Then allow me to name it,&quot; said Tottle eagerly. &quot;I should like to fix it myself,&quot; replied Miss Lillerton, bashfully, &quot;but I cannot do so without at once resorting to a third party.&quot; &quot;A third party!&quot; thought Watkins Tottle, &quot;who the deuce is that to be, I wonder!&quot; &quot;Mr. Tottle,&quot; continued Miss Lillerton, &quot;you have made me a most disinterested and kind offer—that offer I accept. Will you at once be the bearer of a note from me to—to Mr. Timson?&quot; &quot;Mr. Timson!&quot; said Watkins. &quot;After what has passed between us,&quot; responded Miss Lillerton, still averting her head, &quot;you must understand whom I mean; Mr. Timson, the—the—clergyman.&quot; &quot;Mr. Timson, the clergyman!&quot; ejaculated Watkins Tottle, in a state of inexpressible beatitude, and positive wonder at his own success. &quot;Angel! Certainly—this moment!&quot; &quot;I’ll prepare it immediately,&quot; said Miss Lillerton, making for the door; &quot;the events of this day have flurried me so much, Mr. Tottle, that I shall not leave my room again this evening; I will send you the note by the servant.&quot; &quot;Stay,—stay,&quot; cried Watkins Tottle, still keeping a most respectful distance from the lady; &quot;when shall we meet again?&quot; &quot;Oh! Mr. Tottle,&quot; replied Miss Lillerton, coquettishly, &quot;when we are married, I can never see you too often, nor thank you too much;&quot; and she left the room. Mr. Watkins Tottle flung himself into an arm-chair, and indulged in the most delicious reveries of future bliss, in which the idea of &quot;Five hundred pounds per annum, with an uncontrolled power of disposing of it, by her last will and testament,&quot; was somehow or other the foremost. He had gone through the interview so well, and it had terminated so admirably, that he almost began to wish he had expressly stipulated for the settlement of the annual five hundred on himself. &quot;May I come in?&quot; said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, peeping in at the door. &quot;Come in,&quot; replied Watkins. &quot;Well, have you done it?&quot; anxiously inquired Gabriel. &quot;Have I done it!&quot; said Watkins Tottle. &quot;Hush—I’m going to the clergyman.&quot; &quot;No!&quot; said Parsons. &quot;How well you have managed it.&quot; &quot;Where does Timson live?&quot; inquired Watkins. &quot;At his uncle’s,&quot; replied Gabriel, &quot;just round the lane. He’s waiting for a living, and has been assisting his uncle here for the last two or three months. But how well you have done it—I didn’t think you could have carried it off so.&quot; Mr. Watkins Tottle was proceeding to demonstrate that the Richardsonian principle was the best on which love could possibly be made, when he was interrupted by the entrance of Martha with a little pink note folded like a fancy cocked-hat. &quot;Miss Lillerton’s compliments,&quot; said Martha, as she delivered it into Tottle’s hands, and vanished. &quot;Do you observe the delicacy?&quot; said Tottle, appealing to Mr. Gabriel Parsons. &quot;Compliments, not love, by the servant, eh?&quot; Mr. Gabriel Parsons didn’t exactly know what reply to make, so he poked the forefinger of his right hand between the third and fourth ribs of Mr. Watkins Tottle. &quot;Come,&quot; said Watkins, when the explosion of mirth, consequent on this practical jest, had subsided, &quot;we’ll be off at once—let’s lose no time.&quot; &quot;Capital!&quot; echoed Gabriel Parsons; and in five minutes they were at the garden-gate of the villa tenanted by the uncle of Mr. Timson. &quot;Is Mr. Charles Timson at home?&quot; inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle of Mr. Charles Timson’s uncle’s man. &quot;Mr. Charles is at home,&quot; replied the man, stammering; &quot;but he desired me to say he couldn’t be interrupted, Sir, by any of the parishioners.&quot; &quot;I am not a parishioner,&quot; replied Watkins. &quot;Is Mr. Charles writing a sermon, Tom?&quot; inquired Parsons, thrusting himself forward. &quot;No, Mr. Parsons, sir; he’s not exactly writing a sermon, but he is practising the violoncello in his own bedroom, and gave strict orders not to be disturbed.&quot; &quot;Say I’m here,&quot; replied Gabriel, leading the way across the garden; &quot;Mr. Parsons and Mr. Tottle, on private and particular business.&quot; They were shewn into the parlour, and the servant departed to deliver his message. The distant groaning of the violoncello ceased; footsteps were heard on the stairs, and Mr. Timson presented himself, and shook hands with Parsons with the utmost cordiality. &quot;How do you do, Sir?&quot; said Watkins Tottle with great solemnity. &quot;How do you do, sir?&quot; replied Timson, with as much coldness as if it were a matter of perfect indifference to him how he did, as it very likely was. &quot;I beg to deliver this note to you,&quot; said Watkins Tottle, producing the cocked hat. &quot;From Miss Lillerton!&quot; said Timson, suddenly changing colour. &quot;Pray sit down.&quot; Mr. Watkins Tottle sat down, and while Timson perused the note, fixed his eyes on an oyster-sauce-coloured portrait of the Archbishop of Canterbury, which hung over the fire-place. Mr. Timson rose from his seat when he had concluded the note, and looked dubiously at Parsons. —&quot;May I ask,&quot; he inquired, appealing to Watkins Tottle, &quot;whether our friend here is acquainted with the object of your visit?&quot; &quot;Our friend is in my confidence,&quot; replied Watkins, with considerable importance. &quot;Then, Sir,&quot; said Timson, seizing both Tottle’s hands, &quot;allow me in his presence to thank you most unfeignedly and cordially, for the noble part you have acted in this affair.&quot; &quot;He thinks I recommended him,&quot; thought Tottle. &quot;Confound these fellows! they never think of anything but their fees.&quot; &quot;I deeply regret having misunderstood your intentions, my dear Sir,&quot; continued Timson. &quot;Disinterested and manly indeed! There are very few men who would have acted as you have done.&quot; Mr. Watkins Tottle could not help thinking that this last remark was anything but complimentary. He therefore inquired rather hastily, &quot;When is it to be?&quot; &quot;On Thursday,&quot; replied Timson,—&quot;on Thursday morning at half-past-eight.&quot; &quot;Uncommonly early,&quot; observed Watkins Tottle, with an air of triumphant self-denial. &quot;I shall hardly be able to get down here by that hour.&quot; (This was intended for a joke.) &quot;Never mind, my dear fellow,&quot; replied Timson, all suavity, shaking hands with Tottle again most heartily, &quot;so long as we see you to breakfast, you know—&quot; &quot;Eh!&quot; said Parsons, with one of the most extraordinary expressions of countenance that ever appeared on the human face. &quot;What!&quot; ejaculated Watkins Tottle, at the same moment. &quot;I say that so long as we see you to breakfast,&quot; replied Timson, &quot;we will excuse your being absent from the ceremony, though of course your presence at it would give us the utmost pleasure.&quot; Mr. Watkins Tottle staggered against the wall, and fixed his eyes on Timson with apalling perseverance. &quot;Timson,&quot; said Parsons, hurriedly brushing his hat with his left arm, &quot;when you say “us,” whom do you mean?&quot; Mr. Timson looked foolish in his turn, when he replied, &quot;Why—Mrs. Timson that will be this day week: Miss Lillerton that is&quot;— &quot;Now don’t stare at that idiot in the corner,&quot; angrily exclaimed Parsons, as the extraordinary convulsions of Watkins Tottle’s countenance excited the wondering gaze of Timson, &quot;but have the goodness to tell me in three words the contents of that note?&quot; &quot;This note,&quot; replied Timson, &quot;is from Miss Lillerton, to whom I have been for the last five weeks regularly engaged. Her singular scruples and strange feeling on some points have hitherto prevented my bringing the engagement to that termination which I so anxiously desire. She informs me here, that she sounded Mrs. Parsons with the view of making her her confidante and go-between, that Mrs. Parsons informed this elderly gentleman, Mr. Tottle, of the circumstance, and that he, in the most kind and delicate terms, offered to assist us in any way, and even undertook to convey this note, which contains the promise I have long sought in vain—an act of kindness for which I can never be sufficiently grateful.&quot; &quot;Good night, Timson,&quot; said Parsons hurrying off, and lugging the bewildered Tottle with him. &quot;Won’t you stay—and have something?&quot; said Timson. &quot;No, thank ye,&quot; replied Parsons, &quot;I’ve had quite enough;&quot; and away he went, followed by Watkins Tottle in a state of stupefaction. Mr. Gabriel Parsons whistled until they had walked some quarter of a mile past his own gate, when he suddenly stopped, and said, &quot;You are a clever fellow, Tottle, an’t you?&quot; &quot;I don’t know,&quot; said the unfortunate Watkins. &quot;I suppose you’ll say this is Fanny’s fault, won’t you?&quot; inquired Gabriel. &quot;I don’t know anything about it,&quot; replied the bewildered Tottle. &quot;Well,&quot; said Parsons, turning on his heel to go home, &quot;the next time you make an offer, you had better speak plainly, and don’t throw a chance away. And the next time you’re locked up in a spunging-house, just wait there till I come and take you out, there’s a good fellow.&quot; How, or at what hour, Mr. Watkins Tottle returned to Cecil-street is unknown. His boots were seen outside his bedroom-door next morning, but we have the authority of his landlady for stating that he neither emerged therefrom, or accepted sustenance for four-and-twenty hours; at the expiration of that period, and when a council of war was being held in the kitchen on the propriety of summoning the parochial beadle to break his door open, he rang his bell, and demanded a cup of milk-and-water. The next morning he went through the formalities of eating and drinking as usual, but a week afterwards he was seized with a relapse, while perusing the list of marriages in a morning paper, from which he never perfectly recovered. A few weeks since, the body of a gentleman unknown was found in the Regent’s canal. In the trousers-pockets were four shillings and three-pence-halfpenny; a matrimonial advertisement from a lady, which appeared to have been cut out of the Sunday Times; a tooth-pick, and a card-case, which it is confidently believed would have led to the identification of the unfortunate gentleman, but for the circumstance of there being none but blank cards in it. Mr. Watkins Tottle absented himself from his lodgings shortly before. A bill which has not been taken up, was presented next morning; and a bill which has not been taken down, was soon afterwards affixed in his parlour-window. He left a variety of papers in the hands of his landlady—the materials collected in his wanderings among different classes of society—which that lady has determined to published, to defray the unpaid expenses of his board and lodging. They will be carefully arranged, and presented to the public from time to time, with all due humility, by BOZ.18350201https://dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/Passage_in_the_Life_of_Mr._Watkins_Tottle_[Chapter_the_Second]/1835-02-Watkins_Tottle_Chapter_II.pdf
134https://dickenssearch.com/items/show/134'The Bloomsbury Christening'<span>Published in&nbsp;</span><em>The Monthly Magazine</em><span>&nbsp;(April 1834).</span>Dickens, Charles<em>The Monthly Magazine, or The British Register of Politics, Art, Science, and the Belles-Lettres.</em><span>&nbsp;April 1834, pp. 375-386,&nbsp;</span><em>Internet Archive,</em><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="https://archive.org/details/monthlymagazineo17lond/page/n9/mode/2up">https://archive.org/details/monthlymagazineo17lond/page/n9/mode/2up</a><span>.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1834-04">1834-04</a><em>Internet Archive,<br /></em><a href="https://archive.org/about/terms.php">https://archive.org/about/terms.php</a><span>. Access to the Archive’s Collections is granted for scholarship and research purposes only.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+story">Short story</a>1834-04-The_Bloomsbury_ChristeningDickens, Charles. "The Bloomsbury Christening." <em>The Monthly Magazine, or The British Register of Politics, Art, Science, and the Belles-Lettres.</em> <span>April 1834, pp. 375-386. </span><em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1834-04-The-Bloomsbury-Christening">https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1834-04-The-Bloomsbury-Christening</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Periodical">Periodical</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EThe+Monthly+Magazine%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>The Monthly Magazine</em></a>Mr. Nicodemus Dumps, or, as his acquaintance called him, &quot;long Dumps,&quot; was a bachelor, six feet high, and fifty years old, —cross, cadaverous, odd, and ill-natured. He was never happy but when he was miserable (pardon the contradiction); and always miserable when he had the best reason to be happy. The only real comfort of his existence was to make everybody about him wretched—then he might be truly said to enjoy life. He was afflicted with a situation in the Bank worth five hundred a-year, and he rented a &quot;first floor furnished&quot; at Pentonville, which he originally took because it commanded a dismal prospect of an adjacent churchyard. He was familiar with the face of every tombstone, and the burial service seemed to excite his strongest sympathy. His friends said he was surly—he insisted he was nervous; they thought him a lucky dog, but he protested that he was &quot;the most unfortunate man in the world.&quot; Cold as he was, and wretched as he declared himself to be, he was not wholly unsusceptible of attachments. He revered the memory of Hoyle, as he was himself an admirable and imperturbable whist-player, and he chuckled with delight at a fretful and impatient adversary. He adored King Herod for his massacre of the innocents; for if he hated one thing more than another, it was a child. However, he could hardly be said to hate any thing in particular, because he disliked every thing in general; but perhaps his greatest antipathies were cabs, old women, doors that would not shut, musical amateurs, and omnibus cads. He subscribed to the Society for the Suppression of Vice for the pleasure of putting a stop to any harmless amusements; and he contributed largely towards the support of two itinerant methodist parsons, under the amiable hope that if circumstances rendered any people happy in this world, they might perchance be rendered miserable by fears for the next. Mr. Dumps had a nephew who had been married about a year, and who was somewhat of a favourite with his uncle, because he was an admirable subject to exercise his misery-creating powers upon. Mr. Charles Kitterbell was a small, sharp, spare man, with a very large head, and a broad, good-humoured countenance. He looked like a faded giant, with the head and face partially restored; and he had a cast in his eye which rendered it quite impossible for any one with whom he conversed to know where he was looking. His eyes appeared fixed on the wall, and he was staring you out of countenance; in short, there was no catching his eye, and perhaps it is a merciful dispensation of Providence that such eyes are not catching. In addition to these characteristics, it may be added that Mr. Charles Kitterbell was one of the most credulous and matter-of-fact little personages that ever took to himself a wife, and for himself a house in Great Russell-street, Russell-square (Uncle Dumps always dropped the Russell-square,&quot; and inserted in lieu thereof the dreadful words &quot;Tottenham-court-road&quot;). &quot;No, but, uncle, ’pon my life you must—you must promise to be godfather,&quot; said Mr. Kitterbell, as he sat in conversation with his respected relative one morning. &quot;I cannot, indeed I cannot,&quot; returned Dumps. &quot;Well, but why not? Jemima will think it very unkind. It’s very little trouble.&quot; &quot;As to the trouble,&quot; rejoined the most unhappy man in existence, &quot;I don’t mind that; but my nerves are in that state—I cannot go through the ceremony. You know I don’t like going out.—For God’s sake, Charles, don’t fidget with that stool so, you’ll drive me mad.&quot; Mr. Kitterbell, quite regardless of his uncle’s nerves, had occupied himself for some ten minutes in describing a circle on the floor with one leg of the office-stool on which he was seated, keeping the other three up in the air and holding fast on by the desk. &quot;I beg your pardon, uncle,&quot; said Kitterbell, quite abashed, suddenly releasing his hold of the desk, and bringing the three wandering legs back to the floor with a force sufficient to drive them through it. &quot;But come, don’t refuse. If it’s a boy, you know, we must have two godfathers.&quot; &quot;If it’s a boy!&quot; said Dumps, &quot;why can’t you say at once whether it is a boy or not?&quot; &quot;I should be very happy to tell you, but it’s impossible I can undertake to say whether it’s a girl or a boy, if the child isn’t born yet.&quot; &quot;Not born yet!&quot; echoed Dumps, with a gleam of hope lighting up his lugubrious visage; &quot;oh, well, it may be a girl, and then you won’t want me, or if it is a boy, it may die before it&#039;s christened.&quot; &quot;I hope not,&quot; said the father that expected to be, looking very grave. &quot;I hope not,&quot; acquiesced Dumps, evidently pleased with the subject. He was beginning to get happy. &quot;I hope not, but distressing cases frequently occur during the first two or three days of a child’s life; fits, I am told, are exceedingly common, and alarming convulsions are almost matters of course.&quot; &quot;Lord, uncle!&quot; ejaculated little Kitterbell, gasping for breath. &quot;Yes; my landlady was confined—let me see—last Tuesday: an uncommonly fine boy. On the Thursday night the nurse was sitting with him upon her knee before the fire, and he was as well as possible. Suddenly he became black in the face, and alarmingly spasmodic. The medical man was instantly sent for, and every remedy was tried, but—&quot; &quot;How frightful!&quot; interrupted the horror-stricken Kitterbell. &quot;The child died, of course. However, your child may not die; and if it should be a boy, and should live to be christened, why I suppose I must be one of the sponsors.&quot; Dumps was evidently good-natured on the faith of his anticipations. &quot;Thank you, uncle,&quot; said his agitated nephew, grasping his hand as warmly as if he had done him some essential service. &quot;Perhaps I had better not tell Mrs. K. what you have mentioned.&quot; ‘Why, if she’s low-spirited, perhaps you had better not mention the melancholy case to her,’ returned Dumps, who of course had invented the whole story; &quot;though perhaps it would be but doing your duty as a husband to prepare her for the worst.&quot; A day or two afterwards, as Dumps was perusing a morning paper at the chop-house which he regularly frequented, the following-paragraph met his eye:- &quot;Births.—On Saturday, the 18th inst., in Great Russell-street, the lady of Charles Kitterbell, Esq., of a son.&quot; &quot;It is a boy!&quot; he exclaimed, dashing down the paper, to the astonishment of the waiters. &quot;It is a boy!&quot; But he speedily regained his composure as his eye rested on a paragraph quoting the number of infant deaths from the bills of mortality. Six weeks passed away, and as no communication had been received from the Kitterbells, Dumps was beginning to flatter himself that the child was dead, when the following note painfully resolved his doubts:- &quot;Great Russell-street, Monday morning. &quot;DEAR UNCLE: You will be delighted to hear that my dear Jemima has left her room, and that your future godson is getting on capitally; he was very thin at first, but he is getting much larger, and nurse says he is filling out every day. He cries a good deal, and is a very singular colour, which made Jemima and me rather uncomfortable; but as nurse says it’s natural, and as of course we know nothing about these things yet, we are quite satisfied with what nurse says. We think he will be a sharp child; and nurse says she’s sure he will, because he never goes to sleep. You will readily believe that we are all very happy, only we’re a little worn out for want of rest, as he keeps us awake all night; but this we must expect, nurse says, for the first six or eight months. He has been vaccinated, but in consequence of the operation being rather awkwardly performed, some small particles of glass were introduced into the arm with the matter. Perhaps this may in some degree account for his being rather fractious; at least, so nurse says. We propose to have him christened at twelve o’clock on Friday, at Saint George’s church, in Hart-street, by the name of Frederick Charles William. Pray don’t be later than a quarter before twelve. We shall have a very few friends in the evening, when, of course we shall see you. I am sorry to say that the dear boy appears rather restless and uneasy to-day: the cause, I fear, is fever. &quot;Believe me, dear Uncle, &quot;Yours affectionately, &quot;CHARLES KITTERBELL.&quot; &quot;P.S.—I open this note to say that we have just discovered the cause of little Frederick’s restlessness. It is not fever, as I apprehended, but a small pin, which nurse accidentally stuck in his leg yesterday evening. We have taken it out, and he appears more composed, though he still sobs a good deal.&quot; It is almost unnecessary to say that the perusal of the above interesting statement was no great relief to the mind of the hypochondriacal Dumps. It was impossible to recede, however, and so he put the best face—that is to say, an uncommonly miserable one—upon the matter; and purchased a handsome silver mug for the infant Kitterbell, upon which he ordered the initials &quot;F. C. W. K.,&quot; with the customary untrained grape-vine-looking flourishes, and a large full stop, to be engraved forthwith. Monday was a fine day, Tuesday was delightful, Wednesday was equal to either, and Thursday was finer than ever; four successive fine days in London! Hackney-coachmen became revolutionary, and crossing-sweepers began to doubt the existence of a First Cause. The Morning Herald informed its readers that an old woman, in Camden Town, had been heard to say that the fineness of the season was &quot;unprecedented in the memory of the oldest inhabitant;&quot; and Islington clerks, with large families and small salaries, left off their black gaiters, disdained to carry their once green cotton umbrellas, and walked to town in the conscious pride of white stockings, and cleanly brushed Bluchers. Dumps beheld all this with an eye of supreme contempt—his triumph was at hand. — He knew that if it had been fine for four weeks instead of four days, it would rain when he went out; he was lugubriously happy in the conviction that Friday would be a wretched day—and so it was. &quot;I knew how it would be,&quot; said Dumps, as he turned round opposite the Mansion House at half-past eleven o’clock on the Friday morning. &quot;I knew how it would be, I am concerned, and that’s enough;&quot;—and certainly the appearance of the day was sufficient to depress the spirits of a much more buoyant-hearted individual than himself. It had rained, without a moment’s cessation, since eight o’clock; everybody that passed up Cheapside, and down Cheapside, looked wet, cold, and dirty. All sorts of forgotten and long-concealed umbrellas had been put into requisition. Cabs whisked about, with the &quot;fare&quot; as carefully boxed up behind two glazed calico curtains as any mysterious picture in any one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s castles; omnibus horses smoked like steam-engines; nobody thought of &quot;standing up&quot; under doorways or arches; they were painfully convinced it was a hopeless case; and so everybody went hastily along, jumbling and jostling, and swearing and perspiring, and slipping about, like amateur skaters behind wooden chairs on the Serpentine on a frosty Sunday. Dumps paused; he could not think of walking, being rather smart for the christening. If he took a cab he was sure to be spilt, and a hackney-coach was too expensive for his economical ideas. An omnibus was waiting at the opposite corner—it was a desperate case—he had never heard of an omnibus upsetting or running away, and if the cad did knock him down, he could &quot;pull him up&quot; in return. &quot;Now, sir!&quot; cried the young gentleman who officiated as &quot;cad&quot; to the &quot;Lads of the Village,&quot; which was the name of the machine just noticed. Dumps crossed. &quot;This vay, sir!&quot; shouted the driver of the &quot;Hark away,&quot; pulling up his vehicle immediately across the door of the opposition—&quot;This vay, sir—he’s full.&quot; Dumps hesitated, whereupon the &quot;Lads of the Village&quot; commenced pouring out a torrent of abuse against the &quot;Hark away&quot;; but the conductor of the &quot;Admiral Napier&quot; settled the contest in a most satisfactory manner for all parties, by seizing Dumps round the waist, and thrusting him into the middle of his vehicle, which had just come up, and only wanted the sixteenth inside. &quot;All right,&quot; said the &quot;Admiral,&quot; and off the thing thundered, like a fire-engine at full gallop, with the kidnapped customer inside, standing in the position of a half doubled up boot-jack, and falling about with every jerk of the machine, first on one side, and then on the other, like a &quot;Jack-in-the-green,&quot; on May-day, &quot;setting&quot; to the lady with the brass ladle. &quot;For Heaven’s sake, where am I to sit?&quot; inquired the miserable man of an old gentleman, into whose stomach he had just fallen for the fourth time. &quot;Anywhere but on my chest, sir,&quot; replied the old gentleman, in a surly tone. &quot;Perhaps the box would suit the gentleman better,&quot; suggested a very damp lawyer’s clerk, in a pink shirt and a smirking countenance. After a great deal of struggling and falling about, Dumps at last managed to squeeze himself into a seat, which, in addition to the slight disadvantage of being between a window that wouldn&#039;t shut, and a door that must be open, placed him in close contact with a passenger, who had been walking about all the morning without an umbrella, and who looked as if he had spent the day in a full water-butt—only wetter. &quot;Don’t bang the door so,&quot; said Dumps to the conductor, as he shut it after letting out four of the passengers; &quot;I am very nervous—it destroys me.&quot; &quot;Did any gen’lm’n say anythink?&quot; replied the cad, thrusting in his head, and trying to look as if he didn’t understand the request. &quot;I told you not to bang the door so,&quot; repeated Dumps, with an expression of countenance like the knave of clubs, in convulsions. &quot;Oh! vy, it’s rather a sing’ler circumstance about this here door, sir, that it von’t shut without banging,&quot; replied the conductor; and he opened the door very wide, and shut it again with a terrific bang, in proof of the assertion. &quot;I beg your pardon, sir,&quot; said a little prim, wheezing old gentleman, sitting opposite Dumps, &quot;I beg your pardon; but have you ever observed, when you have been in an omnibus on a wet day, that four people out of five, always come in with large cotton umbrellas, without a handle at the top, or the brass spike at the bottom?&quot; ‘Why, sir,’ returned Dumps, as he heard the clock strike twelve, &quot;it never struck me before; but now you mention it, I—Hollo! hollo!&quot; shouted the persecuted individual, as the omnibus dashed past Drury-lane, where he had directed to be set down.—&quot;Where is the cad?&quot; &quot;I think he’s on the box, sir,&quot; said the young gentleman before noticed in the pink shirt, which looked like a white one ruled with red ink. &quot;I want to be set down!&quot; said Dumps in a faint voice, overcome by his previous efforts. &quot;I think these cads want to be set down,&quot; returned the attorney’s clerk, chuckling at his sally. &quot;Hollo!&quot; cried Dumps again. &quot;Hollo!&quot; echoed the passengers; the omnibus passed St. Giles’s church. &quot;Hold hard!&quot; said the conductor; &quot;I’m blowed if we ha’n’t forgot the gen’lm’n as vas to be set down at Doory-lane.—Now, sir, make haste, if you please,&quot; he added, opening the door, and assisting Dumps out with as much coolness as if it was &quot;all right.&quot; Dumps’s indignation was for once getting the better of his cynical equanimity. &quot;Drury-lane!&quot; he gasped, with the voice of a boy in a cold bath for the first time. &quot;Doory-lane, sir?—yes, sir,—third turning on the right-hand side, sir.&quot; Dumps’ passion was paramount, he clutched his umbrella, and was striding off with the firm determination of not paying the fare. The cad, by a remarkable coincidence, happened to entertain a directly contrary opinion, and Heaven knows how far the altercation would have proceeded if it had not been most ably and satisfactorily brought to a close by the driver. &quot;Hollo!&quot; said that respectable person standing up on the box, and leaning with one hand on the roof of the omnibus. &quot;Hollo, Tom! tell the gentleman if so be as he feels aggrieved, we will take him up to the Edge-er (Edgeware) Road for nothing, and set him down at Doory-lane when we comes back. He can’t reject that anyhow.&quot; The argument was irresistible; Dumps paid the disputed sixpence, and in a quarter of an hour was on the staircase of No. 14, Great Russell-street. Everything indicated that preparations were making for the reception of &quot;a few friends&quot; in the evening. Two dozen extra tumblers, and four ditto wine-glasses—looking anything but transparent, with little bits of straw in them — were on the slab in the passage, just arrived. There was a great smell of nutmeg, port wine, and almonds on the staircase; the covers were taken off the stair-carpet, and the figure of the Venus on the first landing looked as if she were ashamed of the composition-candle in her right hand, which contrasted beautifully with the lamp-blacked drapery of the goddess of love. The female servant (who looked very warm and bustling) ushered Dumps into a front drawing-room very prettily furnished with a plentiful sprinkling of little baskets, paper table-mats, china watchmen, pink and gold albums, and rainbow-bound little books on the different tables. &quot;Ah, uncle!&quot; said Mr. Kitterbell, &quot;how d’ye do? allow me—Jemima, my dear—my uncle, — I think you’ve seen Jemima before, sir?&quot; &quot;Have had the pleasure,&quot; returned big Dumps, his tone and look making it doubtful whether in his life he had ever experienced the sensation. &quot;I’m sure,&quot; said Mrs. Kitterbell, with a languid smile, and a slight cough. &quot;I’m sure—hem—any friend—of Charles’s—hem—much less a relation, is—&quot; &quot;Knew you’d say so, my love,&quot; said little Kitterbell, who, while he appeared to be gazing on the opposite houses, was looking at his wife with a most affectionate air: &quot;bless you.&quot; The last two words were accompanied with an interesting simper, and a squeeze of the hand, which stirred up all Uncle Dumps’ bile. &quot;Jane, tell nurse to bring down baby,&quot; said Mrs. Kitterbell, addressing the servant. Mrs. Kitterbell was a tall thin young lady with very light hair, and a particularly white face—one of those young women who almost invariably, though one hardly knows why, recal to one’s mind the idea of a cold fillet of veal. Out went the servant, and in came the nurse, with a remarkably small parcel in her arms packed up in a blue mantle trimmed with white fur.—This was the baby. &quot;Now, uncle,&quot; said Mr. Kitterbell, lifting up that part of the mantle which covered the infant’s face, with an air of great triumph, &quot;Who do you think he’s like?&quot; &quot;He! he! Yes, who?&quot; said Mrs. K. putting her arm through her husband’s, and looking up into Dumps’s face with an expression of as much interest as she was capable of displaying. &quot;Good God, how small he is!&quot; cried the amiable uncle, starting back with well-feigned surprise; &quot;remarkably small indeed.&quot; &quot;Do you think so?&quot; inquired poor little Kitterbell, rather alarmed. &quot;He’s a monster to what he was—an’t he, nurse?&quot; &quot;He’s a dear;&quot; said the nurse, squeezing the child, and evading the question—not because she scrupled to disguise the fact, but because she couldn’t afford to throw away the chance of Dumps’ half-crown. &quot;Well, but who is he like?&quot; inquired little Kitterbell. Dumps looked at the little pink heap before him, and only thought at the moment of the best mode of mortifying the youthful parents. &quot;I really don’t know who he’s like,&quot; he answered, very well knowing the reply expected of him. &quot;Don’t you think he’s like me?&quot; inquired his nephew with a knowing air. &quot;Oh, decidedly not!&quot; returned Dumps, with an emphasis not to be misunderstood. &quot;Decidedly not like you.—Oh, certainly not.&quot; &quot;Like Jemima?&quot; asked Kitterbell, faintly. &quot;Oh, dear no; not in the least. I’m no judge, of course, in such cases; but I really think he’s more like one of those little interesting carved representations that one sometimes sees blowing a trumpet on a tombstone!&quot; The nurse stooped down over the child, and with great difficulty prevented an explosion of mirth. Pa and ma looked almost as miserable as their amiable uncle. &quot;Well!&quot; said the disappointed little father, &quot;you’ll be better able to tell what he’s like by-and-by. You shall see him this evening with his mantle off.&quot; &quot;Thank you,&quot; said Dumps, feeling particularly grateful. &quot;Now, my love,&quot; said Kitterbell to his wife, &quot;it’s time we were off. We’re to meet the other godfather and the godmother at the church, uncle,—Mr. and Mrs. Wilson from over the way—uncommonly nice people. My love, are you well wrapped up?&quot; &quot;Yes, dear.&quot; &quot;Are you sure you won’t have another shawl?&quot; inquired the anxious husband. &quot;No, sweet,&quot; returned the charming mother, accepting Dumps’ proffered arm; and the little party entered the hackney-coach that was to take them to the church. Dumps amusing Mrs. Kitterbell by expatiating largely on the danger of measles, thrush, teeth-cutting, and other interesting diseases to which children are subject. The ceremony (which occupied about five minutes) passed off without anything particular occurring. The clergyman had to dine some distance from town, and had got two churchings, three christenings, and a funeral to perform in something less than an hour. The godfathers and godmother, therefore, promised to renounce the devil and all his works—&quot;and all that sort of thing,&quot;—as little Kitterbell said—&quot;in less than no time;&quot; and with the exception of Dumps nearly letting the child fall into the font when he handed it to the clergyman, the whole affair went off in the usual business-like and matter-of-course manner, and Dumps re-entered the Bank-gates at two o’clock with a heavy heart, and the painful conviction that he was regularly booked for an evening party. Evening came—and so did Dumps’ pumps, black silk stockings, and white cravat which he had ordered to be forwarded, per boy, from Pentonville. The depressed godfather dressed himself at a friend’s counting-house, from whence, with his spirits fifty degrees below proof, he sallied forth—as the weather had cleared up, and the evening was tolerably fine—to walk to Great Russell-street. Slowly he paced up Cheapside, Newgate-street, down Snow Hill, and up Holborn ditto, looking as grim as the figure-head of a man-of-war, and finding out fresh causes of misery at every step. As he was crossing the corner of Hatton Garden, a man, apparently intoxicated, rushed against him, and would have knocked him down had he not been providentially caught by a very genteel young man who happened to be close to him at the time. The shock so disarranged Dumps’ nerves, as well as his dress, that he could hardly stand. The gentleman took his arm, and in the kindest manner walked with him as far as Furnival’s Inn. Dumps, for about the first time in his life, felt grateful and polite; and he and the gentlemanly-looking young man parted with mutual expressions of good will. &quot;There are at least some well-disposed men in the world,&quot; ruminated the misanthropical Dumps, as he proceeded towards his destination. Rat—tat—ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-rat—knocked a hackney-coachman at Kitterbell’s door, in imitation of a gentleman’s servant, just as Dumps reached it, and out came an old lady in a large toque, and an old gentleman in a blue coat, and three female copies of the old lady in pink dresses, and shoes to match. &quot;It’s a large party,&quot; sighed the unhappy godfather, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, and leaning against the area-railings. It was some time before the miserable man could muster up courage to knock at the door, and when he did, the smart appearance of a neighbouring green-grocer (who had been hired to wait for seven and sixpence, and whose calves alone were worth double the money), the lamp in the passage, and the Venus on the landing, added to the hum of many voices, and the sound of a harp and two violins, painfully convinced him that his surmises were but too well founded &quot;How are you?&quot; said little Kitterbell in a greater bustle than ever, bolting out of the little back parlour with a cork-screw in his hand, and various particles of saw-dust, looking like so many inverted commas, on his inexpressibles. &quot;Good God!&quot; said Dumps, turning into the aforesaid parlour to put his shoes on which he had brought in his coat-pocket, and still more appalled by the sight of seven fresh drawn corks, and a corresponding number of decanters. &quot;How many people are there up-stairs?&quot; &quot;Oh, not above thirty-five. We’ve had the carpet taken up in the back drawing-room, and the piano, and the card-tables are in the front. Jemima thought we’d better have a regular sit-down supper, in the front parlour, because of the speechifying, and all that. But, Lord! uncle, what’s the matter?&quot; continued the excited little man, as Dumps stood with one shoe on, rummaging his pockets with the most frightful distortion of visage. &quot;What have you lost? Your pocket-book?&quot; &quot;No,&quot; returned Dumps, diving first into one pocket and then into the other, and speaking in a voice like Desdemona with the pillow over her mouth. &quot;Your card-case? snuff-box? the key of your lodgings?&quot; continued Kitterbell, pouring question on question with the rapidity of lightning. &quot;No! no!&quot; ejaculated Dumps, still diving eagerly into his empty pockets. &quot;Not—not—the mug you spoke of this morning?&quot; &quot;Yes, the mug!&quot; replied Dumps, sinking into a chair&quot; &quot;How could you have done it?&quot; inquired Kitterbell. &quot;Are you sure you brought it out?&quot; &quot;Yes! yes! I see it all;&quot; said Dumps, starting up as the idea flashed across his mind; &quot;miserable dog that I am—I was born to suffer. I see it all; it was the gentlemanly-looking young man!&quot; &quot;Mr. Dumps!&quot; shouted the green-grocer in a stentorian voice, as he ushered the somewhat recovered godfather into the drawing-room half an hour after the above declaration. &quot;Mr. Dumps!&quot;—everybody looked at the door, and in came Dumps, feeling about as much out of place as a salmon might be supposed to be on a gravel-walk. &quot;Happy to see you again,&quot; said Mrs. Kitterbell, quite unconscious of the unfortunate man’s confusion and misery; &quot;you must allow me to introduce you to a few of our friends:- my mama, Mr. Dumps—my papa and sisters.&quot; Dumps seized the hand of the mother as warmly as if she was his own parent, bowed to the young ladies, and against a gentleman behind him, and took no notice whatever of the father, who had been bowing incessantly for three minutes and a quarter.&quot; &quot;Uncle,&quot; said little Kitterbell, after Dumps had been introduced to a select dozen or two, &quot;you must let me lead you to the other end of the room, to introduce you to my friend Danton. Such a splendid fellow!—I’m sure you’ll like him—this way.&quot;—Dumps followed as tractably as a tame bear. Mr. Danton was a young man of about five-and-twenty, with a considerable stock of impudence, and a very small share of ideas: he was a great favourite, especially with young ladies of from sixteen to twenty-six years of age, both inclusive. He could imitate the French horn to admiration, sang comic songs most inimitably, and had the most insinuating way of saying impertinent nothings to his doting female admirers. He had acquired, somehow or other, the reputation of being a great wit, and, accordingly, whenever he opened his mouth, everybody who knew him laughed very heartily. The introduction took place in due form. Mr. Danton bowed and twirled a lady’s handkerchief, which he held in his hand, in a most comic way. Everybody smiled. &quot;Very warm,&quot; said Dumps, feeling it necessary to say something. &quot;Yes. It was warmer yesterday,&quot; returned the brilliant Mr. Danton.—A general laugh. &quot;I have great pleasure in congratulating you on your first appearance in the character of a father, sir,&quot; he continued, addressing Dumps—&quot;godfather, I mean.&quot;—The young ladies were convulsed, and the gentlemen in ecstasies. A general hum of admiration interrupted the conversation, and announced the entrance of nurse with the baby. An universal rush of the young ladies immediately took place. (Girls are always so fond of babies in company.) &quot;Oh, you dear!&quot; said one. &quot;How sweet!&quot; cried another, in a low tone of the most enthusiastic admiration. &quot;Heavenly!&quot; added a third. &quot;Oh! what dear little arms!&quot; said a fourth, holding up an arm and fist about the size and shape of the leg of a fowl cleanly picked. &quot;Did you ever&quot;—said a little coquette with a large bustle, who looked like a French lithograph, appealing to a gentleman in three waistcoats—&quot;Did you ever—&quot; &quot;Never, in my life,&quot; returned her admirer, pulling up his collar. &quot;Oh, do let me take it, nurse,&quot; cried another young lady. &quot;The love!&quot; &quot;Can it open its eyes, nurse?&quot; inquired another, affecting the utmost innocence.—Suffice it to say, that the single ladies unanimously voted him an angel, and that the married ones, nem. con., agreed that he was decidedly the finest baby they had ever beheld—except their own. The quadrilles were resumed with great spirit. Mr. Danton was universally admitted to be beyond himself, several young ladies enchanted the company and gained admirers by singing &quot;We met&quot;—&quot;I saw her at the Fancy Fair&quot;—&quot;Can I believe Love&#039;s Wreath will pain?&quot; — and other equally sentimental and interesting ballads. &quot;The young men,&quot; as Mrs. Kitterbell said, &quot;made themselves very agreeable;&quot; the girls did not lose their opportunity; and the evening promised to go off excellently. Dumps didn’t mind it: he had devised a plan for himself—a little bit of fun in his own way—and he was almost happy! He played a rubber and lost every point Mr. Danton said he could not have lost every point, because he made a point of losing: everybody laughed tremendously. Dumps retorted with a better joke, and nobody smiled, with the exception of the host, who seemed to consider it his duty to laugh, till he was black in the face, at everything. There was only one drawback—the musicians did not play with quite as much spirit as could have been wished. The cause, however, was satisfactorily explained; for it appeared, on the testimony of a gentleman who had come up from Gravesend in the afternoon, that they had been engaged on board a steamer all day, and had played almost without cessation all the way to Gravesend, and all the way back again. The &quot;sit-down supper&quot; was excellent; there were four barley-sugar temples on the table, which would have looked beautiful if they had not melted away when the supper began; and a water-mill, whose only fault was that instead of going round, it ran over the table-cloth. Then there were fowls, and tongue, and trifle, and sweets, and lobster salad, and potted beef—and everything. And little Kitterbell kept calling out for clean plates, and the clean plates didn&#039;t come: and then the gentlemen who wanted the plates said they didn’t mind, they’d take a lady’s; and then Mrs. Kitterbell applauded their gallantry; and the green-grocer ran about till he thought his 7s.6d. was very hardly earned; and the young ladies didn’t eat much for fear it shouldn’t look romantic, and the married ladies eat as much as possible for fear they shouldn’t have enough; and a great deal of wine was drank, and everybody talked and laughed considerably. &quot;Hush! hush!&quot; said Mr. Kitterbell, rising and looking very important. &quot;My love (this was addressed to his wife at the other end of the table), take care of Mrs. Maxwell, and your mama, and the rest of the married ladies; the gentlemen will persuade the young ladies to fill their glasses, I am sure.&quot; &quot;Ladies and gentlemen,&quot; said long Dumps, in a very sepulchral voice and rueful accent, rising from his chair like the ghost in Don Juan, &quot;will you have the kindness to charge your glasses? I am desirous of proposing a toast.&quot; A dead silence ensued, and the glasses were filled—everybody looked serious—&quot;from gay to grave, from lively to severe.&quot; &quot;Ladies and gentlemen,&quot; slowly continued the ominous Dumps, &quot;I&quot;—(here Mr. Danton imitated two notes from the French-horn, in a very loud key, which electrified the nervous toast-proposer, and convulsed his audience). &quot;Order! order!&quot; said little Kitterbell, endeavouring to suppress his laughter. &quot;Order!&quot; said the gentlemen. &quot;Danton, be quiet,&quot; said a particular friend on the opposite side of the table. &quot;Ladies and gentlemen,&quot; resumed Dumps, somewhat recovered, and not much disconcerted, for he was always a pretty good hand at a speech—&quot;In accordance with what is, I believe, the established usage on these occasions, I, as one of the godfathers of Master Frederick Charles William Kitterbell—(here the speaker’s voice faltered, for he remembered the mug)—venture to rise to propose a toast. I need hardly say that it is the health and prosperity of that young gentleman, the particular event of whose early life we are here met to celebrate—(applause). Ladies and gentlemen, it is impossible to suppose that our friends here, whose sincere well-wishers we all are, can pass through life without some trials, considerable suffering, severe affliction, and heavy losses!&quot;—Here the arch-traitor paused, and slowly drew forth a long, white pocket-handkerchief—his example was followed by several ladies. &quot;That these trials may be long spared them is my most earnest prayer, my most fervent wish (a distinct sob from the grandmother). I hope and trust, ladies and gentlemen, that the infant whose christening we have this evening met to celebrate, may not be removed from the arms of his parents by premature decay (several cambrics were in requisition): that his young and now apparently healthy form, may not be wasted by lingering disease. (Here Dumps cast a sardonic glance around, for a great sensation was manifest among the married ladies.) You, I am sure, will concur with me in wishing that he may live to be a comfort and a blessing to his parents. (&#039;Hear, hear!&#039; and an audible sob from Mr. Kitterbell.) But should he not be what we could wish—should he forget in after times, the duty which he owes to them—should they unhappily experience that distracting truth, &#039;how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child&#039;&quot;—Here Mrs. Kitterbell, with her handkerchief to her eyes, and accompanied by several ladies, rushed from the room, and went into violent hysterics in the passage, leaving her better half in almost as bad a condition, and a general impression in Dumps’s favour; for people like sentiment after all. It need hardly be added, that this occurrence quite put a stop to the harmony of the evening. Vinegar, hartshorn, and cold water, were now as much in request as negus, rout-cakes, and bon-bons had been a short time before. Mrs. Kitterbell was immediately conveyed to her apartment, the musicians were silenced, flirting ceased, and the company slowly departed. Dumps left the house at the commencement of the bustle, and walked home with a light step, and (for him) a cheerful heart. His landlady, who slept in the next room, has offered to make oath that she heard him laugh, in his peculiar manner, after he had locked his door. The assertion, however, is so improbable, and bears on the face of it such strong evidence of untruth, that it has never obtained credence to this hour. The family of Mr. Kitterbell has considerably increased since the period to which we have referred; he has now two sons and a daughter: and as he expects, at no distant period, to have another addition to his blooming progeny, he is anxious to secure an eligible godfather for the occasion. He is determined, however, to impose upon him two conditions: he must bind himself, by a solemn obligation, not to make any speech after supper; and it is indispensable that he should be in no way connected with &quot;the most miserable man in the world.&quot;18340401https://dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/The_Bloomsbury_Christening/1834-04-The_Bloomsbury_Christening.pdf
135https://dickenssearch.com/items/show/135'The Boarding-House' (No. 1)<div id="dublin-core-description" class="element"> <div class="element-text">Published in&nbsp;<em>The Monthly Magazine, or The British Register of Politics, Art, Science, and the Belles-Lettres, </em>May <span>1834, pp. 481-493.</span></div> </div> <div id="dublin-core-creator" class="element"></div>Dickens, Charles<em>Internet Archive,</em><span><br /></span><a href="https://archive.org/details/monthlymagazineo17lond/page/n9/mode/2up">https://archive.org/details/monthlymagazineo17lond/page/n9/mode/2up</a><span>.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1834-05">1834-05</a><em>Internet Archive,<br /></em><a href="https://archive.org/about/terms.php">https://archive.org/about/terms.php</a><span>. Access to the Archive’s Collections is granted for scholarship and research purposes only.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+story">Short story</a>1834-05-The_Boarding_House_No1<span>Dickens, Charles. "The Boarding House" (No.1). </span><em>Dickens Search.</em><span>&nbsp;Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date].&nbsp;</span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1834-05-The-Boarding_House_No1">https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1834-05-The-Boarding_House_No1</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Periodical">Periodical</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EThe+Monthly+Magazine%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>The Monthly Magazine</em></a>Mrs. Tibbs was, beyond all dispute, the most tidy, fidgetty, thrifty little personage that ever inhaled the smoke of London; and the house of Mrs. Tibbs was, decidedly, the neatest in all Great Coram-street. The area and the area steps, and the street-door and the street-door steps, and the brass handle, and the door-plate, and the knocker, and the fan-light, were all as clean and as bright as indefatigable white-washing, and hearth-stoning, and scrubbing and rubbing could make them. The wonder was that the brass door-plate, with the interesting inscription &quot;MRS. TIBBS,&quot; had never caught fire from constant friction, so perseveringly was it polished. There were meat-safe-looking wire-blinds in the parlour windows, blue and gold curtains in the drawing-room, and spring-roller blinds, as Mrs. Tibbs was wont, in the pride of her heart to boast, &quot;all the way up.&quot; The bell-lamp in the passage, looked as clear as a soap-bubble; you could see yourself in all the tables, and French polish yourself on any one of the chairs; the banisters were bees&#039;-waxed; and the very stair-wires made your eyes wink, they were so glittering. Mrs. Tibbs was somewhat short of stature, and Mr. Tibbs was by no means a large man; he had moreover very short legs, but, by way of indemnification, his face was peculiarly long; he was to his wife what the 0 is in 90—he was of some importance with her—he was nothing without her. Mrs. Tibbs was always talking. Mr. Tibbs rarely spoke; but if it were at any time possible to put in a word, when he should have said nothing at all, he did it. Mrs. Tibbs detested long stories, and Mr. Tibbs had one, the conclusion of which had never been heard by his most intimate friends. It always began, &quot;I recollect when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and six,&quot;—but, as he spoke very slowly and softly, and his better half very quickly and loudly, he rarely got beyond the introductory sentence. He was a melancholy specimen of the story-teller. He was the wandering Jew of Joe Millerism—ever pursuing and ever shunned. Mr. Tibbs enjoyed a small independence from the pension-list—about 43l. 15s. 10d. a-year. His father, mother, and five interesting scions from the same stock drew a like sum from the revenue of a grateful country, though for what particular service was never known. But as this said independence was not quite sufficient to furnish two people with all the luxuries of this life, it had occurred to the busy little spouse of Tibbs that the best thing she could do with a legacy of 700l., would be to take and furnish a tolerable house, somewhere in that partially-explored tract of country which lies between the British Museum, and a remote village called Somer&#039;s Town, for the reception of boarders. Great Coram-street was the spot pitched upon. The house had been furnished accordingly; two female servants and a boy engaged; and an advertisement inserted in the morning papers, informing the public that &quot;Six individuals would meet with all the comforts of a cheerful musical home, in a select private family, residing within ten minutes’ walk of everywhere.&quot; Answers out of number were received, with all sorts of initials; all the letters of the alphabet seemed to be seized with a sudden wish to go out boarding and lodging; voluminous was the correspondence between Mrs. Tibbs and the applicants, and most profound was the secrecy observed. &quot;E.&quot; didn’t like this, and &quot;I.&quot; couldn’t think of putting up with that; &quot;I. O. U.&quot; didn’t think the terms would suit him; and &quot;G. R.&quot; had never slept in a French bed. The result, however, was, that three gentlemen became inmates of Mrs. Tibbs’s house, on terms which were &quot;agreeable to all parties.&quot; In went the advertisement again, and a lady with her two daughters, proposed to increase—not their families, but Mrs. Tibbs’. &quot;Charming woman, that Mrs. Maplesone!&quot; said Mrs. Tibbs, as she and her spouse were sitting by the fire after breakfast; the gentlemen having gone out on their several avocations. &quot;Charming woman, indeed!&quot; repeated little Mrs. Tibbs, more by way of soliloquy than anything else, for she never thought of consulting her husband. &quot;And the two daughters are delightful. We must have some fish to-day; they’ll join us at dinner for the first time.&quot; Mr. Tibbs placed the poker at right angles with the fire-shovel, and essayed to speak, but recollected he had nothing to say. &quot;The young ladies,&#039; continued Mrs. T., &quot;have kindly volunteered to bring their own piano.&quot; Tibbs thought of the volunteer story, but did not venture it. A bright thought struck him - &quot;It’s very likely,&quot; said he. &quot;Pray don’t lean your head against the paper,&quot; interrupted Mrs. Tibbs — &quot;and don’t put your feet on the steel fender; that’s worse.&quot; Tibbs took his head from the paper, and his feet from the fender; and proceeded. &quot;It’s very likely one of the young ladies may set her cap at young Mr. Simpson, and you know a marriage&quot;—— &quot;A what!&quot; shrieked Mrs. Tibbs. Tibbs modestly repeated his former suggestion. &quot;I beg you won’t mention such a thing,&quot; said Mrs. T. &quot;A marriage, indeed! — to rob me of my boarders—no, not for the world.&quot; Tibbs thought in his own mind that the event was by no means unlikely, but as he never argued with his wife, he put a stop to the dialogue, by observing it was &quot;time to go to business.&quot; He always went out at ten o’clock in the morning, and returned at five in the afternoon, with an exceedingly dirty face, and smelling very mouldy. Nobody knew what he was, or where he went to; but Mrs. Tibbs used to say with an air of great importance, that he was engaged in the City. The Miss Maplesones and their accomplished parent arrived in the course of the afternoon in a hackney-coach, and accompanied by a most astonishing number of packages. Trunks, bonnet-boxes, muff-boxes, parasols, guitar-cases; and parcels of all imaginable shapes, done up in brown paper, and fastened with pins, filled the passage. Then there was such a running up and down with the luggage, such scampering for warm water for the ladies to wash in, and such a bustle, and confusion, and heating of servants, and curling-irons, as had never been known in Great Coram-street before. Little Mrs. Tibbs was quite in her element, bustling about, talking incessantly, and distributing towels and soap, and all the et ceteras, like a head nurse in a hospital. The house was not restored to its usual state of quiet repose until the ladies were safely shut up in their respective bed-rooms, engaged in the important occupation of dressing for dinner. &quot;Are these gals andsome?&quot; inquired Mr. Simpson of Mr. Septimus Hicks, another of the boarders, as they were amusing themselves in the drawing-room before dinner, by lolling on sofas, and contemplating their pumps. &quot;Don’t know,&quot; replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who was a tallish, white-faced young man, with spectacles, and a black ribbon round his neck instead of a neckerchief—a most interesting person; a poetical walker of the hospitals, and a &quot;very talented young man.&quot; He was fond of &quot;lugging&quot; into conversation all sorts of quotations from Don Juan, without fettering himself by the propriety of their application, in which particular he was remarkably independent. The other, Mr. Simpson, was one of those young men, who are in society what walking gentlemen are on the stage, only infinitely worse skilled in his vocation than the most indifferent artist. He was as empty-headed as the great bell of St. Paul’s, and had about as long a tongue. He always dressed according to the caricatures, published in Townsend&#039;s monthly fashions; and spelt Character with a K. &quot;I saw a devilish number of parcels in the passage when I came home,&quot; simpered Simpson. &quot;Materials for the toilet, no doubt,&quot; rejoined the Don Juan reader. &quot; — much linen, lace, and several pair Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete; With other articles of ladies&#039; fair, To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat.&quot; &quot;Is that from Milton?&quot; inquired Mr. Simpson. &quot;No—from Byron,&quot; returned Mr. Hicks, with a look of profound contempt. He was quite sure of his author, because he had never read any other. — &quot;Hush!&quot; said the sapient hospital walker,, &quot;Here come the gals,&quot; and they both commenced talking in a very loud key. &quot;Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones, Mr. Hicks. Mr. Hicks—Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones,&quot; said Mrs. Tibbs, with a very red face, for she had been superintending the cooking operations below stairs, and looked like a wax doll on a sunny day. Mr. Simpson, I beg your pardon—Mr. Simpson—Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesone&#039;s&quot;—and vice versa. The gentlemen immediately began to slide about with much politeness, and to look as if they wished their arms had been legs, so little did they know what to do with them. The ladies smiled, curtsied, and glided into chairs, and dived for dropped pockethandkerchiefs; the gentlemen leant against two of the curtain-pegs; Mrs. Tibbs went through an admirable bit of serious pantomime with a servant who had come up to ask some question about the fish sauce; and then the two young ladies looked at each other; and everybody else appeared to discover something very attractive in the pattern of the fender. &quot;Julia, my love,&quot; said Mrs. Maplesone to her youngest daughter, in a tone just loud enough for the remainder of the company to hear—&quot;Julia.&quot; &quot;Yes, Ma.&quot; &quot;Don’t stoop.&quot;—This was said for the purpose of directing general attention to Miss Julia’s figure, which was undeniable. Everybody looked at her, accordingly, and there was another pause. &quot;We had the most uncivil hackney-coachman to-day, you can imagine,&quot; said Mrs. Maplesone to Mrs. Tibbs, in a truly confidential tone. &quot;Dear me!&quot; replied the hostess, with an air of great commiseration. She couldn’t say more, for the servant again appeared at the door, and commenced telegraphing most earnestly to her &quot;Misses.&quot; &quot;I think hackney-coachmen generally are uncivil,&quot; said Mr. Hicks in his most insinuating tone. &quot;Positively I think they are,&quot; replied Mrs. Maplesone, as if the idea had never struck her before. &quot;And cabmen, too,&quot; said Mr. Simpson. This remark was a failure, for no one intimated by word or sign the slightest knowledge of the manners and customs of cabmen. &quot;Robinson, what do you want?&quot; said Mrs. Tibbs to the servant, who, by way of making her presence known to her mistress, had been giving sundry hems and sniffs outside the door, during the preceding five minutes. &quot;Please, ma’am, master wants his clean things,&quot; replied the servant, taken off her guard. There was no resisting this: the two young men turned their faces to the window, and &quot;went off&quot; like a couple of bottles of ginger-beer; the ladies put their cambrics to their mouths, and little Mrs. Tibbs bustled out of the room to give Tibbs his clean linen,—and the servant warning. Mr. Calton, the remaining boarder, shortly afterwards made his appearance, and proved a surprising promoter of the conversation. Mr. Calton was a superannuated beau—an old boy. He used to say of himself, that although his features were not regularly handsome, they were striking. They certainly were: it was impossible to look at his face without being reminded of a chubby street-door knocker, half-lion half-monkey; and the comparison might be extended to his whole character and conversation. He had stood still while everything else had been moving. He never originated a conversation, or started a new idea; but if any common-place topic were broached, or, to pursue the comparison, if anybody lifted him up, he would hammer away with surprising rapidity. He had the tic douloreux occasionally, and then he might be said to be muffled, because he did not make quite as much noise as at other times, when he would go on prosing, rat-tat-tat, the same thing over and over again. He had never been married; but he was still on the look-out for a wife with money. He had a life interest worth about 300l. a year—he was exceedingly vain, and inordinately selfish. He had acquired the reputation of being the very pink of politeness; and he walked round the park, and up Regent-street, every day. This respectable personage had made up his mind to render himself exceedingly agreeable to Mrs. Maplesone—indeed, the desire of being as amiable as possible extended itself to the whole party; Mrs. Tibbs having considered it an admirable little bit of management to represent to the gentlemen that she had some reason to believe the ladies were fortunes, and to hint to the ladies, that all the gentlemen were &quot;eligible.&quot; A little flirtation, she thought, might keep her house full, without leading to any other result. Mrs. Maplesone was an enterprising widow of about fifty; shrewd, scheming, and good-looking. She was amiably anxious on behalf of her daughters; in proof whereof she used to remark, that she would have no objection to marry again, if it would benefit her dear girls—she could have no other motive. The &quot;dear girls&quot; themselves were not at all insensible to the merits of &quot;a good establishment.&quot; One of them was twenty-five; the other three years younger. They had been at different watering-places for four seasons; they had gambled at libraries, read books in balconies, sold at fancy fairs, danced at assemblies, talked sentiment—in short, they had done all that industrious girls could do, and all to no purpose. &quot;What a magnificent dresser Mr. Simpson is!&quot; whispered Miss Matilda Maplesone to her sister Julia. &quot;Splendid!&quot; returned the youngest. The magnificent individual alluded to wore a maroon-coloured dress-coat, with a velvet collar and cuffs of the same tint—very like that which usually invests the form of the distinguished unknown who condescends to play the &quot;swell&quot; in the pantomime at &quot;Richardson’s Show.&quot; &quot;What whiskers!&quot; said Miss Julia. &quot;Charming!&quot; responded her sister; &quot;and what hair!&quot; His hair was like a wig, and distinguished by that insinuating wave which graces the shining locks of those chef-d’oeuvres of art surmounting the waxen images in Bartellot’s window in Regent-street; and his whiskers, meeting beneath his chin, seemed strings wherewith to tie it on, ere science had rendered them unnecessary by her patent invisible springs. &quot;Dinner’s on the table, ma’am, if you please,&quot; said the boy, who now appeared for the first time, in a revived black coat of his master’s. &quot;Oh! Mr. Calton, will you lead Mrs. Maplesone?—Thank you.&quot; Mr. Simpson offered his arm to Miss Julia; Mr. Septimus Hicks escorted the lovely Matilda; and the procession proceeded to the dining-room. Mr. Tibbs was introduced, and Mr. Tibbs bobbed up and down to the three ladies like a figure in a Dutch clock, with a powerful spring in the middle of his body, and then dived rapidly into his seat at the bottom of the table, delighted to screen himself behind a soup tureen, which he could just see over, and that was all. The boarders were seated, a lady and gentleman alternately, like the layers of bread and meat in a sandwich; and then Mrs. Tibbs directed James to take off the covers, and salmon, lobster-sauce, giblet-soup, and the usual accompaniments were discovered: potatoes like petrifactions, and bits of toasted bread, the shape and size of blank dice. &quot;Soup for Mrs. Maplesone, my dear,&quot; said the bustling Mrs. Tibbs. She always called her husband &quot;my dear&quot; before company. Tibbs, who had been eating his bread, and calculating how long it would be before he should get any fish, helped the soup in a hurry, made a small island on the table-cloth, and put his glass upon it, to hide it from his wife. &quot;Miss Julia, shall I assist you to some fish?&quot; &quot;If you please—very little—oh! plenty, thank you;&quot; (a bit about the size of a walnut put upon the plate). &quot;Julia is a very little eater,&quot; said Mrs. Maplesone to Mr. Calton. The knocker gave a single rap. He was busy eating the fish with his eyes: so he only ejaculated, &quot;Ah!&quot; &quot;My dear,&quot; said Mrs. Tibbs to her spouse after every one else had been helped, &quot;what do you take?&quot; The inquiry was accompanied with a look intimating that he mustn’t say fish, because there was not much left. Tibbs thought the frown referred to the island on the table-cloth; he therefore coolly replied, &quot;Why—I’ll take a little—fish, I think.&quot; &quot;Did you say fish, my dear?&quot; (another frown.) &quot;Yes, dear,&quot; replied the villain, with an expression of acute hunger depicted in his countenance. The tears almost started to Mrs. Tibbs’s eyes, as she helped her &quot;wretch of a husband,&quot; as she inwardly called him, to the last eatable bit of salmon on the dish. &quot;James, take this to your master, and take away your master’s knife.&quot; This was deliberate revenge, as Tibbs never could eat fish without one. He was, however, constrained to chase small particles of salmon round and round his plate with a piece of bread and a fork, occasionally securing a bit; the number of successful attempts being about one in seventeen. &quot;Take away, James,&quot; said Mrs. Tibbs, as Tibbs swallowed the fourth mouthful—and away went the plates like lightning. &quot;I’ll take a bit of bread, James,&quot; said the poor &quot;master of the house,&quot; more hungry than ever. &quot;Never mind your master now, James,&quot; said Mrs. Tibbs, &quot;see about the meat.&quot; — This was conveyed in the tone in which ladies usually give admonitions to servants in company, that is to say, a low one; but which, like a stage whisper, from its peculiar emphasis, is most distinctly heard by everybody present. A pause ensued before the table was replenished—a sort of parenthesis in which Mr. Simpson, Mr. Calton, and Mr. Hicks produced respectively a bottle of sauterne, bucellas, and sherry, and took wine with everybody—except Tibbs: no one ever thought of him. Between the fish and an intimated sirloin there was a prolonged interval. Here was an opportunity for Mr. Hicks. He could not resist the singularly appropriate quotation: - &quot;But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goats’ flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton, And when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on.&quot; &quot;Very ungentlemanly behaviour,&quot; thought little Mrs. Tibbs, &quot;to talk in that way.&quot; &quot;Ah,&quot; said Mr. Calton, filling his glass. &quot;Tom Moore is my poet.&quot; &quot;And mine,&quot; said Mrs. Maplesone. &quot;And mine,&quot; said Miss Julia. &quot;And mine,&quot; added Mr. Simpson. &quot;Look at his compositions,&quot; resumed the knocker. &quot;To be sure,&quot; said Simpson, with confidence. &quot;Look at Don Juan,&quot; replied Mr. Septimus Hicks. &quot;Julia’s letter,&quot; suggested Miss Matilda. &quot;Can anything be grander than The Fire Worshippers?&quot; inquired Miss Julia. &quot;To be sure,&quot; said Simpson. &quot;Or Paradise and the Peri,&quot; said the old beau. &quot;Yes; or Paradise and the Peer,&quot; repeated the deeply-read Simpson, who thought he was getting through it capitally. &quot;It’s all very well,&quot; replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who, as we have before hinted, never had read anything but Don Juan. Where will you find anything finer than the description of the siege, at the commencement of the seventh canto?&quot; &quot;Talking of a siege,&quot; said Tibbs, with a mouthful of bread—&quot;when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and six, our commanding officer was Sir Charles Rampart; and one day, when we were exercising on the ground on which the London University now stands, he says, says he, Tibbs (calling me from the ranks), Tibbs—&quot; &quot;Tell your master, James,&quot; interrupted Mrs. Tibbs, in an awfully distinct tone, &quot;tell your master if he won’t carve those fowls, to send them to me.&quot; The discomfited volunteer instantly set to work, and carved the fowls almost as expeditiously as his wife operated on the haunch of mutton. Whether he ever finished that story is not exactly known. As the ice was now broken, and the new inmates more at home, every member of the company felt more at ease. Tibbs himself most certainly did, because he went to sleep immediately after dinner. Mr. Hicks and the ladies discoursed most eloquently about poetry, and the theatres, and Lord Chesterfield’s Letters; and Mr. Calton followed up what everybody said, with continuous double knocks. Mrs. Tibbs highly approved of every observation that fell from Mrs. Maplesone; and as Mr. Simpson sat with a smile upon his face and said &quot;Yes,&quot; or &quot;Certainly,&quot; at intervals of about four minutes each, he received full credit for understanding what was going forward. The gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing-room very shortly after they had left the dining-parlour. Mrs. Maplesone and Mr. Calton played cribbage, and the &quot;young people&quot; amused themselves with music and conversation. The Miss Maplesones sang the most fascinating duets, and accompanied themselves on guitars, ornamented with bits of ethereal blue ribbon. Mr. Simpson put on a pink waistcoat, and said he was in raptures; and Mr. Hicks felt in the seventh heaven of poetry or the seventh canto of Don Juan,—it was the same thing to him. Mrs. Tibbs was quite charmed with the new comers, and Mr. Tibbs spent the evening in his usual way—he went to sleep, and woke up, and went to sleep again, and woke at supper-time. We are not about to adopt the licence of novel-writers, and to let &quot;years roll on;&quot; but we will take the liberty of requesting the reader to suppose that six months have elapsed, since the dinner we have described, and that Mrs. Tibbs’s boarders have, during that period, sang, and danced, and gone to theatres and exhibitions together, as ladies and gentlemen, wherever they board, often do; and we will beg them, the period we have mentioned having elapsed, to imagine further, that Mr. Septimus Hicks received, in his own bed-room (a front attic), at an early hour one morning, a note from Mr. Calton, requesting the favour of seeing him, as soon as convenient to himself, in his (Calton’s) dressing-room on the second-floor back. &quot;Tell Mr. Calton I’ll come down directly,&quot; said Mr. Septimus to the boy. &quot;Stop—Is Mr. Calton unwell?&quot; inquired this excited walker of hospitals, as he put on a bed-furniture-looking dressing-gown. &quot;Not as I knows on, Sir,&quot; replied the boy. &quot;Please, Sir, he looked rather rum, as it might be.&quot; &quot;Ah, that’s no proof of his being ill,&quot; returned Hicks, unconsciously. &quot;Very well: I’ll be down directly.&quot; Down stairs ran the boy with the message, and down went the excited Hicks himself, almost as soon as the message was delivered. &quot;Tap, tap.&quot; &quot;Come in.&quot;—Door opens, and discovers Mr. Calton sitting in an easy chair, and looking more like a knocker than ever. Mutual shakes of the hand exchanged, and Mr. Septimus Hicks motioned to a seat. A short pause. Mr. Hicks coughed, and Mr. Calton took a pinch of snuff. It was just one of those interviews where neither party knows what to say. Mr. Septimus Hicks broke silence. &quot;I received a note—&quot; he said, very tremulously, in a voice like a Punch with a cold. &quot;Yes,&quot; returned the other, &quot;you did.&quot; &quot;Exactly.&quot; &quot;Yes.&quot; Now, although this dialogue must have been satisfactory, both gentlemen felt there was something more important to be said; therefore they did as most men in such a situation would have done—they looked at the table with a most determined aspect. The conversation had been opened, however, and Mr. Calton had made up his mind to continue it with a regular double knock. He always spoke very pompously. &quot;Hicks,&quot; said he, &quot;I have sent for you in consequence of certain arrangements which are pending in this house, connected with a marriage.&quot; &quot;With a marriage!&quot; gasped Hicks, compared with whose expression of countenance, Hamlet’s, when he sees his father’s ghost, is pleasing and composed. &quot;With a marriage!&quot; returned the knocker. &quot;I have sent for you to prove the great confidence I can repose in you.&quot; &quot;And will you betray me?&quot; eagerly inquired Hicks, who in his alarm had even forgotten to quote. I betray you! Won’t you betray me?&quot; &quot;Never: no one shall know, to my dying day, that you had a hand in the business,&quot; responded the agitated Hicks, with an inflamed countenance, and his hair standing on end as if he were on the stool of an electrifying machine in full operation. &quot;People must know that, some time or other—within a year, I imagine,&quot; said Mr. Calton, with an air of great self-complacency. &quot;We may have a family.&quot; &quot;We!—That won’t affect you, surely?&quot; &quot;The devil it won’t!&quot; &quot;No! How can it?&quot; said the bewildered Hicks. Calton was too much inwrapped in the contemplation of his happiness to see the equivoque between Hicks and himself; and threw himself back in his chair, &quot;Oh, Matilda!&quot; sighed the antique beau, in a lack-a-daysical voice, and applying his right hand a little to the left of the fourth button of his waistcoat, counting from the bottom. This was meant to be pathetic - &quot;Oh, Matilda!&quot; &quot;What Matilda?&quot; inquired Hicks, starting up. &quot;Matilda Maplesone,&quot; responded the other, doing the same. &quot;I marry her to-morrow morning,&quot; said Hicks, furiously. &quot;It’s false,&quot; rejoined his companion: &quot;I marry her!&quot; &quot;You marry her?&quot; &quot;I marry her!&quot; &quot;You marry Matilda Maplesone?&quot; &quot;Matilda Maplesone.&quot; &quot;Miss Maplesone marry you?&quot; &quot;Miss Maplesone! No; Mrs. Maplesone.&quot; &quot;Good Heaven!&quot; said Hicks, falling into his chair like Ward in Gustavus: &quot;You marry the mother, and I the daughter!&quot; &quot;Most extraordinary circumstance!&quot; replied Mr. Calton, &quot;and rather inconvenient too; for the fact is, that owing to Matilda’s wishing to keep her intention secret from her daughters until the ceremony had taken place, she doesn’t like applying to any of her friends to give her away. I entertain an objection to making the affair known to my acquaintance just now; and the consequence is, that I sent to you to know whether you’d oblige me by acting as father.&quot; &quot;I should have been most happy, I assure you,&quot; said Hicks, in a tone of condolence; &quot;but, you see, I shall be acting as bridegroom. One character is frequently a consequence of the other; but it is no usual to act in both at the same time. There’s Simpson—I have no doubt he’ll do it for you.&quot; &quot;I don’t like to ask him,&quot; replied Calton, &quot;he’s such a donkey.&quot; Mr. Septimus Hicks looked up at the ceiling and down at the floor; at last an idea struck him — &quot;Let the man of the house, Tibbs, be the father,&quot; he suggested; and then he quoted, as peculiarly applicable to Tibbs and the pair - &quot;Oh Powers of Heaven! what dark eyes meeets she there? &#039;Tis—’tis her father’s—fixed upon the pair.&quot; &quot;The idea has struck me already,&quot; said Mr. Calton: &quot;but, you see, Matilda, for what reason I know not, is very anxious that Mrs. Tibbs should know nothing about it, till it’s all over. It’s a natural delicacy, after all, you know.&quot; &quot;He’s the best-natured little man in existence, if you manage him properly,&quot; said Mr. Septimus Hicks. &quot;Tell him not to mention it to his wife, and assure him she won’t mind it, and he’ll do it directly. My marriage is to be a secret one, on account of the mother and my father; therefore he must be enjoined to secrecy.&quot; A small double knock, like a presumptuous single one, was that instant heard at the street door. It was Tibbs; it could be no one else; for no one else occupied five minutes in rubbing their shoes. He had been out to pay the baker’s bill. &quot;Mr. Tibbs,&quot; called Mr. Calton in a very bland tone, looking over the banisters. &quot;Sir!&quot; replied he of the dirty face. &quot;Will you have the kindness to step up-stairs for a moment.&quot; &quot;Certainly, sir,&quot; said Tibbs, delighted to be taken notice of. The bed-room door was carefully closed, and Tibbs, having put his hat on the floor (as all timid men do), and been accommodated with a seat, looked as astounded as if he were suddenly summoned before the familiars of the Inquisition. &quot;A rather unpleasant occurrence, Mr. Tibbs,&quot; said Calton, in a very portentous manner, &quot;obliges me to consult you, and to beg you will not communicate what I am about to say to your wife.&quot; Tibbs acquiesced, wondering in his own mind what the deuce the other could have done, and imagining that at least he must have broken the best decanters. Mr. Calton resumed; &quot;I am placed, Mr. Tibbs, in rather an unpleasant situation.&quot; Tibbs looked at Mr. Septimus Hicks, as if he thought his being in the immediate vicinity of his fellow-boarder constituted the unpleasantness of his situation; but as he did not exactly know what to say, he merely ejaculated the monosyllable &quot;Lor!&quot; &quot;Now,&quot; continued the knocker, &quot;let me beg you will exhibit no manifestations of surprise, which may be overheard by the domestics, when I tell you—command your feelings of astonishment—that two inmates of this house intend to be married to-morrow morning,&quot; — and he drew back his chair several feet to perceive the effect of the unlooked-for announcement. If Tibbs had rushed from the room, staggered down stairs, and fainted in the passage—if he had instantaneously jumped out of the window into the mews behind the house, in an agony of surprise —his behaviour would have been much less inexplicable to Mr. Calton than it was, when he put his hands into his inexpressible-pockets, and said, with a half-chuckle, &quot;Just so.&quot; &quot;You are not surprised, Mr. Tibbs?&quot; inquired Mr. Calton. &quot;Bless you, no, sir,&quot; returned Tibbs; &quot;after all, it&#039;s very natural. When two young people get together, you know—&quot; &quot;Certainly, certainly,&quot; said Calton, with an indescribable air of self-satisfaction. &quot;You don’t think it’s at all an out-of-the-way affair then?&quot; asked Mr. Septimus Hicks, who had watched the countenance of Tibbs in mute astonishment. &quot;No, Sir,&quot; replied Tibbs; &quot;I was just the same at his age.&quot; He actually smiled when he said this. &quot;How devilish well I must carry my years!&quot; thought the delighted old beau, knowing he was at least ten years older than Tibbs at that moment. &quot;Well, then, to come to the point at once,&quot; he continued, &quot;I have to ask you whether you will object to act as father on the occasion?&quot; &quot;Certainly not,&quot; replied Tibbs; still without evincing an atom of surprise. ‘You will not?’ &quot;Decidedly not,&quot; reiterated Tibbs, still as calm as a pot of porter with the head off. Mr. Calton seized the hand of the petticoat-governed little man, and vowed eternal friendship from that hour. Hicks, who was all admiration and surprise, did the same. &quot;Now, confess,&quot; asked Mr. Calton of Tibbs, as he picked up his hat, &quot;were you not a little surprised?&quot; &quot;I b’lieve you!&quot; replied that illustrious person, holding up one hand; &quot;I b’lieve you! when I first heard of it.&quot; &quot;So sudden,&quot; said Septimus Hicks. &quot;So strange to ask me, you know,&quot; said Tibbs. &quot;So odd altogether,&quot; said the superannuated love-maker; and then all three laughed. &quot;I say,&quot; said Tibbs, shutting the door which he had previously opened, and giving full vent to a hitherto corked-up giggle, &quot;what bothers me is, what will his father say?&quot; Mr. Septimus Hicks looked at Mr. Calton. &quot;Yes; but the best of it is,&quot; said the latter, giggling in his turn, &quot;I haven’t got a father—he! he! he!&quot; &quot;You haven’t got a father. No; but he has,&quot; said Tibbs. &quot;Who has?&quot; inquired Septimus Hicks. &quot;Why, him.&quot; &quot;Him, who? Do you know my secret? Do you mean me?&quot; &quot;You! No; you know who I mean,&quot; returned Tibbs, with a knowing wink. &quot;For Heaven’s sake, whom do you mean?&quot; inquired Mr. Calton, who, like Septimus Hicks, was all but out of his senses at the strange confusion. &quot;Why Mr. Simpson, of course,&quot; replied Tibbs; &quot;who else could I mean?&quot; &quot;I see it all,&quot; said the Byron-quoter; &quot;Simpson marries Julia Maplesone to-morrow morning!&quot; &quot;Undoubtedly,&quot; replied Tibbs, thoroughly satisfied, &quot;of course he does.&quot; It would require the pencil of Hogarth to illustrate—our feeble pen is inadequate to describe—the expression which the countenances of Mr. Calton and Mr. Septimus Hicks respectively assumed at this unexpected announcement. Equally impossible is it to describe, although perhaps it is easier for our lady readers to imagine, what arts the three ladies could have used, so completely to entangle their separate partners. Whatever they were, however, they were successful. The mother was perfectly aware of the intended marriage of both daughters; and the young ladies were equally acquainted with the intention of their estimable parent. They agreed, however, that it would have a much better appearance if each feigned ignorance of the other’s engagement; and it was equally desirable that all the marriages should take place on the same day, to prevent the discovery of one clandestine alliance, operating prejudicially on the others. Hence the mystification of Mr. Calton and Mr. Septimus Hicks, and the pre-engagement of the unwary Tibbs. On the following morning, Mr. Septimus Hicks was united to Miss Matilda Maplesone. Mr. Simpson also entered into a &quot;holy alliance&quot; with Miss Julia, Tibbs acting as father, &quot;his first appearance in that character.&quot; Mr. Calton not being quite so eager as the two young men, was rather struck by the double discovery; and as he had found some difficulty in getting any one to give the lady away, it occurred to him that the best mode of obviating the inconvenience would be not to take her at all. The lady, however, &quot;appealed,&quot; as her counsel said on the trial of the cause, Maplesone v. Calton, for a breach of promise, &quot;with a broken heart, to the outraged laws of her country.&quot; She recovered damages to the amount of 1,000l. which the unfortunate knocker was compelled to pay, because he had declined to ring the belle. Mr. Septimus Hicks having walked the hospitals, took it into his head to walk off altogether. His injured wife is at present residing with her mother at Boulonge. Mr. Simpson, having the misfortune to lose his wife six weeks after marriage (by her eloping with an officer during his temporary sojourn in the Fleet Prison, in consequence of his inability to discharge her little mantua-maker’s bill), and being disinherited by his father, who died soon afterwards, was fortunate enough to obtain a permanent engagement at a fashionable hair-cutter’s; hair dressing being a science to which he had frequently directed his attention. In this situation he had necessarily many opportunities of making himself acquainted with the habits and style of thinking of the exclusive portion of the nobility of this kingdom. To this fortunate circumstance are we indebted for the production of those brilliant efforts of genius, his fashionable novels, which so long as good taste, unsullied exaggeration, cant, and maudlin quackery continues to exist, cannot fail to instruct and amuse the thinking portion of the community. It only remains to add, that this &quot;complication of disorders&quot; completely deprived poor Mrs. Tibbs of all her inmates, except the one whom it would have afforded her the greatest pleasure to lose —her husband. That wretched little man returned home on the day of the wedding in a state of partial intoxication; and, under the influence of wine, excitement, and despair, actually dared to brave the anger of his wife. Since that ill-fated hour he has constantly taken his meals in the kitchen, to which apartment it is understood his witticisms will be in future confined, a turn-up bedstead having been conveyed there by Mrs. Tibbs’s order for his exclusive accommodation. It is very likely that he will be enabled to finish there his story of the volunteers. The advertisement has again appeared in the morning papers. Whether it will be productive of any beneficial result, we of course are unable to foretell. If it should, we may, perhaps, at no distant period, return to Mrs. Tibbs and her &quot;Boarding-House.&quot;18340501https://dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/The_Boarding-House_[No._1]/1834-05-The_Boarding_House_No1.pdf
148https://dickenssearch.com/items/show/148'The Boarding-House' (No.2)Published in <em>The Monthly Magazine, or The British Register of Politics, Art, Science, and the Belles-Lettres,</em>&nbsp;August 1834, pp. 177-192.Dickens, Charles<em>The Monthly Magazine, or The British Register of Politics, Art, Science, and the Belles-Lettres.</em> August 1834, pp. 177-192, <em>Internet Archive</em>, <a href="https://archive.org/details/sim_monthly-magazine_1834_18_index/mode/2up">https://archive.org/details/sim_monthly-magazine_1834_18_index/mode/2up</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1834-08">1834-08</a><em>Internet Archive,</em> <a href="https://archive.org/about.terms.php">https://archive.org/about.terms.php</a>. Access to the Archive's Collections is granted for scholarship and research purposes only.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+story">Short story</a>1834-08-The_Boarding_House_No2Dickens, Charles. "The Boarding House" (No.2). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1834-08-The_Boarding_House_No2">https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1834-08-The_Boarding_House_No2</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Periodical">Periodical</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EThe+Monthly+Magazine%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>The Monthly Magazine</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=BOZ">BOZ</a>&quot;Well,&quot; said little Mrs. Tibbs to herself, as she sat in the front parlour of the Coram-street mansion one morning, mending a piece of stair-carpet off the first landing;—&quot;well! things have not turned out so badly either, and if I only get a favourable answer to the advertisement, we shall be full again.&quot; Mrs. Tibbs resumed her occupation of making worsted lattice-work in the carpet, anxiously listening to the twopenny postman, who was hammering his way down the street at the rate of a penny a knock. The house was as quiet as possible. There was only one low sound to be heard—it was the unhappy Tibbs cleaning the gentlemen’s boots in the back kitchen, and accompanying himself with a buzzing noise, in wretched mockery of humming a tune. The postman drew near the house. He paused—so did Mrs. Tibbs—a knock—a bustle—a letter—post-paid. &quot;T. I. presents compt. to I. T. and T. I. begs To say that i see the advertisement And she will Do Herself the pleasure of calling On you at 12 o’clock to-morrow morning. &quot;T. I. as To apoligise to I. T. for the shortness Of the notice But i hope it will not unconvenience you. &quot;I remain &quot;yours Truly &quot;Wednesday evening.&quot; Little Mrs. Tibbs perused the document over and over again; and the more she read it, the more was she confused by the mixture of the first and third person; the substitution of the &quot;I&quot; for the &quot;T. I,&quot; and the transition from the &quot;I. T.&quot; to the you.&quot; The writing looked like a skein of thread in a tangle, and the note was ingeniously folded into a perfect square, with the direction squeezed up into the right-hand corner, as if it were ashamed of itself. The back of the epistle was pleasingly ornamented with a large red wafer, which, with the addition of divers ink-stains, bore a marvellous resemblance to a black-beetle trodden upon. One thing, however, was perfectly clear to the perplexed Mrs. Tibbs. Somebody was to call at twelve. The drawing-room was forthwith dusted for the third time that morning; three or four chairs were pulled out of their places, and a corresponding number of books carefully upset, in order that there might be a due absence of formality. Down went the piece of stair-carpet before noticed, and up ran Mrs. Tibbs &quot;to make herself tidy.&quot; The clock of New Saint Pancras Church struck twelve, and the Foundling, with laudable politeness, did the same ten minutes afterwards. Saint something else struck the quarter, and then there arrived a single lady with a double knock, in a pelisse the colour of the interior of a damson pie; a bonnet of the same, with a regular conservatory of artificial flowers; a white veil, and a green parasol, with a cobweb border. The visitor (who was very fat and red-faced) was shown into the drawing-room; Mrs. Tibbs presented herself, and the negociation commenced. &quot;I called in consequence of an advertizement,&quot; said the stranger, in a voice like a man who had been playing a set of Pan’s pipes for a fortnight without leaving off. &quot;Yes!&quot; said Mrs. Tibbs, rubbing her hands very slowly, and looking the applicant full in the face—two things she always did on such occasions. &quot;Money isn’t no object whatever to me,&quot; said the lady, &quot;so much as living in a state of retirement and obtrusion.&quot; Mrs. Tibbs, as a matter of course, acquiesced in such an exceedingly natural desire. &quot;I am constantly attended by a medical man,&quot; resumed the pelisse wearer; &quot;have been a shocking unitarian for some time—have had very little peace since the death of Mr. Bloss.&quot; Mrs. Tibbs looked at the relict of the departed Bloss, and thought he must have had very little peace in his time. Of course she could not say so; so she looked very sympathising. &quot;I shall be a good deal of trouble to you,&quot; said Mrs. Bloss; &quot;but, for that trouble I am willing to pay. I am going through a course of treatment which renders attention necessary. I have one mutton chop in bed at half-past eight, and another at ten, every morning.&quot; Mrs. Tibbs, as in duty bound, expressed the pity she felt for any body placed in such a distressing situation; and the carnivorous Mrs. Bloss proceeded to arrange the various preliminaries with wonderful despatch. &quot;Now mind,&quot; said that lady, after terms were arranged; &quot;I am to have the second-floor front for my bedroom?&quot; &quot;Yes, ma’am.&quot; &quot;And you’ll find room for my little servant Agnes?&quot; &quot;Oh! certainly.&quot; &quot;And I can have one of the cellars in the area for my bottled porter.&quot; &quot;With the greatest pleasure;—James shall get it ready for you by Saturday.&quot; &quot;And I’ll join the company at the breakfast-table on Sunday morning,&quot; said Mrs. Bloss. &quot;I shall get up on purpose.&quot; &quot;Very well,&quot; returned Mrs. Tibbs, in her most amiable tone; for satisfactory references had &quot;been given and required,&quot; and it was quite certain that the new comer had plenty of money. &quot;It’s rather singular,&quot; continued Mrs. Tibbs, with what was meant for a most bewitching smile, &quot;that we have a gentleman now with us, who is in a very delicate state of health—a Mr. Gobler.—His apartment is the back drawing-room.&quot; &quot;The next room?&quot; inquired Mrs. Bloss. &quot;The next room,&quot; repeated the hostess. &quot;How very promiscuous!&quot; ejaculated the widow. &quot;He hardly ever gets up,&quot; said Mrs. Tibbs in a whisper. &quot;Lor!&quot; cried Mrs. Bloss, in an equally low tone. &quot;And when he is up,&quot; said Mrs. Tibbs, &quot;we never can persuade him to go to bed again.&quot; &quot;Dear me!&quot; said the astonished Mrs. Bloss, drawing her chair nearer Mrs. Tibbs. &quot;What is his complaint?&quot; &quot;Why, the fact is,&quot; replied Mrs. Tibbs, with a most communicative air, &quot;he has no stomach whatever.&quot; &quot;No what?&quot; inquired Mrs. Bloss, with a look of the most indescribable alarm. &quot;No stomach,&quot; repeated Mrs. Tibbs, with a shake of the head. &quot;Lord bless us! what an extraordinary case!&quot; gasped Mrs. Bloss, as if she understood the communication in its literal sense, and was astonished at a gentleman without a stomach finding it necessary to board anywhere. &quot;When I say he has no stomach,&quot; explained the chatty little Mrs. Tibbs, &quot;I mean that his digestion is so much impaired, and his interior so deranged, that his stomach is not of the least use to him;—in fact, it’s rather an inconvenience than otherwise.&quot; &quot;Never heard such a case in my life!&quot; exclaimed Mrs. Bloss. &quot;Why, he’s worse than I am.&quot; &quot;Oh, yes!&quot; replied Mrs. Tibbs;—&quot;certainly.&quot; She said this with great confidence, for the set of the damson pelisse satisfactorily proved that Mrs. Bloss, at all events, was not suffering under Mr. Gobler’s complaint. &quot;You have quite incited my curiosity,&quot; said Mrs. Bloss, as she rose to depart. &quot;How I long to see him!&quot; &quot;He generally comes down once a week,&quot; replied Mrs. Tibbs; &quot;I dare say you’ll see him on Sunday.&quot; And with this consolatory promise Mrs. Bloss was obliged to be contented. She accordingly walked slowly down the stairs, detailing her complaints all the way; and Mrs. Tibbs followed her, uttering an exclamation of compassion at every step. James (who looked very gritty, for he was cleaning the knives) fell up the kitchen-stairs, and opened the street-door; and, after mutual farewells, Mrs. Bloss slowly departed down the shady side of the street. It is almost superfluous to say, that the lady whom we have just shown out at the street-door (and whom the two female servants are now inspecting from the second-floor windows) was exceedingly vulgar, ignorant, and selfish. Her deceased better-half had been an eminent cork-cutter, in which capacity he had amassed a decent fortune. He had no relative but his nephew, and no friend but his cook. The former had the insolence one morning to ask for the loan of fifteen pounds, and by way of retaliation he married the latter next day; he made a will immediately afterwards, containing a burst of honest indignation against his nephew (who supported himself and two sisters on 100l a year), and a bequest of his whole property to his wife. He felt ill after breakfast, and died after dinner. There is a mantelpiece-looking tablet in a civic parish church, setting forth his virtues, and deploring his loss. He never dishonoured a bill, or gave away a halfpenny! The relict and sole executrix of this noble-minded man was an odd mixture of shrewdness and simplicity, liberality and meanness. Bred up as she had been, she knew no mode of living so agreeable as a boarding-house; and having nothing to do, and nothing to wish for, she naturally imagined she must be very ill—an impression which was most assiduously promoted by her medical attendant, Dr. Wosky, and her handmaid, Agnes, both of whom, doubtless for excellent reasons, encouraged all her extravagant notions. Since the catastrophe recorded in our last, Mrs. Tibbs had been very shy of young lady boarders. Her present inmates were all lords of the creation, and she availed herself of the opportunity of their assemblage at the dinner table, to announce the expected arrival of Mrs. Bloss. The gentlemen received the communication with stoical indifference, and Mrs. Tibbs devoted all her energies to prepare for the reception of the valetudinarian. The second-floor front was scrubbed, and washed, and flannelled, till the wet went through to the drawing-room ceiling. Clean white counterpanes, and curtains, and napkins; water-bottles as clear as crystal, blue jugs, and mahogany furniture, added to the splendour and increased the comfort of the apartment. The warming-pan was in constant requisition, and a fire lighted in the room every day. The chattels of Mrs. Bloss were forwarded by instalments. First there came a large hamper of Guinness’s stout and an umbrella; then a train of trunks; then a pair of clogs and a bandbox; then an easy chair with an air cushion; then a variety of suspicious-looking packages; and—&quot;though last not least&quot;—Mrs. Bloss and Agnes, the latter in a cherry-coloured merino dress, open-work stockings, and shoes with sandals; looking like a disguised Columbine. The installation of the Duke of Wellington, as Chancellor of the University of Oxford, was nothing in point of bustle and turmoil to the installation of Mrs. Bloss in her new quarters. True, there was no bright doctor of civil law to deliver a classical address on the occasion; but there were several other old women present, who spoke quite as much to the purpose, and understood themselves equally well. The chop-eater was so fatigued with the process of removal that she declined leaving her room until the following morning; so a mutton-chop, pickle, a two-grain calomel pill, a pint-bottle of stout, and other medicines, were carried up stairs for her consumption. &quot;Why, what do you think, ma’am?&quot; inquired the inquisitive Agnes of her mistress, after they had been in the house some three hours; &quot;what do you think, ma’am? the lady of the house is married.&quot; &quot;Married!&quot; said Mrs. Bloss, taking the pill and a draught of Guinness—&quot;married! Unpossible!&quot; &quot;She is indeed, ma’am,&quot; returned the Columbine; &quot;and her husband, ma’am, lives—he—he—he—lives in the kitchen, ma’am.&quot; &quot;In the kitchen!&quot; &quot;Yes, ma’am: and he—he—he—the housemaid says, he never goes into the parlour except on Sundays; and that Ms. Tibbs makes him clean the gentlemen’s boots; and that he cleans the windows, too, sometimes; and that one morning early, when he was in the front balcony cleaning the drawing-room windows, he called out to a gentleman on the opposite side of the way, who used to live here—&#039;Ah! Mr. Calton, Sir, how are you?&#039;&quot; Here the attendant laughed till Mrs. Bloss was in serious apprehension of her chuckling herself into a fit. &quot;Well, I never!&quot; said Mrs. Bloss. &quot;Yes, and please, ma’am, the servants give him gin-and-water sometimes; and then he cries, and says he hates his wife and the boarders, and wants to tickle them.&quot; &quot;Tickle the boarders!&quot; exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, seriously alarmed. &quot;No, ma’am, not the boarders, the servants.&quot; &quot;Oh, is that all!&quot; said Mrs. Bloss, quite satisfied. &quot;He wanted to kiss me as I came up the kitchen-stairs, just now,&quot; said Agnes, indignantly; &quot;but I gave it him—a little wretch!&quot; This intelligence was but too true. A long course of snubbing and neglect; his days spent in the kitchen, and his nights in the turn-up bedstead; had completely broken the little spirit that the unfortunate volunteer had ever possessed. He had no one to whom he could detail his injuries but the servants, and they were almost of necessity his chosen confidants. It is no less strange than true, however, that the little weaknesses which he had incurred, most probably, during his military career, seemed to increase as his comforts diminished. He was actually a sort of journeyman Giovanni in the basement story. The next morning, being Sunday, breakfast was laid in the front parlour at ten o’clock. Nine was the usual time, but the family always breakfasted an hour later on Sabbath. Tibbs enrobed himself in his Sunday costume—a black coat, and exceedingly short thin trowsers, with a very large white waistcoat, white stockings and cravat, and Blucher boots—and mounted to the parlour aforesaid. Nobody had come down, and he amused himself by drinking the contents of the milk-pot with a tea-spoon. A pair of slippers were heard descending the stairs; Tibbs flew to a chair, and a stern-looking man of about fifty, with very little hair on his head, and &quot;The Examiner&quot; in his hand, entered the room. &quot;Good morning, Mr. Evenson,&quot; said Tibbs, very humbly, with something between a nod and a bow. &quot;How do you do, Mr. Tibbs?&quot; replied he of the slippers, as he sat himself down, and began to read his paper without saying another word. &quot;Is Mr. Wisbottle in town to-day do you know, Sir?&quot; inquired Tibbs, just for the sake of saying something. &quot;I should think he was,&quot; replied the stern gentleman. &quot;He was whistling &#039;The Light Guitar,&#039; in the next room to mine, at five o’clock this morning.&quot; &quot;He’s very fond of whistling,&quot; said Tibbs, with a slight smirk. &quot;Yes—I an’t,&quot; was the laconic reply. Mr. John Evenson was in the receipt of an independent income, arising chiefly from various houses he owned in the different suburbs. He was very morose and discontented. He was a thorough radical, and used to attend a great variety of public meetings for the express purpose of finding fault with everything that was proposed. Mr. Wisbottle, on the other hand, was a high Tory. He was a clerk in the Woods and Forests office, which he considered rather an aristocratic employment; he knew the peerage by heart, and could tell you off-hand where any illustrious personage lived. He had a good set of teeth, and a capital tailor. Mr. Evenson looked on all these qualifications with profound contempt; and the consequence was that the two were always disputing, much to the edification of the rest of the house. It should be added, that, in addition to his partiality for whistling, Mr. Wisbottle had a great idea of his singing powers. There were two other boarders, besides the gentleman in the back drawing-room—Mr. Alfred Tomkins, and Mr. Frederick O’Bleary. Mr. Tomkins was a clerk in a wine-house; he was a connoisseur in paintings, and had a wonderful eye for the picturesque. Mr. O’Bleary was an Irishman, recently imported; he was in a perfectly wild state, and had come over to England to be an apothecary, a clerk in a government office, an actor, a reporter, or anything else that turned up—he was not particular. He was on familiar terms with two small Irish members, and got franks for everybody in the house. Like all Irishmen when they first come to England, he felt convinced that his intrinsic merits must procure him a high destiny. He wore shepherds&#039;-plaid inexpressibles, and used to look under all the ladies’ bonnets as he walked along the streets. His manners and appearance always forcibly reminded one of Orson. &quot;Here comes Mr. Wisbottle,&quot; said Tibbs; and Mr. Wisbottle forthwith appeared in blue slippers, and a shawl dressing-gown, whistling &quot;Di piacer.&quot; &quot;Good morning, Sir,&quot; said Tibbs again. It was about the only thing he ever said to any body. &quot;How are you, Tibbs?&quot; condescendingly replied the amateur; and he walked to the window, and whistled louder than ever. &quot;Pretty air, that!&quot; said Evenson with a snarl, and without taking his eyes off the paper. &quot;Glad you like it,&quot; replied Wisbottle, highly gratified. &quot;Don’t you think it would sound better, if you whistled it a little louder?&quot; inquired the mastiff. &quot;No; I don’t think it would,&quot; rejoined the unconscious Wisbottle. &quot;I’ll tell you what, Wisbottle,&quot; said Evenson, who had been bottling up his anger for some hours,&quot;the next time you feel disposed to whistle &#039;The Light Guitar,&#039; at five o’clock in the morning, I’ll trouble you to whistle it with your head out o’ window. If you don’t, I’ll learn the triangle—I will, by—.&quot; The entrance of Mrs. Tibbs (with the keys in a little basket) interrupted the threat, and prevented its conclusion. Mrs. Tibbs apologized for being down rather late; the bell was rung; James brought up the urn, and received an unlimited order for dry toast and bacon. Tibbs sat down at the bottom of the table and began eating water-cresses like a Nebuchadnezzar. Mr. O’Bleary appeared and Mr. Alfred Tomkins. The compliments of the morning were exchanged, and the tea was made. &quot;God bless me,&quot; exclaimed Tomkins, who had been looking out at window. &quot;Here—Wisbottle—pray come here; make haste.&quot; Mr. Wisbottle started from table, and every one looked up. &quot;Do you see,&quot; said the connoisseur, placing Wisbottle in the right position—&quot;a little more this way: there—do you see how splendidly the light falls upon the left side of that broken chimney-pot at No. 48?&quot; &quot;Dear me—I see,&quot; replied Wisbottle, in a tone of admiration. &quot;I never saw an object stand out so beautifully against the clear sky in my life,&quot; ejaculated Alfred. Every body (except John Evenson) echoed the sentiment, for Mr. Tomkins had a great character for finding out beauties which no one else could discover—he certainly deserved it. &quot;I have frequently observed a chimney-pot in College-green, Dublin, which has a much better effect,&quot; said the patriotic O’Bleary, who never allowed Ireland to be outdone on any point. The assertion was received with obvious incredulity, for Mr. Tomkins declared that no other chimney-pot in the United Kingdom, broken or unbroken, could be so beautiful as the one at No. 48. The room door was suddenly thrown open, and Agnes appeared leading in Mrs. Bloss, who was dressed in a geranium-coloured muslin gown, and displayed a gold watch of the dimensions of a breakfast-cup; a chain like a gilt street-door chain, and a splendid assortment of rings, with stones about the size of half-crowns. A general rush was made for a chair, and a regular introduction took place. Mr. John Evenson made a slight inclination of the head: Mr. Frederick O’Bleary, Mr. Alfred Tomkins, and Mr. Wisbottle bowed like the mandarins in a grocer’s shop; and Tibbs rubbed his hands, and went round in circles. He was observed to close one eye, and to assume a clock-work sort of expression with the other; this has been considered as a wink, and it has been reported that Agnes was its object. We repel the calumny, and challenge contradiction. Mrs. Tibbs inquired after Mrs. Bloss’s health in a low tone. Mrs. Bloss, with a supreme contempt for the memory of Lindley Murray, answered the various questions in a most satisfactory manner; and a pause ensued, during which the eatables disappeared with awful rapidity. &quot;You must have been very much pleased with the appearance of the ladies going to the drawing-room the other day, Mr. O’Bleary?&quot; said Mrs. Tibbs, hoping to start a topic. &quot;Yes;&quot; replied Orson, with a mouthful of toast. &quot;Never saw any thing like it before, I suppose?&quot; suggested Wisbottle. &quot;No—except the Lord Lieutenant’s levees,&quot; replied O’Bleary. &quot;Are they at all equal to our drawing-rooms?&quot; &quot;Oh, infinitely superior.&quot; &quot;Gad I don’t know,&quot; said the aristocratic Wisbottle, &quot;the Dowager Marchioness of Publiccash was most magnificently dressed, and so was the Baron Slappenbachenhausen.&quot; &quot;What was he presented on?&quot; inquired Evenson. &quot;On his arrival in England.&quot; &quot;I thought so,&quot; growled the radical; &quot;you never hear of these fellows being presented on their going away again. They know better than that.&quot; &quot;Unless somebody pervades them with an apintment,&quot; said Mrs. Bloss, joining in the conversation in a faint voice. &quot;Well,&quot; said Wisbottle, evading the point, &quot;it’s a splendid sight.&quot; &quot;And did it never occur to you,&quot; inquired the radical, who never would be quiet, —&quot;did it never occur to you, that you pay for these precious ornaments of society.&quot; &quot;It certainly has occurred to me,&quot; said Wisbottle, who thought this answer was a poser;&quot; it has occurred to me, and I am willing to pay for them.&quot; &quot;Well, and it has occurred to me too,&quot; replied John Evenson, &quot;and I an’t willing to pay for ’em. Then why should I?—I say, why should I?&quot; continued the politician, laying down the paper, and knocking his knuckles on the table. &quot;There are two great principles—demand—&quot; &quot;A cup of tea if you please, dear,&quot; interrupted Tibbs. &quot;And supply—&quot; &quot;May I trouble you to hand this tea to Mr. Tibbs?&quot; said Mrs. Tibbs, interrupting the argument, and unconsciously illustrating it. The thread of the orator’s discourse was broken. He drank his tea and resumed the paper. &quot;If it’s very fine,&quot; said Mr. Alfred Tomkins, addressing the company in general, &quot;I shall ride down to Richmond to-day, and come back by the steamer. There are some splendid effects of light and shade on the Thames; the contrast between the blueness of the sky and the yellow water is frequently exceedingly beautiful.&quot; Mr. Wisbottle hummed, &quot;Flow on, thy shining river.&quot; &quot;We have some splendid steam-vessels in Ireland,&quot; said O’Bleary. &quot;Certainly,&quot; said Mrs. Bloss, delighted to find a subject broached in which she could take part. &quot;The accommodations are extraordinary,&quot; said O’Bleary. &quot;Extraordinary indeed,&quot; returned Mrs. Bloss. &quot;When Mr. Bloss was alive, he was promiscuously obligated to go to Ireland on business. I went with him, and raly the manner in which the ladies and gentlemen were accommodated with births, is not creditable.&quot; Tibbs, who had been listening to the dialogue, looked very aghast, and evinced a strong inclination to ask a question, but was checked by a look from his wife. Mr. Wisbottle laughed, and said Tomkins had made a pun; and Tomkins laughed too, and said he hadn&#039;t. The remainder of the meal passed off as breakfasts usually do. Conversation flagged, and people played with their tea-spoons. The gentlemen looked out at the window; walked about the room, and when they got near the door, dropped off one by one. Tibbs retired to the back parlour by his wife’s orders, to check the green-grocer’s weekly account; and ultimately Mrs. Tibbs and Mrs. Bloss were left alone together. &quot;Oh dear,&quot; said the latter, &quot;I feel alarmingly faint; it’s very singular.&quot; (It certainly was, for she had eaten four pounds of solids that morning.) &quot;By-the-bye,&quot; said Mrs. Bloss, &quot;I have not seen Mr. what’s-his-name yet.&quot; &quot;Mr. Gobler?&quot; suggested Mrs. Tibbs. &quot;Yes.&quot; &quot;Oh!&quot; said Mrs. Tibbs, &quot;he is a most mysterious person. He has his meals regularly sent up stairs, and sometimes don’t leave his room for weeks together.&quot; &quot;I haven’t seen or heard nothing of him,&quot; repeated Mrs. Bloss. &quot;I dare say you’ll hear him to-night,&quot; replied Mrs. Tibbs; &quot;he generally groans a good deal on Sunday evenings.&quot; &quot;I never felt such an interest in any one in my life,&quot; ejaculated Mrs. Bloss. A finicking double-knock interrupted the conversation; Doctor Wosky was announced, and duly shown in. He was a little man with a red face, dressed of course in black, with a stiff white neckerchief. He had a very good practice, and plenty of money, which he had amassed by invariably humouring the worst fancies of all the females of all the families he had ever been introduced into. Mrs. Tibbs offered to retire, but was entreated to stay. &quot;Well, my dear ma’am, and how are we?&quot; inquired Wosky in a soothing tone. &quot;Very ill, doctor—very ill,&quot; said Mrs. Bloss, in a whisper. &quot;Ah! we must take care of ourselves;—we must, indeed,&quot; said the obsequious Wosky, as he felt the pulse of his interesting patient. &quot;How is our appetite?&quot; Mrs. Bloss shook her head. &quot;Our friend requires great care,&quot; said Wosky, appealing to Mrs. Tibbs, who of course assented. &quot;I hope, however, with the blessing of Providence, that we shall be enabled to make her quite stout again.&quot; Mrs. Tibbs wondered in her own mind what the patient would be when she had got quite stout; for she looked like a pincushion on eastors already. &quot;We must take stimulants,&quot; said the cunning Wosky—&quot;plenty of nourishment, and, above all, we must keep our nerves quiet; we positively must not give way to our sensibilities. We must take all we can get,&quot; concluded the Doctor as he pocketed his fee, &quot;and we must keep quiet.&quot; &quot;Dear man!&quot; exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, as the Doctor stepped into the carriage. &quot;Charming creature indeed—quite a lady’s man!&quot; said Mrs. Tibbs; and Dr. Wosky rattled away to make fresh gulls of delicate females, and pocket fresh fees. As we had occasion in a former paper to describe a dinner at Mrs. Tibbs’s, and as one meal went off very like another on all ordinary occasions, we will not fatigue our readers by entering into any other detailed account of the domestic economy of the establishment. We will, therefore, proceed to events, merely premising that the mysterious tenant of the back drawing-room was a lazy, selfish hypochondriac; always complaining and never ill. As his character in many respects closely assimilated to that of Mrs. Bloss, a very warm friendship soon sprung up between them. He was tall, thin, and pale; he always fancied he had got a severe pain somewhere or other, and his face invariably wore a pinched, screwed-up expression; he looked like a man who had got his feet in a tub of exceedingly hot water against his will. For two or three months after Mrs. Bloss’s first appearance in Coram-street, John Evenson was observed to become every day more sarcastic and more ill-natured, and there was a degree of additional importance in his manner, which clearly showed that he fancied he had discovered something, which he only wanted a proper opportunity of divulging. He found it at last. One evening, the different inmates of the house were assembled in the drawing-room engaged in their ordinary occupations. Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss were sitting at a small card-table near the centre window, playing cribbage; Mr. Wisbottle was describing semi-circles on the music-stool, turning over the leaves of a book on the piano, and humming most melodiously; Alfred Tomkins was sitting at the round table, with his elbows duly squared, making a pencil sketch of a head considerably larger than his own; O’Bleary was reading Horace, and trying to look as if he understood it; and John Evenson had drawn his chair close to Mrs. Tibbs’s work-table, and was talking to her very earnestly in a low tone. &quot;I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs,&quot; said the radical, laying his forefinger on the muslin she was at work on; &quot;I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs, that nothing but the interest I take in your welfare would induce me to make this communication. I repeat that I fear Wisbottle is endeavouring to gain the affections of that young woman Agnes, and that he is in the habit of meeting her in the store-room on the first floor, over the leads. From my bed-room I distinctly heard voices there last night. I opened my door immediately, and crept very softly on to the landing; there I saw Mr. Tibbs, who, it seems, had been disturbed also.—Bless me, Mrs. Tibbs, you change colour.&quot; &quot;No, no—it’s nothing,&quot; returned Mrs. T. in a hurried manner; &quot;it’s only the heat of the room.&quot; &quot;A flush!&quot; ejaculated Mrs. Bloss from the card-table; &quot;that’s good for four.&quot; &quot;If I thought it was Mr. Wisbottle,&quot; said Mrs. Tibbs, after a pause, &quot;he should leave this house instantly.&quot; &quot;Go!&quot; said Mrs. Bloss again. &quot;And if I thought,&quot; continued the hostess with a most threatening air, &quot;if I thought he was assisted by Mr. Tibbs—&quot; &quot;One for his nob!&quot; said Gobler. &quot;Oh,&quot; said Evenson, in a most soothing tone;—he liked to make mischief—&quot;I should hope Mr. Tibbs was not in any way implicated. He always appeared to me very harmless.&quot; &quot;I have generally found him so,&quot; sobbed poor little Mrs. Tibbs; crying like a watering-pot in full play. &quot;Hush! hush! pray—Mrs. Tibbs,—consider;—we shall be observed—pray, don’t!&quot; said John Evenson, fearing his whole plan would be interrupted. &quot;We will set the matter at rest with the utmost care, and I shall be most happy to assist you in doing so.&quot; Mrs. Tibbs murmured her thanks. &quot;When you think every one has retired to rest to-night,&quot; said Evenson very pompously, &quot;if you’ll meet me without a light, just outside my bed-room door, by the staircase window, I think we can ascertain who the parties really are, and you will afterwards be enabled to proceed as you think proper.&quot; Mrs. Tibbs was easily persuaded; her curiosity was excited, her jealousy was roused, and the arrangement was forthwith made. She resumed her work, and John Evenson walked up and down the room with his hands in his pockets, looking as if nothing had happened. The game of cribbage was over, and conversation began again. &quot;Well, Mr. O’Bleary,&quot; said the humming-top, turning round on his pivot, and facing the company, &quot;what did you think of Vauxhall the other night?&quot; &quot;Oh, it’s very fair,&quot; replied Orson, who had been euthusiastically lelighted with the whole exhibition. &quot;Never saw anything like that Captain Ross’s set-out—eh?&quot; &quot;No,&quot; returned the patriot with his usual reservation—&quot;except in Dublin.&quot; &quot;I saw the Count de Canky and Captain Fitzthompson in the Gardens,&quot; said Wisbottle; &quot;they appeared much delighted.&quot; &quot;Then it must be beautiful!&quot; snarled Evenson. &quot;I think the white bears is partickerlerly well done, suggested Mrs. Bloss. &quot;In their shaggy white coats they look just like Polar bears—don’t you think they do, Mr. Evenson?&quot; &quot;I think they look a great deal more like omnibus cads on all fours,&quot; replied the discontented one. &quot;Upon the whole, I should have liked our evening very well,&quot; gasped Gobler; &quot;only I caught a desperate cold which increased my pain dreadfully; I was obliged to have several shower baths, before I could leave my room.&quot; &quot;Capital things those shower-baths!&quot; ejaculated Wisbottle. &quot;Excellent!&quot; said Tomkins. &quot;Delightful!&quot; chimed in O’Bleary. (He had once seen one, outside a tinman’s.) &quot;Disgusting machines!&quot; rejoined Evenson, who extended his dislike to almost every created object, masculine, feminine, or neuter. &quot;Disgusting, Mr. Evenson!&quot; said Gobler, in a tone of strong indignation.—&quot;Disgusting! Look at their utility—consider how many lives they&#039;ve saved by promoting perspiration.&quot; &quot;Promoting perspiration, indeed,&quot; growled John Evenson, stopping short in his walk across the large squares in the pattern of the carpet—&quot;I was ass enough to be persuaded some time ago to have one in my bedroom. &#039;Gad, I was in it once, and it effectually cured me, for the mere sight of it threw me into a profuse perspiration for six months afterwards.&quot; A titter followed this announcement, and before it had subsided, James brought up &quot;the tray,&quot; containing the remains of a leg of lamb which had made its début at dinner; bread, cheese; an atom of butter in a forest of parsley, one pickled walnut and the third of another, and so forth. The boy disappeared, and returned again with another tray, containing glasses and jugs of hot and cold water. The gentlemen brought in their spirit-bottles; the housemaid placed divers plated bedroom candlesticks under the card-table, and the servants retired for the night. Chairs were drawn round the table, and the conversation proceeded in the customary manner. John Evenson, who never eat supper, lolled on the sofa, and amused himself by contradicting everybody. O’Bleary eat as much as he could conveniently carry, and Mrs. Tibbs felt a due degree of indignation thereat; Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss conversed most affectionately on the subject of pill-taking and other innocent amusements; and Tomkins and Wisbottle &quot;got into an argument;&quot; that is to say, they both talked very loudly and vehemently, each flattering himself that he had got some advantage about something, and neither of them having more than a very indistinct idea of what they were talking about. An hour or two passed away; and the boarders and the plated candlesticks retired in pairs to their respective bed-rooms. John Evenson pulled off his boots, locked his door, and determined to sit up until Mr. Gobler had retired. He always sat in the drawing-room an hour after everybody else had left it, taking medicine, and groaning. Great Coram-street was hushed into a state of profound repose: it was nearly two o’clock. A hackney-coach now and then rumbled slowly by; and occasionally some stray lawyer’s clerk on his way home to Somers Town struck his iron heel on the top of the coal-cellar with a noise resembling the click of a smoke-Jack. A low, monotonous, gushing sound was heard, which added considerably to the romantic dreariness of the scene. It was the water &quot;coming in&quot; at No.11. &quot;He must be asleep by this time,&quot; said John Evenson to himself, after waiting with exemplary patience for nearly an hour after Mr. Gobler had left the drawing-room. He listened for a few moments; the house was perfectly quiet; he extinguished his rushlight, and opened his bed-room door. The staircase was so dark that it was impossible to see anything. &quot;S-s-fit!&quot; whispered the mischief-maker, making a noise like the first indication a catherine-wheel gives of the probability of its going off. &quot;Hush!&quot; whispered somebody else. &quot;Is that you, Mrs. Tibbs?&quot; &quot;Yes, Sir.&quot; &quot;Where?&quot; &quot;Here;&quot; and the misty outline of Mrs. Tibbs appeared at the staircase-window, like the ghost of Queen Anne in the tent-scene in Richard. &quot;This way, Mrs. Tibbs;&quot; whispered the delighted busybody: &quot;give me your hand—there. Whoever these people are, they are in the store-room now, for I have been looking down from my window, and I could see that they accidentally upset their candlestick, and are now in darkness. You have no shoes on, have you?&quot; &quot;No,&quot; said little Mrs. Tibbs, who could hardly speak for trembling. &quot;Well; I have taken my boots off, so we can go down, close to the store-room door, and listen over the banisters,&quot; continued Evenson; and down stairs they both crept accordingly, every board creaking like a patent mangle on a Saturday afternoon. &quot;It’s Wisbottle and somebody I’ll swear,&quot; exclaimed the radical in an energetic whisper, when they had listened for a few moments. &quot;Hush—pray let’s hear what they say,&quot; exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs, the gratification of whose curiosity was now paramount to every other consideration. &quot;Ah! if I could but believe you,&quot; said a female voice coquettishly, &quot;I’d be bound to settle my missis for life.&quot; &quot;What does she say?&quot; inquired Mr. Evenson, who was not quite so well situated as his companion. &quot;She says she’ll settle her missis’s life,&quot; replied Mrs. Tibbs. &quot;The wretch! they’re plotting murder.&quot; &quot;I know you want money,&quot; continued the voice, which belonged to Agnes; &quot;and if you’d secure me the five hundred pound, I warrant she should take fire soon enough.&quot; &quot;What’s that?&quot; inquired Evenson again. He could just hear enough to want to hear more. &quot;I think she says she’ll set the house on fire,&quot; replied the affrighted Mrs. Tibbs. &quot;Thank God I’m insured in the Phoenix!&quot; &quot;The moment I have secured your mistress, my dear,&quot; said a man’s voice in a strong Irish brogue, &quot;you may depend on having the money.&quot; &quot;Bless my soul, it’s Mr. O’Bleary!&quot; exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs in a parenthesis. &quot;The villain!&quot; said the indignant Mr. Evenson. &quot;The first thing to be done,&quot; continued the Hibernian, &quot;is to poison Mr. Gobler’s mind.&quot; &quot;Oh, certainly!&quot; returned Agnes, with the utmost coolness. &quot;What’s that?&quot; inquired Evenson again, in an agony of curiosity and a whisper. &quot;He says she’s to mind and poison Mr. Gobler,&quot; replied Mrs. Tibbs, aghast at this sacrifice of human life. &quot;And in regard of Mrs. Tibbs,&quot; continued O’Bleary.—Mrs. Tibbs shuddered. &quot;Hush!&quot; exclaimed Agnes, in a tone of the greatest alarm, just as Mrs. Tibbs was on the extreme verge of a fainting fit. &quot;Hush!&quot; &quot;Hush!&quot; exclaimed Evenson, at the same moment to Mrs. Tibbs. &quot;There’s somebody coming up stairs,&quot; said Agnes to O’Bleary. &quot;There’s somebody coming down stairs,&quot; whispered Evenson to Mrs. Tibbs. &quot;Go into the parlour, Sir,&quot; said Agnes to her companion. &quot;You will get there, before whoever it is gets to the top of the kitchen stairs.&quot; &quot;The drawing-room, Mrs. Tibbs!&quot; whispered the astonished Evenson to his equally astonished companion; and for the drawing-room they both made, plainly hearing the rustling of two persons coming down stairs, and one coming up. &quot;What can it be?&quot; exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs. &quot;It’s like a dream. I wouldn’t be found in this situation for the world!&quot; &quot;Nor I,&quot; returned Evenson, who could never bear a joke at his own expense. &quot;Hush! here they are at the door.&quot; &quot;What fun!&quot; whispered one of the new comers.—It was Wisbottle. &quot;Glorious!&quot; replied his companion, in an equally low tone.—This was Alfred Tomkins. &quot;Who would have thought it?&quot; &quot;I told you so,&quot; said Wisbottle, in a most knowing whisper. &quot;Lord bless you, he has paid her most extraordinary attention for the last two months. I saw ’em when I was sitting at the piano to-night.&quot; &quot;Well, do you know I didn’t notice it?&quot; interrupted Tomkins. &quot;Not notice it!&quot; continued Wisbottle. &quot;Bless you; I saw him whispering to her, and she crying; and then I’ll swear I heard him say something about to-night when we were all in bed.&quot; &quot;They’re talking of us!&quot; exclaimed the agonized Mrs. Tibbs, as the painful suspicion, and a sense of their situation, flashed upon her mind. &quot;I know it—I know it,&quot; replied Evenson, with a melancholy consciousness that there was no mode of escape. &quot;What’s to be done?—we cannot both stop here,&quot; ejaculated Mrs. Tibbs in a state of partial derangement. &quot;I’ll get up the chimney,&quot; replied Evenson, who really meant what he said. &quot;You can’t,&quot; said Mrs. Tibbs, in despair. &quot;You can’t—it’s a register stove.&quot; &quot;Hush!&quot; repeated John Evenson. &quot;Hush—hush!&quot; cried somebody down stairs. &quot;What a d-d hushing!&quot; said Alfred Tomkins, who began to get rather bewildered. &quot;There they are!&quot; exclaimed the sapient Wisbottle, as a rustling noise was heard in the store-room. &quot;Hark!&quot; whispered both the young men. &quot;Hark!&quot; repeated Mrs. Tibbs and Evenson. &quot;Let me alone, Sir,&quot; said a female voice in the store-room. &quot;Oh, Hagnes!&quot; cried another voice, which clearly belonged to Tibbs, for nobody else ever owned one like it, &quot;Oh, Hagnes—lovely creature!&quot; &quot;Be quiet, Sir!&quot; (a bounce.) &quot;Hag—&quot; &quot;Be quiet, Sir,—I am ashamed of you. Think of your wife, Mr. Tibbs.—Be quiet, Sir!&quot; &quot;My wife!&quot; exclaimed the valorous Tibbs, who was clearly under the influence of gin-and-water, and a misplaced attachment; &quot;I ate her! Oh, Hagnes! when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and—&quot; &quot;I declare I’ll scream. Be quiet, Sir, will you?&quot; (Another bounce, and a scuffle.) &quot;What’s that?&quot; exclaimed Tibbs with a start. &quot;What’s what?&quot; said Agnes, stopping short. &quot;Why that!&quot; &quot;Ah! you have done it nicely now, Sir,&quot; sobbed the frightened Agnes, as a tapping was heard at Mrs. Tibbs’ bed-room door, which would have beaten any twelve woodpeckers hollow. &quot;Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!&quot; called out Mrs. Bloss. &quot;Mrs. Tibbs, pray get up.&quot; (Here the imitation of a woodpecker was resumed with tenfold violence.) &quot;Oh, dear—dear!&quot; exclaimed the wretched partner of the depraved Tibbs. &quot;She’s knocking at my door. We must be discovered. What will they think?&quot; &quot;Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!&quot; screamed the woodpecker again. &quot;What’s the matter?&quot; shouted Gobler, bursting out of the back drawing-room, like the dragon at Astley’s—only without the portable gas in his countenance. &quot;Oh, Mr. Gobler!&quot; cried Mrs. Bloss, with a proper approximation to hysterics; &quot;I think the house is on fire, or else there’s thieves in it. I have heard the most dreadful noises.&quot; &quot;The devil you have!&quot; shouted Gobler again, bouncing back into his den, in happy imitation of the aforesaid dragon, and returning immediately with a lighted candle. &quot;Why, what’s this? Wisbottle! Tomkins! O’Bleary! Agnes! What the deuce, all up and dressed?&quot; &quot;Astonishing!&quot; said Mrs. Bloss, who had run down stairs, and taken Mr. Gobler’s arm. &quot;Call Mrs. Tibbs directly, somebody,&quot; said Gobler, turning into the front drawing-room. &quot;What! Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!!&quot; &quot;Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!&quot; repeated every body, as that unhappy pair were discovered, Mrs. Tibbs seated in an arm-chair by the fireplace, and Mr. Evenson standing by her side. We must leave the scene that ensued to the reader’s imagination. We could tell how Mrs. Tibbs forthwith fainted away, and how it required the united strength of Mr. Wisbottle and Mr. Alfred Tomkins to hold her in her chair; how Mr. Evenson explained it; and how his explanation was evidently disbelieved;—how Agnes repelled the accusations of Mrs. Tibbs, by proving that she was negotiating with Mr. O’Bleary to influence her mistress’s affections in his behalf; and how Mr. Gobler threw a damp counterpane on the hopes of Mr. O’Bleary by avowing that he (Gobler) had already proposed to, and been accepted by, Mrs. Bloss; how Agnes was discharged from that lady’s service; how Mr. O’Bleary discharged himself from Mrs. Tibbs’ house, without going through the form of previously discharging his bill; and how that disappointed young gentleman rails against England and the English, and vows there is no virtue or fine feeling extant, &quot;except in Ireland.&quot; We repeat that we could tell all this, but we love to exercise our self-denial, and we therefore prefer leaving it to be imagined. The lady whom we have hitherto described as Mrs. Bloss, is no more. Mrs. Gobler exists: Mrs. Bloss has left us for ever. In a secluded retreat in Newington Butts, far—far removed from the noisy strife of that great boarding-house the world, the enviable Gobler, and his pleasing wife, revel in retirement; happy in their complaints, their table, and their medicine; wafted through life by the grateful prayers of all the purveyors of animal food within three miles round. We would willingly stop here, but we have a painful duty imposed upon us, which we must discharge. Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs have separated by mutual consent, Mrs. Tibbs receiving one moiety of 43l.15s.10d., which we before stated to be the amount of her husband’s annual income, and Mr. Tibbs the other. He is spending the evening of his days in retirement; and he is spending also annually that small but honourable independence. He resides among the original settlers at Walworth, and it has been stated, on unquestionable authority, that the conclusion of the volunteer story has been heard in a small tavern in that respectable neighbourhood. The unfortunate Mrs. Tibbs has determined to dispose of the whole of her furniture by public auction, and to retire from a residence in which she has suffered so much. Mr. Robins has been applied to, to conduct the sale, and the transcendent abilities of the literary gentlemen connected with his establishment, are now devoted to the task of drawing up the preliminary advertisement. It is to contain, among a variety of brilliant matter, seventy-eight words in large capitals, and six original quotations in inverted commas. We fear Mrs. Tibb&#039;s determination is irrevocable. Should she, however, be induced to rescind it, we may become once again her faithful biographer.18340801https://dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/The_Boarding-House_[No.2]/1834-08-The_Boarding_House_No2.pdf
149https://dickenssearch.com/items/show/149'The Steam Excursion'Published in <em>The Monthly Magazine</em> (October 1834), pp. 360-376.Dickens, Charles<em>Biodiversity Heritage Library, </em>(National History Museum)<em>: </em><a href="https://www.biodiversitylibrary.org/item/19780#page/360/mode/1up">https://www.biodiversitylibrary.org/item/19780#page/360/mode/1up</a>.<span>Public domain. The BHL considers that this work is no longer under copyright protection.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Short+story">Short story</a>1834-10-The_Steam_ExcursionDickens, Charles. 'The Steam Excursion' (October 1834). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https:www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1834-10-The_Steam_Excursion">https:www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1834-10-The_Steam_Excursion</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Periodical">Periodical</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EThe+Monthly+Magazine%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>The Monthly Magazine</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=BOZ">BOZ</a>Mr. Percy Noakes was a law-student inhabiting a set of chambers on the fourth floor, in one of those houses in Gray’s-inn-square, which command an extensive view of the gardens, and their usual adjuncts—flaunting nursery-maids, and town-made children, with parenthetical legs. Mr. Percy Noakes was what is generally termed—&quot;a devilish good fellow.&quot; He had a large circle of acquaintance, and seldom dined at his own expense. He used to talk politics to papas, flatter the vanity of mammas, do the amiable to their daughters, make pleasure engagements with their sons, and romp with the younger branches. Like those paragons of perfection, advertising footmen out of place, he was always &quot;willing to make himself generally useful.&quot; If any old lady, whose son was in India, gave a ball, Mr. Percy Noakes was master of the ceremonies; if any young lady made a stolen match, Mr. Percy Noakes gave her away; if a juvenile wife presented her husband with a blooming cherub, Mr. Percy Noakes was either godfather or deputy godfather; and if any member of a friend’s family died, Mr. Percy Noakes was invariably to be seen in the second mourning coach, with a white handkerchief to his eyes, sobbing—to use his own appropriate and expressive description—&quot;like winkin!&quot; It may readily be imagined that these numerous avocations were rather calculated to interfere with Mr. Percy Noakes’s professional studies. Mr. Percy Noakes was perfectly aware of the fact, and he had, therefore, after mature reflection, made up his mind not to study at all—a laudable determination, to which he adhered in the most praiseworthy manner. His sitting-room presented a strange chaos of dress-gloves, boxing-gloves, caricatures, albums, invitation cards, foils, cricket-bats, card-board drawings, paste, gum, and fifty other miscellaneous articles, heaped together in the strangest confusion. He was always making something for somebody, or planning some party of pleasure, which was his great forte. He invariably spoke with astonishing rapidity; was smart, spoffish, and eight-and-twenty. &quot;Splendid idea, ’pon my life,&quot; —soliloquised Mr. Percy Noakes, over his morning&#039;s coffee, as his mind reverted to a suggestion which had been thrown out the previous night, by a lady at whose house he had spent the evening. &quot;Glorious idea!—Mrs. Stubbs,&quot; cried the student, raising his voice. &quot;Yes, Sir,&quot; replied a dirty old woman, with an inflamed countenance, emerging from the bed-room, with a barrel of dirt and cinders.—This was the laundress. &quot;Did you call, Sir?&quot; &quot;Oh! Mrs. Stubbs, I’m going out. If that tailor should call again you’d better say—you’d better say, I’m out of town, and shan’t be back for a fortnight; and if that bootmaker should come, tell him I’ve lost his address, or I’d have sent him that little amount; mind he writes it down; and if Mr. Hardy should call—you know Mr. Hardy?—&quot; &quot;The funny gentleman, Sir?&quot; &quot;Ah! the funny gentleman. If Mr. Hardy should call, say I’ve gone to Mrs. Taunton’s about that water-party.&quot; &quot;Yes, Sir.&quot; &quot;And if any fellow calls, and says he’s come about a steamer, tell him to be here at five o’clock this afternoon, Mrs. Stubbs.&quot; &quot;Very well, Sir.&quot; Mr. Percy Noakes brushed his hat; whisked the crumbs off his inexplicables with a silk handkerchief, gave the ends of his hair a persuasive roll round his fore-finger, and sallied forth for Mrs. Taunton’s domicile in Great Marlborough-street, where she and her daughters occupied the upper part of a house. She was a good-looking widow of fifty, with the form of a giantess and the mind of a child. The pursuit of pleasure, and some means of killing time, appeared the sole end of her existence. She doted on her daughters, who were as frivolous as herself. A general exclamation of satisfaction hailed the arrival of Mr. Percy Noakes, who went through the ordinary salutations, and threw himself into an easy chair, near the ladies’ work-table, with all the ease of a regularly established friend of the family. Mrs. Taunton was busily engaged in planting immense bright bows on every part of a smart cap on which it was possible to stick one; Miss Emily Taunton was making a watch-guard; and Miss Sophia was at the piano, practising a new song—poetry by the young officer, or the police officer, or the custom-house officer, or some equally interesting amateur. &quot;You good creature!&quot; said Mrs. Taunton, addressing the gallant Percy. &quot;You really are a good soul! You’ve come about the water-party, I know.&quot; &quot;I should rather suspect I had,&quot; replied Mr. Noakes, triumphantly. &quot;Now come here, girls, and I’ll tell you all about it.&quot; Miss Emily and Miss Sophia advanced to the table, with that ballet sort of step which some young ladies appear to think so fascinating - something between a skip and a canter. &quot;Now,&quot; continued Mr. Percy Noakes, &quot;it seems to me that the best way will be to have a committee of ten, to make all the arrangements, and manage the whole set-out. Well, then, I propose that the expenses shall be paid by these ten fellows jointly.&quot; &quot;Excellent, indeed!&quot; said Mrs. Taunton, who highly approved of this part of the arrangements. &quot;Then my plan is, that each of these ten fellows shall have the power of asking five people. There must be a meeting of the committee, at my chambers, to make all the arrangements, and these people shall be then named; every member of the committee shall have the power of black-balling any one who is proposed; and one black-ball shall exclude that person. This will ensure our having a pleasant party, you know.&quot; &quot;What a manager you are!&quot; interrupted Mrs. Taunton again. &quot;Charming!&quot; said the lovely Emily. &quot;I never did!&quot; ejaculated Sophia. &quot;Yes, I think it’ll do,&quot; replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who was now quite in his element. &quot;I think it’ll do. Well, then, you know we shall go down to the Nore and back, and have a regular, capital cold dinner laid out in the cabin before we start, so that every thing may be ready without any confusion; and we shall have the lunch laid out on deck in those little tea-garden-looking concerns by the paddle-boxes—I don’t know what you call ’em. Then we shall hire a steamer expressly for our party, and a band, you know, and have the deck chalked, and we shall be able to dance quadrilles all day: and then whoever we know that’s musical, you know, why they’ll make themselves useful and agreeable—and—and—upon the whole I really hope we shall have a glorious day, you know.&quot; The announcement of these arrangements was received with the utmost enthusiasm. Mrs. Taunton, Emily, and Sophia, were loud in their praises. &quot;Well, but tell me, Percy,&quot; said Mrs. Taunton, &quot;who are the ten gentlemen to be?&quot; &quot;Oh! I know plenty of fellows who’ll be delighted with the scheme,&quot; replied Mr. Percy Noakes; &quot;of course we shall have—&quot; &quot;Mr. Hardy,&quot; interrupted the servant, announcing a visitor. Miss Sophia and Miss Emily hastily assumed the most interesting attitudes that could be adopted on so short a notice. &quot;How are you?&quot; said a stout gentleman of about forty, pausing at the door in the attitude of an awkward harlequin. This was Mr. Hardy, whom we have before described, on the authority of Mrs. Stubbs, as &quot;the funny gentleman.&quot; He was an Astley Cooperish Joe Miller—a practical joker, immensely popular with married ladies, and a general favourite with young men. He was always engaged in some pleasure excursion or other, and delighted in getting somebody into a scrape on such occasions. He could sing comic songs; imitate hackney coachmen and fowls; play airs on his chin, and execute concertos on the Jew&#039;s harp. He always eat and drank most immoderately, and was the bosom friend of Mr. Percy Noakes. He had a red face, a somewhat husky voice, and a tremendously loud laugh. &quot;How are you?&quot; said this worthy, laughing, as if it were the finest joke in the world to make a morning call; and shaking hands with the ladies with as much vehemence as if their arms were so many pump-handles. &quot;You’re just the very man I wanted,&quot; said Mr. Percy Noakes, who proceeded to explain the cause of his being in requisition. &quot;Ha! ha! ha!&quot; shouted Hardy, after hearing the statement, and receiving a detailed account of the proposed excursion. &quot;Oh, capital! glorious! What a day it will be! what fun! But, I say, when are you going to begin making the arrangements?&quot; &quot;No time like the present—at once, if you please.&quot; &quot;Oh, charming!&quot; cried the ladies. &quot;Pray, do.&quot; Writing materials were laid before Mr. Percy Noakes, and the names of the different members of the committee were agreed on, after as much discussion between him and Mr. Hardy as if at least the fate of nations had depended on their appointment. It was then agreed that a meeting should take place at Mr. Percy Noakes’s chambers on the ensuing Wednesday evening at eight o’clock, and the visitors departed. Wednesday evening arrived; eight o’clock came, and eight members of the committee were punctual in their attendance. Mr. Loggins, the solicitor, of Boswell-court, sent an excuse, and Mr. Samuel Briggs, the ditto of Furnival’s Inn, sent his brother, much to his (the brother’s) satisfaction, and greatly to the discomfiture of Mr. Percy Noakes. Between the Briggs&#039;s and the Tauntons there existed a degree of implacable hatred, quite unprecedented. The animosity between the Montagues and Capulets, was nothing to that which prevailed between these two illustrious houses. Mrs. Briggs was a widow, with three daughters and two sons; Mr. Samuel, the eldest, was an attorney, and Mr. Alexander, the youngest, was under definite articles to his brother. They resided in Portland-street, Oxford-street, and moved in the same orbit as the Tauntons—hence their mutual dislike. If the Miss Briggs&#039;s appeared in smart bonnets, the Miss Tauntons eclipsed them with smarter. If Mrs. Taunton appeared in a cap of all the hues of the rainbow, Mrs. Briggs forthwith mounted a toque, with all the patterns of the kaleidoscope. If Miss Sophia Taunton learnt a new song, two of the Miss Briggs&#039;s came out with a new duet. The Tauntons had once gained a temporary triumph with the assistance of a harp, but the Briggs&#039;s brought three guitars into the field, and effectually routed the enemy. In short, there was no end to the rivalry between them. Now, as Mr. Samuel Briggs was a mere machine, a sort of self-acting legal walking-stick; and as the party was known to have originated, however remotely, with Mrs. Taunton, the female branches of the Briggs&#039;s family had arranged that Mr. Alexander should attend, instead of his brother; and as the said Mr. Alexander was deservedly celebrated for possessing all the pertinacity of a bankruptcy-court attorney, combined with the obstinacy of that pleasing animal which brouzes upon the thistle—he required but little tuition. He was especially enjoined to make himself as disagreeable as possible; and, above all, to black-ball the Tauntons at every hazard. The proceedings of the evening were opened by Mr. Percy Noakes. After successfully urging on the gentlemen present the propriety of their mixing some brandy-and-water, he briefly stated the objects of the meeting, and concluded by observing that the first step must be the selection of a chairman, necessarily possessing some arbitrary—he trusted not unconstitutional—powers, to whom the personal direction of the whole of the arrangements (subject to the approval of the committee) should be confided. A pale young gentleman, in a green stock, and spectacles of the same, a member of the honourable society of the Inner Temple, immediately rose for the purpose of proposing Mr. Percy Noakes. He had known him long, and this he would say, that a more honourable, a more excellent, or a better hearted fellow, never existed—(hear, hear). The young gentleman, who was a member of a debating society, took this opportunity of entering into an examination of the state of the English law, from the days of William the Conqueror down to the present period; he briefly adverted to the code established by the ancient Druids; slightly glanced at the principles laid down by the Athenian law-givers; and concluded with a most glowing eulogium on pic-nics and constitutional rights. Mr. Alexander Briggs opposed the motion. He had the highest esteem for Mr. Percy Noakes as an individual, but he did consider that he ought not to be intrusted with these immense powers—(oh, oh!)—He believed that in the proposed capacity Mr. Percy Noakes would not act fairly, impartially, or honourably; but he begged it to be distinctly understood, that he said this without the slightest personal disrespect. Mr. Hardy defended his honourable friend, in a voice rendered partially unintelligible by emotion and brandy-and-water; the proposition was put to the vote, and there appearing to be only one dissentient voice, Mr. Percy Noakes was declared duly elected, and took the chair accordingly. The business of the meeting now proceeded with great rapidity. The chairman delivered in his estimate of the probable expense of the excursion, and every one present subscribed his portion thereof. The question was put that &quot;The Endeavour&quot; be hired for the occasion; Mr. Alexander Briggs moved as an amendment that the word &quot;Fly&quot; be substituted for the word &quot;Endeavour;&quot; but after some debate consented to withdraw his opposition. The important ceremony of balloting then commenced. A tea-caddy was placed on a table in a dark corner of the apartment, and every one was provided with two backgammon-men, one black and one white. The chairman with great solemnity then read the following list of the guests whom he proposed to introduce:—Mrs. Taunton and two daughters, Mr. Wizzle, Mr. Simson. The names were respectively balloted for, and Mrs. Taunton and her daughters were declared to be black-balled. Mr. Percy Noakes and Mr. Hardy exchanged glances. &quot;Is your list prepared, Mr. Briggs?&quot; inquired the chairman. &quot;It is,&quot; replied Alexander, delivering in the following:—&quot;Mrs. Briggs and three daughters, Mr. Samuel Briggs.&quot; The previous ceremony was repeated, and Mrs. Briggs and three daughters were declared to be black-balled. Mr. Alexander Briggs looked rather foolish, and the remainder of the company appeared somewhat overawed by the mysterious nature of the proceedings. The balloting proceeded; but one little circumstance which Mr. Percy Noakes had not originally foreseen, prevented the system from working quite as well as he had anticipated—everybody was black-balled. Mr. Alexander Briggs by way of retaliation exercised his power of exclusion in every instance, and the result was, that after three hours had been consumed in incessant balloting, the names of only three gentlemen were found to have been agreed to. In this dilemma what was to be done? either the whole plan must fall to the ground, or a compromise must be effected. The latter alternative was preferable; and Mr. Percy Noakes therefore, proposed that the form of balloting should be dispensed with, and that every gentleman should merely be required to state whom he intended to bring. The proposal was readily acceded to; the Tauntons and the Briggs&#039;s were reinstated, and the party was formed. The next Wednesday was fixed for the eventful day, and it was unanimously resolved that every member of the committee should wear a piece of blue sarsenet ribbon round his left arm. It appeared from the statement of Mr. Percy Noakes that the boat belonged to the General Steam Navigation Company, and was then lying off the Custom-house; and as he proposed that the dinner and wines should be provided by an eminent city purveyor, it was arranged that Mr. Percy Noakes should be on-board by seven o’clock to superintend the arrangements, and that the remaining members of the committee, together with the company generally, should be expected to join her by nine o’clock. More brandy-and-water was despatched; several speeches were made by the different law students present; thanks were voted to the chairman, and the meeting separated. The weather had been beautiful up to this period, and beautiful it continued to be. Sunday passed over, and Mr. Percy Noakes became unusually fidgetty—rushing, constantly, to and from the Steam Packet Wharf, to the astonishment of the clerks, and the great emolument of the Holborn cab-men. Tuesday arrived, and the anxiety of Mr. Percy Noakes knew no bounds: he was every instant running to the window to look out for clouds; and Mr. Hardy astonished the whole square by practising a new comic song for the occasion in the chairman’s chambers. Uneasy were the slumbers of Mr. Percy Noakes that night: he tossed and tumbled about, and had confused dreams of steamers starting off, and gigantic clocks with the hands pointing to a quarter past nine, and the ugly face of Mr. Alexander Briggs looking over the boat’s side, and grinning as if in derision of his fruitless attempts to move. He made a violent effort to get on board, and awoke. The bright sun was shining cheerfully into the bed-room; and Mr. Percy Noakes started up for his watch, in the dreadful expectation of finding his worst dreams realized. It was just five o’clock: he calculated the time—he should be a good half-hour dressing himself; and as it was a lovely morning, and the tide would be then running down, he would walk leisurely to Strand Lane, and have a boat to the Custom House. He dressed himself, took a hasty apology for a breakfast, and sallied forth. The streets looked as lonely and deserted as if they had been crowded over-night for the last time. Here and there an early apprentice, with quenched-looking, sleepy eyes, was taking down the shutters of a shop; and a policeman or milk-woman might occasionally be seen pacing slowly along; but the servants had not yet begun to clean the doors, or light the fires, and London looked the picture of desolation. At the corner of a bye-street, near Temple Bar, was stationed a &quot;street breakfast.&quot; The coffee was boiling over a charcoal fire, and large slices of bread and butter were piled one upon the other, like deals in a timber-yard. The company were seated on a form, which, with a view both to security and comfort, was placed against a neighbouring wall. Two young men, whose uproarious mirth and disordered dress bespoke the conviviality of the preceding evening, were treating three &quot;ladies&quot; and an Irish labourer. A little sweep was standing at a short distance, casting a longing eye at the tempting delicacies; and a policeman was watching the group from the opposite side of the street. The wan looks, and gaudy finery of the wretched, thinly-clad females contrasted as strangely with the gay sun-light, as did their forced merriment with the boisterous hilarity of the two young men, who now and then varied their amusements by &quot;bonneting&quot; the proprietor of this itinerant coffee-house. Mr. Percy Noakes walked briskly by, and when he turned down Strand-lane, and caught a glimpse of the glistening water, he thought he had never felt so important or so happy in his life. &quot;Boat, Sir?&quot; cried one of the three watermen who were mopping out their boats, and all whistling different tunes. &quot;Boat, Sir!&quot; &quot;No,&quot; replied Mr. Percy Noakes rather sharply, for the inquiry was not made in a manner at all suitable to his dignity. &quot;Would you prefer a wessel, Sir?&quot; inquired another, to the infinite delight of the &#039;Jack-in-the-water.&#039; Mr. Percy Noakes replied with a look of the most supreme contempt. &quot;Did you want to be put on board a steamer, Sir?&quot; inquired an old fireman-waterman, very confidentially. He was dressed in a faded red suit, just the colour of the cover of a very old Court-guide. &quot;Yes, make haste—the Endeavour; off the Custom-house.&quot; &quot;Endeavour!&quot; cried the man who had convulsed the ‘Jack’ before. &quot;Vy, I see the Endeavour go up half an hour ago.&quot; &quot;So did I,&quot; said another; &quot;and I should think she’d gone down by this time, for she’s a precious sight too full of ladies and gen’lmen.&quot; Mr. Percy Noakes affected to disregard these representations, and stepped into the boat, which the old man, by dint of scrambling, and shoving, and grating, had brought up to the causeway.— &quot;Shove her off,&quot; cried Mr. Percy Noakes, and away the boat glided down the river, Mr. Percy Noakes seated on the recently mopped seat, and the watermen at the stairs offering to bet him any reasonable sum that he’d never reach the &quot;Custum-us.&quot; &quot;Here she is, by Jove!&quot; said the delighted Percy, as they ran alongside the Endeavour. &quot;Hold hard!&quot; cried the steward over the side, and Mr. Percy Noakes jumped on board. &quot;Hope you&#039;ll find everything as you wished it, Sir—she looks uncommon well this morning.&quot; &quot;She does, indeed!&quot; replied the manager, in a state of ecstasy which it is impossible to describe. The deck was scrubbed, and the seats were scrubbed, and there was a bench for the band, and a place for dancing, and a pile of camp-stools, and an awning; and then Mr. Percy Noakes bustled down below, and there were the pastrycook’s men, and the steward’s wife laying out the dinner on two tables the whole length of the cabin; and then Mr. Percy Noakes took off his coat and rushed backwards and forwards, doing nothing, but quite convinced he was assisting everybody; and the steward’s wife laughed till she cried, and Mr. Percy Noakes panted with the violence of his exertions. And then the bell at London-bridge wharf rang, and a Margate boat was just starting, and a Gravesend boat was just starting, and people shouted, and porters ran down the steps with luggage that would crush any men but porters; and sloping boards, with bits of wood nailed on them, were placed between the outside boat and the inside boat, and the passengers ran along them, and looked like so many fowls coming out of an area; and then the bell ceased, and the boards were taken away, and the boats started; and a great many people who wanted to go were left behind, and a great many people who didn&#039;t want to go were carried away; and the whole scene was one of the most delightful bustle and confusion that can be imagined. The time wore on; half-past eight o’clock arrived; the pastry-cook’s men went ashore; the dinner was completely laid out, and Mr. Percy Noakes locked the principal cabin, and put the key into his pocket, in order that it might be suddenly disclosed in all its magnificence to the eyes of the astonished company. The band came on board, and so did the wine. Ten minutes to nine, and the committee embarked in a body. There was Mr. Hardy in a blue jacket and waistcoat, white trousers, silk stockings, and pumps; habited in full aquatic costume, with a straw hat on his head, and an immense telescope under his arm; and there was the young gentleman with the green spectacles in nankeen inexplicables, with a ditto waistcoat and bright buttons, like the pictures of Paul—not the saint, but he of Virginia notoriety. The remainder of the committee, dressed as they were in white hats, light jackets, waistcoats and trousers, looked something between waiters and West India planters. Nine o’clock struck, and the company arrived in shoals. Mr. Samuel Briggs, Mrs. Briggs, and the Misses Briggs made their appearance in a smart private wherry. The three guitars, in their respective dark green cases, were carefully stowed away in the bottom of the boat, accompanied by two immense portfolios of music, which it would take at least a week’s incessant playing to get through. The Tauntons arrived at the same moment with more music, and a lion—a gentleman with a bass voice, and incipient red moustachios. The colours of the Taunton party were pink; those of the Briggs&#039;s a light blue. The Tauntons had artificial flowers in their bonnets; here the Briggs&#039;s gained a decided advantage—they wore feathers. &quot;How d’ye do, dear?&quot; said the Misses Briggs to the Misses Taunton. (The word &quot;dear&quot; among girls is frequently synonymous with &quot;wretch.&quot;) &quot;Quite well, thank you, dear,&quot; replied the Misses Taunton, to the Misses Briggs—and then there was such a kissing, and congratulating, and shaking of hands, as would induce one to suppose the two families were the best friends in the world, instead of each wishing the other overboard, as they most sincerely did. Mr. Percy Noakes received the visitors, and bowed to the strange gentleman, as if he should like to know who he was. This was just what Mrs. Taunton wanted. Here was an opportunity to astonish the Briggs&#039;s. &quot;Oh! I beg your pardon,&quot; said the general of the Taunton party, with a careless air.—&quot;Captain Helves—Mr. Percy Noakes—Mrs. Briggs—Captain Helves.&quot; Mr. Percy Noakes bowed very low; the gallant captain did the same with all due ferocity, and the Briggs&#039;s were clearly overcome. &quot;Our friend, Mr. Wizzle, being unfortunately prevented from coming,&quot; resumed Mrs. Taunton, &quot;I did myself the pleasure of bringing the captain, whose musical talents I knew would be a great acquisition.&quot; &quot;In the name of the committee I have to thank you for doing so, and to offer you a most sincere welcome, Sir,&quot; replied Percy (here the scraping was renewed). &quot;But pray be seated—won’t you walk aft? Captain, will you conduct Miss Taunton?—Miss Briggs, will you allow me?&quot; &quot;Where could they have picked up that military man?&quot; inquired Mrs. Briggs of Miss Kate Briggs, as they followed the little party. &quot;Can’t imagine,&quot; replied Miss Kate, bursting with vexation; for the very fierce air with which the gallant captain regarded the company, had impressed her with a high sense of his importance. Boat after boat came alongside, and guest after guest arrived. The invites had been excellently arranged: Mr. Percy Noakes having considered it as important that the number of young men should exactly tally with that of the young ladies, as that the quantity of knives on board should be in precise proportion to the forks. &quot;Now is every one on board?&quot; inquired Mr. Percy Noakes. The committee (who, with their bits of blue ribbon, looked as if they were all going to be bled) bustled about to ascertain the fact, and reported that they might safely start. &quot;Go on,&quot; cried the master of the boat from the top of one of the paddle-boxes. &quot;Go on,&quot; echoed the boy, who was stationed over the hatchway to pass the directions down to the engineer—and away went the vessel with that agreeable noise which is peculiar to steamers, and which is composed of a mixture of creaking, gushing, clanging, and snorting. &quot;Hoi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-o-i-i-i!&quot; shouted half-a-dozen voices from a boat, a quarter of a mile astern. &quot;Ease her,&quot; cried the captain; &quot;do these people belong to us, sir?&quot; &quot;Noakes,&quot; exclaimed Hardy, who had been looking at every object, far and near, through the large telescope; &quot;it’s the Fleetwoods and the Wakefields—and two children with them, by Jove.&quot; &quot;What a shame to bring children!&quot; said every body; &quot;how very inconsiderate!&quot; &quot;I say, it would be a good joke to pretend not to see ’em, wouldn’t it?&quot; suggested Hardy, to the immense delight of the company generally. A council of war was hastily held, and it was resolved that the new comers should be taken on board, on Mr. Hardy&#039;s solemnly pledging himself to teaze the children during the whole of the day. &quot;Stop her,&quot; cried the captain. &quot;Stop her,&quot; repeated the boy; whizz went the steam, and all the young ladies, as in duty bound, screamed in concert. They were only appeased by the assurance of the martial Helves that the escape of steam consequent on stopping a vessel was seldom attended with any great losf of human life. Two men ran to the side, and after some shouting, and swearing, and angling for the wherry with a boat-hook, Mr. Fleetwood, and Mrs. Fleetwood, and Master Fleetwood; and Mr. Wakefield, and Mrs. Wakefield, and Miss Wakefield were safely deposited on the deck. The girl was about six years old; the boy about four; the former was dressed in a white frock with a pink sash, and a dog’s-eared-looking little spencer, a straw bonnet, and green veil, six inches by three and a half; the latter was attired for the occasion in a nankeen frock, between the bottom of which and the top of his plaid socks a considerable portion of two small mottled legs was discernible. He had a light blue cap with a gold band and tassel on his head, and a damp piece of gingerbread in his hand, with which he had slightly embossed his dear little countenance. The boat once more started off; the band played &quot;Off she goes,&quot; the major part of the company conversed cheerfully in groups, and the old gentlemen walked up and down the deck in pairs, as perseveringly and gravely as if they were doing a match against time for an immense stake. They ran briskly down the pool; the gentlemen pointed out the Docks, the Thames&#039; Police-office, and other elegant public edifices; and the young ladies exhibited a proper display of horror and bashfulness at the appearance of the coal-whippers, and ballast-heavers. Mr. Hardy told stories to the married ladies, at which they laughed very much in their pocket-handkerchiefs; and hit him on the knuckles with their fans, declaring him to be &quot;a naughty man—a shocking creature&quot;—and so forth; and Captain Helves gave slight descriptions of battles and duels, with a most bloodthirsty air, which made him the admiration of the women, and the envy of the men. Quadrilling commenced; Captain Helves danced one set with Miss Emily Taunton, and another set with Miss Sophia Taunton. Mrs. Taunton was in ecstasies. The victory appeared to be complete; but alas! the inconstancy of man!—having performed this necessary duty, he attached himself solely to Miss Julia Briggs, with whom he danced no less than three sets consecutively, and from whose side he evinced no intention of stirring for the remainder of the day. Mr. Hardy having played one or two very brilliant fantasias on the Jew&#039;s-harp, and having frequently repeated the exquisitely amusing joke of slily chalking a large cross on the back of some member of the committee, Mr. Percy Noakes expressed his hope that some of their musical friends would oblige the company by a display of their abilities. &quot;Perhaps,&quot; he said in a very insinuating manner, &quot;Captain Helves will oblige us?&quot; Mrs. Taunton’s countenance lightened up, for the captain only sang duets, and couldn’t sing them with anybody but one of her daughters. &quot;Really,&quot; said that warlike individual, &quot;I should be very happy, but—&quot; &quot;Oh! pray do,&quot; cried all the young ladies. &quot;Miss Sophia, have you any objection to join in a duet?&quot; &quot;Oh! not the slightest,&quot; returned the young lady, in a tone which clearly showed she had the greatest possible objection. &quot;Shall I accompany you, dear?&quot; inquired one of the Miss Briggs&#039;s, with the bland intention of spoiling the effect. &quot;Very much obliged to you, Miss Briggs,&quot; sharply retorted Mrs. Taunton, who saw through the manœuvre—&quot;my daughters always sing without accompaniments.&quot; &quot;And without voices,&quot; tittered Mrs. Briggs, in a low tone. &quot;Perhaps,&quot; said Mrs. Taunton, reddening, for she guessed the tenor of the observation, though she had not heard it clearly. &quot;Perhaps it would be as well for some people, if their voices were not quite so audible as they are to other people.&quot; &quot;And, perhaps, if gentlemen who are kidnapped to pay attention to some persons’ daughters, had not sufficient discernment to pay attention to other persons’ daughters,&quot; returned Mrs. Briggs, &quot;some persons would not be so ready to display that ill-temper, which, thank God, distinguishes them from other persons.&quot; &quot;Persons!&quot; ejaculated Mrs. Taunton. &quot;Yes; persons, ma&#039;am,&quot; replied Mrs. Briggs. &quot;Insolence!&quot; &quot;Creature!&quot; &quot;Hush! hush!&quot; interrupted Mr. Percy Noakes, who was one of the very few by whom this dialogue had been overheard. &quot;Hush!—pray; silence for the duet.&quot; After a great deal of preparatory crowing and humming, the Captain began the following duet from the opera of Paul and Virginia, in that grunting tone in which a man gets down, Heaven knows where, without the remotest chance of ever getting up again. This, in private circles, is frequently designated &quot;a bass voice.&quot; &quot;See (sung the Captain) from o—ce—an ri—sing Bright flames the or—b of d—ay. From yon gro—ove, the varied so—ongs—&quot; Here, the singer was interrupted by varied cries of the most dreadful description, proceeding from some grove in the immediate vicinity of the starboard paddle-box. &quot;My child!&quot; screamed Mrs. Fleetwood. &quot;My child! it is his voice—I know it.&quot; Mr. Fleetwood, accompanied by several gentlemen, here rushed to the quarter from whence the noise proceeded, and an exclamation of horror burst from the company; the general impression being, that the little innocent had either got his head in the water, or his legs in the machinery. &quot;What is the matter?&quot; shouted the agonized father, as he returned with the child in his arms. &quot;Oh! oh! oh!&quot; screamed the small sufferer again. &quot;What is the matter, dear?&quot; inquired the father, once more—hastily stripping off the nankeen frock, for the purpose of ascertaining whether the child had one bone which was not smashed to pieces. &quot;Oh! oh!—I’m so frightened.&quot; &quot;What at, dear?—what at?&quot; said the mother, soothing the sweet infant. &quot;Oh! he’s been making such dreadful faces at me,&quot; cried the boy, relapsing into convulsions, at the bare recollection. &quot;He!—who?&quot; cried every body, crowding round him. &quot;Oh!—him!&quot; replied the child, pointing at Hardy, who affected to be the most concerned of the whole group. The real state of the case at once flashed upon the minds of all present, with the exception of the Fleetwoods and the Wakefields. The facetious Hardy, in fulfilment of his promise, had watched the child to a remote part of the vessel, and, by suddenly appearing before him with the most awful contortions of visage, had produced his paroxysm of terror. Of course, he now observed that it was hardly necessary for him to deny the accusation; and the unfortunate little victim was, accordingly, led below, after receiving sundry thumps on the head from both his parents, for having the wickedness to tell a story. This little interruption having been adjusted, the captain resumed, and Miss Emily chimed in, in due course. The duet was loudly applauded; and, certainly, the perfect independence of the parties, deserved great commendation. Miss Emily sung her part, without the slightest reference to the captain, and the captain sang so loud that he had not the slightest idea what was being done by his partner. After having gone through the last few eighteen or nineteen bars by himself, therefore, he acknowledged the plaudits of the circle with that air of self-denial which men always assume, when they think they have done something to astonish the company, though they don&#039;t exactly know what. &quot;Now,&quot; said Mr. Percy Noakes, who had just ascended from the fore-cabin, where he had been busily engaged in decanting the wine, &quot;if the Misses Briggs will oblige us with something before dinner, I am sure we shall be very much delighted.&quot; One of those hums of admiration followed the suggestion, which one frequently hears in society when nobody has the most distant notion what he is expressing his approval of. The three Misses Briggs looked modestly at their mamma, and the mamma looked approvingly at her daughters, and Mrs. Taunton looked scornfully at all of them. The Misses Briggs asked for their guitars, and several gentlemen seriously damaged the cases in their anxiety to present them. Then there was a very interesting production of three little keys for the aforesaid cases, and a melodramatic expression of horror at finding a string broken; and a vast deal of screwing and tightening, and winding, and tuning, during which Mrs. Briggs expatiated to those near her on the immense difficulty of playing a guitar, and hinted at the wondrous proficiency of her daughters in that mystic art. Mrs. Taunton whispered to a neighbour that it was &quot;quite sickening!&quot; and the Misses Taunton looked as if they knew how to play, but disdained to do so. At length the Misses Briggs began in real earnest. It was a new Spanish composition for three voices and three guitars. The effect was electrical. All eyes were turned upon the captain, who was reported to have once passed through Spain with his regiment, and who, of course, must be well acquainted with the national music. He was in raptures. This was sufficient; the trio was encored—the applause was universal, and never had the Tauntons suffered such a complete defeat. Mrs. Taunton looked as philanthropic as one of Mr. Barnett&#039;s &quot;Salamanders.&quot; &quot;Bravo! Bravo!&quot; ejaculated the captain;—&quot;Bravo!&quot; &quot;Pretty! isn’t it, Sir?&quot; inquired Mr. Samuel Briggs, with the air of a self-satisfied showman. By-the-bye, they were the first words he had been heard to utter since he left Boswell-court the evening before. &quot;De-lightful!&quot; returned the captain, with a flourish, and a military cough;—&quot;de-lightful!&quot; &quot;Sweet instrument!&quot; said an old gentleman with a bald-head, who had been trying all the morning to look through a telescope, inside the glass of which Mr. Hardy had fixed a large black wafer. &quot;Did you ever hear a Portuguese tambourine?&quot; inquired that jocular individual. &quot;Did you ever hear a tom-tom, Sir?&quot; sternly inquired the captain, who lost no opportunity of shewing off his travels, real or pretended. &quot;A what?&quot; asked Hardy, rather taken aback. &quot;A tom-tom.&quot; &quot;Never!&quot; &quot;Nor a gum-gum?&quot; &quot;Never!&quot; &quot;What is a gum-gum?&quot; eagerly inquired several young ladies. &quot;When I was in the East Indies,&quot; replied the captain, (here was a discovery—he had been in the East Indies!)—&quot;when I was in the East Indies, I was once stopping a few thousand miles up the country, on a visit at the house of a very particular friend of mine, Ram Chowdar Doss Azuph Al Bowlar—a devilish pleasant fellow. As we were enjoying our hookahs one evening in the cool verandah, in front of his villa, we were rather surprised by the sudden appearance of thirty-four of his kit-ma-gars (for he had rather a large establishment there), accompanied by an equal number of Consumars, approaching the house with a threatening aspect, and beating a tom-tom. The Ram started up—&quot; &quot;The who?&quot; inquired the bald gentleman, intensely interested. &quot;The Ram—Ram Chowdar—&quot; &quot;Oh!&quot; said the old gentleman, &quot;I beg your pardon; it really didn&#039;t occur to me; pray go on.&quot; &quot;—Started up and drew a pistol. &#039;Helves,&#039; said he, &#039;my boy,&#039;—he always called me, my boy—&#039;Helves,&#039; said he, &#039;do you hear that tom-tom?&#039; &#039;I do,&#039; said I. His countenance, which before was pale, assumed a most frightful appearance; his whole visage was distorted, and his frame shaken by violent emotions. &#039;Do you see that gum-gum?&#039; said he. &#039;No,&#039; said I, staring about me. &#039;You don’t?&#039; said he. &#039;No, I’ll be damned if I do,&#039; said I; &#039;and what’s more, I don’t know what a gum-gum is,&#039; said I. I really thought the man would have dropped. He drew me aside, and with an expression of agony I shall never forget, said in a low whisper—&quot; &quot;Dinner’s on the table, ladies,&quot; interrupted the steward’s wife. &quot;Will you allow me?&quot; said the captain, immediately suiting the action to the word, and escorting Miss Julia Briggs to the cabin, with as much ease as if he had finished the story. &quot;What an extraordinary circumstance!&quot; ejaculated the same old gentleman, preserving his listening attitude. &quot;What a traveller!&quot; said the young ladies. &quot;What a singular name!&quot; exclaimed the gentlemen, rather confused by the coolness of the whole affair. &quot;I wish he had finished the story,&quot; said an old lady. &quot;I wonder what a gum-gum really is?&quot; &quot;By Jove!&quot; exclaimed Hardy, who until now had been lost in utter amazement, &quot;I don’t know what it may be in India, but in England I think a gum-gum has very much the same meaning as a hum-bug.&quot; &quot;How illiberal! how envious!&quot; cried every body, as they made for the cabin, fully impressed with a belief in the captain’s amazing adventures. Helves was the sole lion for the remainder of the day—impudence and the marvellous are pretty sure passports to any society. The party had by this time reached their destination, and put about on their return home. The wind, which had been with them the whole day, was now directly in their teeth; the weather had become gradually more and more overcast; and the sky, water, and shore, were all of that dull, heavy, uniform lead-colour which house-painters daub in the first instance over a street door which is gradually approaching a state of convalescence. It had been &quot;spitting&quot; with rain for the last half-hour, and now began to pour in good earnest. The wind was freshening very fast, and the &quot;jolly young waterman&quot; at the wheel had unequivocally expressed his opinion that there would shortly be a squall. A slight emotion on the part of the vessel now and then, seemed to suggest the possibility of its pitching to a very uncomfortable extent in the event of its blowing harder; and every timber began to creak as if the boat were an overladen clothes basket. Sea-sickness, however, is like a belief in ghosts—every one entertains some misgivings on the subject, but few will acknowledge them. The majority of the company, therefore, endeavoured to look peculiarly happy, feeling all the while especially miserable. &quot;Don’t it rain?&quot; inquired the old gentleman before noticed, when, by dint of squeezing and jamming, they were all seated at table. &quot;I think it does—a little,&quot; replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who could hardly hear himself speak, in consequence of the pattering on the deck. &quot;Don’t it blow?&quot; inquired some one else. &quot;No—I don’t think it does,&quot; responded Hardy, sincerely wishing that he could persuade himself that it did not, for he sat near the door, and was almost blown off his seat. &quot;It’ll soon clear up,&quot; said Mr. Percy Noakes, in a cheerful tone. &quot;Oh, certainly,&quot; ejaculated the committee generally. &quot;No doubt of it,&quot; said the remainder of the company, whose attention was now pretty well engrossed by the serious business of eating, carving, taking wine, and so forth. The throbbing motion of the engine was but too perceptible. There was a large, substantial, cold boiled leg of mutton at the bottom of the table, shaking like blanc-mange; a previously hearty sirloin of beef looked as if it had been suddenly seized with the palsy; and some tongues, which were placed on dishes rather too large for them, were going through the most surprising evolutions, darting from side to side and from end to end, like a fly in an inverted wine-glass. Then the sweets shook and trembled till it was quite impossible to help them, and people gave up the attempt in despair; and the pigeon-pies looked as if the birds, whose legs were stuck outside, were trying to get them in. The table vibrated and started like a feverish pulse, and the very legs were slightly convulsed—every thing was shaking and jarring. The beams in the roof of the cabin seemed as if they were put there for the sole purpose of giving people head-aches, and several elderly gentlemen became ill-tempered in consequence. As fast as the steward put the fire-irons up, they would fall down again; and the more the ladies and gentlemen tried to sit comfortably on their seats, the more the seats seemed to slide away from the ladies and gentlemen. Several ominous demands were made for small glasses of brandy, the countenances of the company gradually underwent most extraordinary changes; one gentleman was observed suddenly to rush from table without the slightest ostensible reason, and dart up the steps with incredible swiftness, thereby greatly damaging both himself and the steward, who happened to be coming down at the same moment. The cloth was removed; the desert was laid on the table, and the glasses were filled. The motion of the boat increased; several members of the party began to feel rather vague and misty, and looked as if they had only just got up. The young gentleman with the spectacles who had been in a fluctuating state for some time—one moment jolly, and another dismal, like a revolving light on the sea-coast—rashly announced his wish to propose a toast. After several ineffectual attempts to preserve his perpendicular, the young gentleman, having managed to hook himself to the centre leg of the table with his left hand, proceeded as follows:— &quot;Ladies and Gentlemen. A gentleman is among us—I may say a stranger—(here some painful thought seemed to strike the orator; he paused, and looked extremely odd) whose talents, whose travels, whose cheerfulness—&quot; &quot;I beg your pardon, Edkins,&quot; hastily interrupted Mr. Percy Noakes. &quot;Hardy, what’s the matter?&quot; &quot;Nothing,&quot; replied the ‘funny gentleman,’ who had just life enough left to utter two consecutive syllables. &quot;Will you have some brandy?&quot; &quot;No,&quot; replied Hardy in a tone of great indignation, and looking as comfortable as Temple Bar in a Scotch mist; &quot;what should I want brandy for?&quot; &quot;Will you go on deck?&quot; &quot;No, I will not.&quot; This was said with a most determined air, and in a voice which might have been taken for an imitation of anything; it was quite as much like a guinea-pig as a bassoon. &quot;I beg your pardon, Edkins,&quot; said the courteous Percy, &quot;I thought our friend was ill. Pray go on.&quot; A pause. &quot;Pray go on.&quot; &quot;Mr. Edkins is gone,&quot; cried somebody. &quot;I beg your pardon, Sir,&quot; said the steward, running up to Mr. Percy Noakes, &quot;I beg your pardon, Sir, but the gentleman as just went on deck—him with the green spectacles—is uncommon bad to be sure; and the young man as played the wiolin says, that unless he has some brandy he can’t answer for the consequences. He says he has a wife and two children, whose werry subsistence depends on his breaking a wessle, and that he expects to do so every moment. The flageolet’s been werry ill, but he’s better, only he’s in a dreadful prusperation.&quot; All disguise was now useless; the company staggered on deck; the gentlemen tried to see nothing but the clouds; and the ladies, muffled up in such shawls and cloaks as they had brought with them, lay about on the seats and under the seats, in the most wretched condition. Never was such a blowing, and raining, and pitching, and tossing endured by any pleasure party before. Several remonstrances were sent down below on the subject of Master Fleetwood, but they were totally unheeded in consequence of the indisposition of his natural protectors. That interesting child screamed at the very top of his voice, until he had no voice left to scream with, and then Miss Wakefield began, and screamed for the remainder of the passage. Mr. Hardy was observed some hours afterwards in an attitude which induced his friends to suppose that he was busily engaged in contemplating the beauties of the deep; they only regretted that his taste for the picturesque should lead him to remain so long in a position, very injurious at all times, but especially so to an individual labouring under a tendency of blood to the head. Having been for some months past subject to indigestion, and loss of appetite, he was recently persuaded to try a keener air and a more northern climate for the removal of the one, and the improvement of the other. We are credibly informed that he was present at the Edinburgh dinner, and, moreover, that he is the individual to whose eager appetite on that occasion we find allusion made in The Morning Chronicle of a few days since. The party arrived off the Custom-house at about two o’clock on the Thursday morning—dispirited and worn out. The Tauntons were too ill to quarrel with the Briggs&#039;s, and the Briggs&#039;s were too wretched to annoy the Tauntons. One of the guitar cases was lost on its passage to a hackney coach, and Mrs. Briggs has not scrupled to state that the Tauntons bribed a porter to throw it down an area. Mr. Alexander Briggs opposes vote by ballot—he says from personal experience of its inefficacy; and Mr. Samuel Briggs, whenever he is asked to express his sentiments on the point, says he has no opinion on that or any other subject. Mr. Edkins—the young gentleman in the green spectacles—makes a speech on every occasion on which a speech can possibly be made, the eloquence of which can only be equalled by its length. In the event of his not being previously appointed to a judgeship, it is most probable that he will practise as a barrister in the New Central Criminal Court. Captain Helves continued his attention to Miss Julia Briggs, whom he might possibly have espoused, if it had not unfortunately happened that Mr. Samuel arrested him, in the way of business, pursuant to instructions received from Messrs. Scroggins and Payne, whose town debts the gallant captain had condescended to collect, but whose accounts—with the indiscretion sometimes peculiar to military minds—he had omitted to keep with that dull accuracy which custom has rendered necessary. Mrs. Taunton complains that she has been much deceived in him. He introduced himself to the family on board a Gravesend steam-packet, and certainly, therefore, ought to have proved respectable. Mr. Percy Noakes is as light-hearted and careless as ever. We have described him as a general favourite in his private circle—we hope he may find a kindly disposed friend or two in public.18341001https://dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/The_Steam_Excursion/1834-10-The_Steam_Excursion.pdf