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SKETCHES BY BOZ

by Charles Dickens

OUR PARISH

CHAPTER I - THE BEADLE. THE PARISH ENGINE. THE SCHOOLMASTER.

How much is conveyed in those two short words - 'The Parish!' And
with how many tales of distress and misery, of broken fortune and
ruined hopes, too often of unrelieved wretchedness and successful
knavery, are they associated! A poor man, with small earnings, and
a large family, just manages to live on from hand to mouth, and to
procure food from day to day; he has barely sufficient to satisfy
the present cravings of nature, and can take no heed of the future.
His taxes are in arrear, quarter-day passes by, another quarter-day
arrives: he can procure no more quarter for himself, and is
summoned by - the parish. His goods are distrained, his children
are crying with cold and hunger, and the very bed on which his sick
wife is lying, is dragged from beneath her. What can he do? To
whom is he to apply for relief? To private charity? To benevolent
individuals? Certainly not - there is his parish. There are the
parish vestry, the parish infirmary, the parish surgeon, the parish
officers, the parish beadle. Excellent institutions, and gentle,
kind-hearted men. The woman dies - she is buried by the parish.
The children have no protector - they are taken care of by the
parish. The man first neglects, and afterwards cannot obtain, work
- he is relieved by the parish; and when distress and drunkenness
have done their work upon him, he is maintained, a harmless
babbling idiot, in the parish asylum.

The parish beadle is one of the most, perhaps THE most, important
member of the local administration. He is not so well off as the
churchwardens, certainly, nor is he so learned as the vestry-clerk,
nor does he order things quite so much his own way as either of
them. But his power is very great, notwithstanding; and the
dignity of his office is never impaired by the absence of efforts
on his part to maintain it. The beadle of our parish is a splendid
fellow. It is quite delightful to hear him, as he explains the
state of the existing poor laws to the deaf old women in the board-
room passage on business nights; and to hear what he said to the
senior churchwarden, and what the senior churchwarden said to him;
and what 'we' (the beadle and the other gentlemen) came to the
determination of doing. A miserable-looking woman is called into
the boardroom, and represents a case of extreme destitution,
affecting herself - a widow, with six small children. 'Where do
you live?' inquires one of the overseers. 'I rents a two-pair
back, gentlemen, at Mrs. Brown's, Number 3, Little King William's-
alley, which has lived there this fifteen year, and knows me to be
very hard-working and industrious, and when my poor husband was
alive, gentlemen, as died in the hospital' - 'Well, well,'
interrupts the overseer, taking a note of the address, 'I'll send
Simmons, the beadle, to-morrow morning, to ascertain whether your
story is correct; and if so, I suppose you must have an order into
the House - Simmons, go to this woman's the first thing to-morrow
morning, will you?' Simmons bows assent, and ushers the woman out.
Her previous admiration of 'the board' (who all sit behind great
books, and with their hats on) fades into nothing before her
respect for her lace-trimmed conductor; and her account of what has
passed inside, increases - if that be possible - the marks of
respect, shown by the assembled crowd, to that solemn functionary.
As to taking out a summons, it's quite a hopeless case if Simmons
attends it, on behalf of the parish. He knows all the titles of
the Lord Mayor by heart; states the case without a single stammer:
and it is even reported that on one occasion he ventured to make a
joke, which the Lord Mayor's head footman (who happened to be
present) afterwards told an intimate friend, confidentially, was
almost equal to one of Mr. Hobler's.

See him again on Sunday in his state-coat and cocked-hat, with a
large-headed staff for show in his left hand, and a small cane for
use in his right. How pompously he marshals the children into
their places! and how demurely the little urchins look at him
askance as he surveys them when they are all seated, with a glare
of the eye peculiar to beadles! The churchwardens and overseers
being duly installed in their curtained pews, he seats himself on a
mahogany bracket, erected expressly for him at the top of the
aisle, and divides his attention between his prayer-book and the
boys. Suddenly, just at the commencement of the communion service,
when the whole congregation is hushed into a profound silence,
broken only by the voice of the officiating clergyman, a penny is
heard to ring on the stone floor of the aisle with astounding
clearness. Observe the generalship of the beadle. His involuntary
look of horror is instantly changed into one of perfect
indifference, as if he were the only person present who had not
heard the noise. The artifice succeeds. After putting forth his
right leg now and then, as a feeler, the victim who dropped the
money ventures to make one or two distinct dives after it; and the
beadle, gliding softly round, salutes his little round head, when
it again appears above the seat, with divers double knocks,
administered with the cane before noticed, to the intense delight
of three young men in an adjacent pew, who cough violently at
intervals until the conclusion of the sermon.

Such are a few traits of the importance and gravity of a parish
beadle - a gravity which has never been disturbed in any case that
has come under our observation, except when the services of that
particularly useful machine, a parish fire-engine, are required:
then indeed all is bustle. Two little boys run to the beadle as
fast as their legs will carry them, and report from their own
personal observation that some neighbouring chimney is on fire; the
engine is hastily got out, and a plentiful supply of boys being
obtained, and harnessed to it with ropes, away they rattle over the
pavement, the beadle, running - we do not exaggerate - running at
the side, until they arrive at some house, smelling strongly of
soot, at the door of which the beadle knocks with considerable
gravity for half-an-hour. No attention being paid to these manual
applications, and the turn-cock having turned on the water, the
engine turns off amidst the shouts of the boys; it pulls up once
more at the work-house, and the beadle 'pulls up' the unfortunate
householder next day, for the amount of his legal reward. We never
saw a parish engine at a regular fire but once. It came up in
gallant style - three miles and a half an hour, at least; there was
a capital supply of water, and it was first on the spot. Bang went
the pumps - the people cheered - the beadle perspired profusely;
but it was unfortunately discovered, just as they were going to put
the fire out, that nobody understood the process by which the
engine was filled with water; and that eighteen boys, and a man,
had exhausted themselves in pumping for twenty minutes, without
producing the slightest effect!

The personages next in importance to the beadle, are the master of
the workhouse and the parish schoolmaster. The vestry-clerk, as
everybody knows, is a short, pudgy little man, in black, with a
thick gold watch-chain of considerable length, terminating in two
large seals and a key. He is an attorney, and generally in a
bustle; at no time more so, than when he is hurrying to some
parochial meeting, with his gloves crumpled up in one hand, and a
large red book under the other arm. As to the churchwardens and
overseers, we exclude them altogether, because all we know of them
is, that they are usually respectable tradesmen, who wear hats with
brims inclined to flatness, and who occasionally testify in gilt
letters on a blue ground, in some conspicuous part of the church,
to the important fact of a gallery having being enlarged and
beautified, or an organ rebuilt.

The master of the workhouse is not, in our parish - nor is he
usually in any other - one of that class of men the better part of
whose existence has passed away, and who drag out the remainder in
some inferior situation, with just enough thought of the past, to
feel degraded by, and discontented with the present. We are unable
to guess precisely to our own satisfaction what station the man can
have occupied before; we should think he had been an inferior sort
of attorney's clerk, or else the master of a national school -
whatever he was, it is clear his present position is a change for
the better. His income is small certainly, as the rusty black coat
and threadbare velvet collar demonstrate: but then he lives free
of house-rent, has a limited allowance of coals and candles, and an
almost unlimited allowance of authority in his petty kingdom. He
is a tall, thin, bony man; always wears shoes and black cotton
stockings with his surtout; and eyes you, as you pass his parlour-
window, as if he wished you were a pauper, just to give you a
specimen of his power. He is an admirable specimen of a small
tyrant: morose, brutish, and ill-tempered; bullying to his
inferiors, cringing to his superiors, and jealous of the influence
and authority of the beadle.

Our schoolmaster is just the very reverse of this amiable official.
He has been one of those men one occasionally hears of, on whom
misfortune seems to have set her mark; nothing he ever did, or was
concerned in, appears to have prospered. A rich old relation who
had brought him up, and openly announced his intention of providing
for him, left him 10,000L. in his will, and revoked the bequest in
a codicil. Thus unexpectedly reduced to the necessity of providing
for himself, he procured a situation in a public office. The young
clerks below him, died off as if there were a plague among them;
but the old fellows over his head, for the reversion of whose
places he was anxiously waiting, lived on and on, as if they were
immortal. He speculated and lost. He speculated again and won -
but never got his money. His talents were great; his disposition,
easy, generous and liberal. His friends profited by the one, and
abused the other. Loss succeeded loss; misfortune crowded on
misfortune; each successive day brought him nearer the verge of
hopeless penury, and the quondam friends who had been warmest in
their professions, grew strangely cold and indifferent. He had
children whom he loved, and a wife on whom he doted. The former
turned their backs on him; the latter died broken-hearted. He went
with the stream - it had ever been his failing, and he had not
courage sufficient to bear up against so many shocks - he had never
cared for himself, and the only being who had cared for him, in his
poverty and distress, was spared to him no longer. It was at this
period that he applied for parochial relief. Some kind-hearted man
who had known him in happier times, chanced to be churchwarden that
year, and through his interest he was appointed to his present
situation.

He is an old man now. Of the many who once crowded round him in
all the hollow friendship of boon-companionship, some have died,
some have fallen like himself, some have prospered - all have
forgotten him. Time and misfortune have mercifully been permitted
to impair his memory, and use has habituated him to his present
condition. Meek, uncomplaining, and zealous in the discharge of
his duties, he has been allowed to hold his situation long beyond
the usual period; and he will no doubt continue to hold it, until
infirmity renders him incapable, or death releases him. As the
grey-headed old man feebly paces up and down the sunny side of the
little court-yard between school hours, it would be difficult,
indeed, for the most intimate of his former friends to recognise
their once gay and happy associate, in the person of the Pauper
Schoolmaster.

CHAPTER II - THE CURATE. THE OLD LADY. THE HALF-PAY CAPTAIN

We commenced our last chapter with the beadle of our parish,
because we are deeply sensible of the importance and dignity of his
office. We will begin the present, with the clergyman. Our curate
is a young gentleman of such prepossessing appearance, and
fascinating manners, that within one month after his first
appearance in the parish, half the young-lady inhabitants were
melancholy with religion, and the other half, desponding with love.
Never were so many young ladies seen in our parish church on Sunday
before; and never had the little round angels' faces on Mr.
Tomkins's monument in the side aisle, beheld such devotion on earth
as they all exhibited. He was about five-and-twenty when he first
came to astonish the parishioners. He parted his hair on the
centre of his forehead in the form of a Norman arch, wore a
brilliant of the first water on the fourth finger of his left hand
(which he always applied to his left cheek when he read prayers),
and had a deep sepulchral voice of unusual solemnity. Innumerable
were the calls made by prudent mammas on our new curate, and
innumerable the invitations with which he was assailed, and which,
to do him justice, he readily accepted. If his manner in the
pulpit had created an impression in his favour, the sensation was
increased tenfold, by his appearance in private circles. Pews in
the immediate vicinity of the pulpit or reading-desk rose in value;
sittings in the centre aisle were at a premium: an inch of room in
the front row of the gallery could not be procured for love or
money; and some people even went so far as to assert, that the
three Miss Browns, who had an obscure family pew just behind the
churchwardens', were detected, one Sunday, in the free seats by the
communion-table, actually lying in wait for the curate as he passed
to the vestry! He began to preach extempore sermons, and even
grave papas caught the infection. He got out of bed at half-past
twelve o'clock one winter's night, to half-baptise a washerwoman's
child in a slop-basin, and the gratitude of the parishioners knew
no bounds - the very churchwardens grew generous, and insisted on
the parish defraying the expense of the watch-box on wheels, which
the new curate had ordered for himself, to perform the funeral
service in, in wet weather. He sent three pints of gruel and a
quarter of a pound of tea to a poor woman who had been brought to
bed of four small children, all at once - the parish were charmed.
He got up a subscription for her - the woman's fortune was made.
He spoke for one hour and twenty-five minutes, at an anti-slavery
meeting at the Goat and Boots - the enthusiasm was at its height.
A proposal was set on foot for presenting the curate with a piece
of plate, as a mark of esteem for his valuable services rendered to
the parish. The list of subscriptions was filled up in no time;
the contest was, not who should escape the contribution, but who
should be the foremost to subscribe. A splendid silver inkstand
was made, and engraved with an appropriate inscription; the curate
was invited to a public breakfast, at the before-mentioned Goat and
Boots; the inkstand was presented in a neat speech by Mr. Gubbins,
the ex-churchwarden, and acknowledged by the curate in terms which
drew tears into the eyes of all present - the very waiters were
melted.

One would have supposed that, by this time, the theme of universal
admiration was lifted to the very pinnacle of popularity. No such
thing. The curate began to cough; four fits of coughing one
morning between the Litany and the Epistle, and five in the
afternoon service. Here was a discovery - the curate was
consumptive. How interestingly melancholy! If the young ladies
were energetic before, their sympathy and solicitude now knew no
bounds. Such a man as the curate - such a dear - such a perfect
love - to be consumptive! It was too much. Anonymous presents of
black-currant jam, and lozenges, elastic waistcoats, bosom friends,
and warm stockings, poured in upon the curate until he was as
completely fitted out with winter clothing, as if he were on the
verge of an expedition to the North Pole: verbal bulletins of the
state of his health were circulated throughout the parish half-a-
dozen times a day; and the curate was in the very zenith of his
popularity.

About this period, a change came over the spirit of the parish. A
very quiet, respectable, dozing old gentleman, who had officiated
in our chapel-of-ease for twelve years previously, died one fine
morning, without having given any notice whatever of his intention.
This circumstance gave rise to counter-sensation the first; and the
arrival of his successor occasioned counter-sensation the second.
He was a pale, thin, cadaverous man, with large black eyes, and
long straggling black hair: his dress was slovenly in the extreme,
his manner ungainly, his doctrines startling; in short, he was in
every respect the antipodes of the curate. Crowds of our female
parishioners flocked to hear him; at first, because he was SO odd-
looking, then because his face was SO expressive, then because he
preached SO well; and at last, because they really thought that,
after all, there was something about him which it was quite
impossible to describe. As to the curate, he was all very well;
but certainly, after all, there was no denying that - that - in
short, the curate wasn't a novelty, and the other clergyman was.
The inconstancy of public opinion is proverbial: the congregation
migrated one by one. The curate coughed till he was black in the
face - it was in vain. He respired with difficulty - it was
equally ineffectual in awakening sympathy. Seats are once again to
be had in any part of our parish church, and the chapel-of-ease is
going to be enlarged, as it is crowded to suffocation every Sunday!

The best known and most respected among our parishioners, is an old
lady, who resided in our parish long before our name was registered
in the list of baptisms. Our parish is a suburban one, and the old
lady lives in a neat row of houses in the most airy and pleasant
part of it. The house is her own; and it, and everything about it,
except the old lady herself, who looks a little older than she did
ten years ago, is in just the same state as when the old gentleman
was living. The little front parlour, which is the old lady's
ordinary sitting-room, is a perfect picture of quiet neatness; the
carpet is covered with brown Holland, the glass and picture-frames
are carefully enveloped in yellow muslin; the table-covers are
never taken off, except when the leaves are turpentined and bees'-
waxed, an operation which is regularly commenced every other
morning at half-past nine o'clock - and the little nicknacks are
always arranged in precisely the same manner. The greater part of
these are presents from little girls whose parents live in the same
row; but some of them, such as the two old-fashioned watches (which
never keep the same time, one being always a quarter of an hour too
slow, and the other a quarter of an hour too fast), the little
picture of the Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold as they
appeared in the Royal Box at Drury Lane Theatre, and others of the
same class, have been in the old lady's possession for many years.
Here the old lady sits with her spectacles on, busily engaged in
needlework - near the window in summer time; and if she sees you
coming up the steps, and you happen to be a favourite, she trots
out to open the street-door for you before you knock, and as you
must be fatigued after that hot walk, insists on your swallowing
two glasses of sherry before you exert yourself by talking. If you
call in the evening you will find her cheerful, but rather more
serious than usual, with an open Bible on the table, before her, of
which 'Sarah,' who is just as neat and methodical as her mistress,
regularly reads two or three chapters in the parlour aloud.

The old lady sees scarcely any company, except the little girls
before noticed, each of whom has always a regular fixed day for a
periodical tea-drinking with her, to which the child looks forward
as the greatest treat of its existence. She seldom visits at a
greater distance than the next door but one on either side; and
when she drinks tea here, Sarah runs out first and knocks a double-
knock, to prevent the possibility of her 'Missis's' catching cold
by having to wait at the door. She is very scrupulous in returning
these little invitations, and when she asks Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so,
to meet Mr. and Mrs. Somebody-else, Sarah and she dust the urn, and
the best china tea-service, and the Pope Joan board; and the
visitors are received in the drawing-room in great state. She has
but few relations, and they are scattered about in different parts
of the country, and she seldom sees them. She has a son in India,
whom she always describes to you as a fine, handsome fellow - so
like the profile of his poor dear father over the sideboard, but
the old lady adds, with a mournful shake of the head, that he has
always been one of her greatest trials; and that indeed he once
almost broke her heart; but it pleased God to enable her to get the
better of it, and she would prefer your never mentioning the
subject to her again. She has a great number of pensioners: and
on Saturday, after she comes back from market, there is a regular
levee of old men and women in the passage, waiting for their weekly
gratuity. Her name always heads the list of any benevolent
subscriptions, and hers are always the most liberal donations to
the Winter Coal and Soup Distribution Society. She subscribed
twenty pounds towards the erection of an organ in our parish
church, and was so overcome the first Sunday the children sang to
it, that she was obliged to be carried out by the pew-opener. Her
entrance into church on Sunday is always the signal for a little
bustle in the side aisle, occasioned by a general rise among the
poor people, who bow and curtsey until the pew-opener has ushered
the old lady into her accustomed seat, dropped a respectful
curtsey, and shut the door: and the same ceremony is repeated on
her leaving church, when she walks home with the family next door
but one, and talks about the sermon all the way, invariably opening
the conversation by asking the youngest boy where the text was.

Thus, with the annual variation of a trip to some quiet place on
the sea-coast, passes the old lady's life. It has rolled on in the
same unvarying and benevolent course for many years now, and must
at no distant period be brought to its final close. She looks
forward to its termination, with calmness and without apprehension.
She has everything to hope and nothing to fear.

A very different personage, but one who has rendered himself very
conspicuous in our parish, is one of the old lady's next-door
neighbours. He is an old naval officer on half-pay, and his bluff
and unceremonious behaviour disturbs the old lady's domestic
economy, not a little. In the first place, he WILL smoke cigars in
the front court, and when he wants something to drink with them -
which is by no means an uncommon circumstance - he lifts up the old
lady's knocker with his walking-stick, and demands to have a glass
of table ale, handed over the rails. In addition to this cool
proceeding, he is a bit of a Jack of all trades, or to use his own
words, 'a regular Robinson Crusoe;' and nothing delights him better
than to experimentalise on the old lady's property. One morning he
got up early, and planted three or four roots of full-grown
marigolds in every bed of her front garden, to the inconceivable
astonishment of the old lady, who actually thought when she got up
and looked out of the window, that it was some strange eruption
which had come out in the night. Another time he took to pieces
the eight-day clock on the front landing, under pretence of
cleaning the works, which he put together again, by some
undiscovered process, in so wonderful a manner, that the large hand
has done nothing but trip up the little one ever since. Then he
took to breeding silk-worms, which he WOULD bring in two or three
times a day, in little paper boxes, to show the old lady, generally
dropping a worm or two at every visit. The consequence was, that
one morning a very stout silk-worm was discovered in the act of
walking up-stairs - probably with the view of inquiring after his
friends, for, on further inspection, it appeared that some of his
companions had already found their way to every room in the house.
The old lady went to the seaside in despair, and during her absence
he completely effaced the name from her brass door-plate, in his
attempts to polish it with aqua-fortis.

But all this is nothing to his seditious conduct in public life.
He attends every vestry meeting that is held; always opposes the
constituted authorities of the parish, denounces the profligacy of
the churchwardens, contests legal points against the vestry-clerk,
will make the tax-gatherer call for his money till he won't call
any longer, and then he sends it: finds fault with the sermon
every Sunday, says that the organist ought to be ashamed of
himself, offers to back himself for any amount to sing the psalms
better than all the children put together, male and female; and, in
short, conducts himself in the most turbulent and uproarious
manner. The worst of it is, that having a high regard for the old
lady, he wants to make her a convert to his views, and therefore
walks into her little parlour with his newspaper in his hand, and
talks violent politics by the hour. He is a charitable, open-
hearted old fellow at bottom, after all; so, although he puts the
old lady a little out occasionally, they agree very well in the
main, and she laughs as much at each feat of his handiwork when it
is all over, as anybody else.

CHAPTER III - THE FOUR SISTERS

The row of houses in which the old lady and her troublesome
neighbour reside, comprises, beyond all doubt, a greater number of
characters within its circumscribed limits, than all the rest of
the parish put together. As we cannot, consistently with our
present plan, however, extend the number of our parochial sketches
beyond six, it will be better perhaps, to select the most peculiar,
and to introduce them at once without further preface.

The four Miss Willises, then, settled in our parish thirteen years
ago. It is a melancholy reflection that the old adage, 'time and
tide wait for no man,' applies with equal force to the fairer
portion of the creation; and willingly would we conceal the fact,
that even thirteen years ago the Miss Willises were far from
juvenile. Our duty as faithful parochial chroniclers, however, is
paramount to every other consideration, and we are bound to state,
that thirteen years since, the authorities in matrimonial cases,
considered the youngest Miss Willis in a very precarious state,
while the eldest sister was positively given over, as being far
beyond all human hope. Well, the Miss Willises took a lease of the
house; it was fresh painted and papered from top to bottom: the
paint inside was all wainscoted, the marble all cleaned, the old
grates taken down, and register-stoves, you could see to dress by,
put up; four trees were planted in the back garden, several small
baskets of gravel sprinkled over the front one, vans of elegant
furniture arrived, spring blinds were fitted to the windows,
carpenters who had been employed in the various preparations,
alterations, and repairs, made confidential statements to the
different maid-servants in the row, relative to the magnificent
scale on which the Miss Willises were commencing; the maid-servants
told their 'Missises,' the Missises told their friends, and vague
rumours were circulated throughout the parish, that No. 25, in
Gordon-place, had been taken by four maiden ladies of immense
property.

At last, the Miss Willises moved in; and then the 'calling' began.
The house was the perfection of neatness - so were the four Miss
Willises. Everything was formal, stiff, and cold - so were the
four Miss Willises. Not a single chair of the whole set was ever
seen out of its place - not a single Miss Willis of the whole four
was ever seen out of hers. There they always sat, in the same
places, doing precisely the same things at the same hour. The
eldest Miss Willis used to knit, the second to draw, the two others
to play duets on the piano. They seemed to have no separate
existence, but to have made up their minds just to winter through
life together. They were three long graces in drapery, with the
addition, like a school-dinner, of another long grace afterwards -
the three fates with another sister - the Siamese twins multiplied
by two. The eldest Miss Willis grew bilious - the four Miss
Willises grew bilious immediately. The eldest Miss Willis grew
ill-tempered and religious - the four Miss Willises were ill-
tempered and religious directly. Whatever the eldest did, the
others did, and whatever anybody else did, they all disapproved of;
and thus they vegetated - living in Polar harmony among themselves,
and, as they sometimes went out, or saw company 'in a quiet-way' at
home, occasionally icing the neighbours. Three years passed over
in this way, when an unlooked for and extraordinary phenomenon
occurred. The Miss Willises showed symptoms of summer, the frost
gradually broke up; a complete thaw took place. Was it possible?
one of the four Miss Willises was going to be married!

Now, where on earth the husband came from, by what feelings the
poor man could have been actuated, or by what process of reasoning
the four Miss Willises succeeded in persuading themselves that it
was possible for a man to marry one of them, without marrying them
all, are questions too profound for us to resolve: certain it is,
however, that the visits of Mr. Robinson (a gentleman in a public
office, with a good salary and a little property of his own,
besides) were received - that the four Miss Willises were courted
in due form by the said Mr Robinson - that the neighbours were
perfectly frantic in their anxiety to discover which of the four
Miss Willises was the fortunate fair, and that the difficulty they
experienced in solving the problem was not at all lessened by the
announcement of the eldest Miss Willis, - 'WE are going to marry
Mr. Robinson.'

It was very extraordinary. They were so completely identified, the
one with the other, that the curiosity of the whole row - even of
the old lady herself - was roused almost beyond endurance. The
subject was discussed at every little card-table and tea-drinking.
The old gentleman of silk-worm notoriety did not hesitate to
express his decided opinion that Mr. Robinson was of Eastern
descent, and contemplated marrying the whole family at once; and
the row, generally, shook their heads with considerable gravity,
and declared the business to be very mysterious. They hoped it
might all end well; - it certainly had a very singular appearance,
but still it would be uncharitable to express any opinion without
good grounds to go upon, and certainly the Miss Willises were QUITE
old enough to judge for themselves, and to be sure people ought to
know their own business best, and so forth.

At last, one fine morning, at a quarter before eight o'clock, A.M.,
two glass-coaches drove up to the Miss Willises' door, at which Mr.
Robinson had arrived in a cab ten minutes before, dressed in a
light-blue coat and double-milled kersey pantaloons, white
neckerchief, pumps, and dress-gloves, his manner denoting, as
appeared from the evidence of the housemaid at No. 23, who was
sweeping the door-steps at the time, a considerable degree of
nervous excitement. It was also hastily reported on the same
testimony, that the cook who opened the door, wore a large white
bow of unusual dimensions, in a much smarter head-dress than the
regulation cap to which the Miss Willises invariably restricted the
somewhat excursive tastes of female servants in general.

The intelligence spread rapidly from house to house. It was quite
clear that the eventful morning had at length arrived; the whole
row stationed themselves behind their first and second floor
blinds, and waited the result in breathless expectation.

At last the Miss Willises' door opened; the door of the first
glass-coach did the same. Two gentlemen, and a pair of ladies to
correspond - friends of the family, no doubt; up went the steps,
bang went the door, off went the first class-coach, and up came the
second.

The street door opened again; the excitement of the whole row
increased - Mr. Robinson and the eldest Miss Willis. 'I thought
so,' said the lady at No. 19; 'I always said it was MISS Willis!' -
'Well, I never!' ejaculated the young lady at No. 18 to the young
lady at No. 17. - 'Did you ever, dear!' responded the young lady at
No. 17 to the young lady at No. 18. 'It's too ridiculous!'
exclaimed a spinster of an UNcertain age, at No. 16, joining in the
conversation. But who shall portray the astonishment of Gordon-
place, when Mr. Robinson handed in ALL the Miss Willises, one after
the other, and then squeezed himself into an acute angle of the
glass-coach, which forthwith proceeded at a brisk pace, after the
other glass-coach, which other glass-coach had itself proceeded, at
a brisk pace, in the direction of the parish church! Who shall
depict the perplexity of the clergyman, when ALL the Miss Willises
knelt down at the communion-table, and repeated the responses
incidental to the marriage service in an audible voice - or who
shall describe the confusion which prevailed, when - even after the
difficulties thus occasioned had been adjusted - ALL the Miss
Willises went into hysterics at the conclusion of the ceremony,
until the sacred edifice resounded with their united wailings!

As the four sisters and Mr. Robinson continued to occupy the same
house after this memorable occasion, and as the married sister,
whoever she was, never appeared in public without the other three,
we are not quite clear that the neighbours ever would have
discovered the real Mrs. Robinson, but for a circumstance of the
most gratifying description, which WILL happen occasionally in the
best-regulated families. Three quarter-days elapsed, and the row,
on whom a new light appeared to have been bursting for some time,
began to speak with a sort of implied confidence on the subject,
and to wonder how Mrs. Robinson - the youngest Miss Willis that was
- got on; and servants might be seen running up the steps, about
nine or ten o'clock every morning, with 'Missis's compliments, and
wishes to know how Mrs. Robinson finds herself this morning?' And
the answer always was, 'Mrs. Robinson's compliments, and she's in
very good spirits, and doesn't find herself any worse.' The piano
was heard no longer, the knitting-needles were laid aside, drawing
was neglected, and mantua-making and millinery, on the smallest
scale imaginable, appeared to have become the favourite amusement
of the whole family. The parlour wasn't quite as tidy as it used
to be, and if you called in the morning, you would see lying on a
table, with an old newspaper carelessly thrown over them, two or
three particularly small caps, rather larger than if they had been
made for a moderate-sized doll, with a small piece of lace, in the
shape of a horse-shoe, let in behind: or perhaps a white robe, not
very large in circumference, but very much out of proportion in
point of length, with a little tucker round the top, and a frill
round the bottom; and once when we called, we saw a long white
roller, with a kind of blue margin down each side, the probable use
of which, we were at a loss to conjecture. Then we fancied that
Dr. Dawson, the surgeon, &c., who displays a large lamp with a
different colour in every pane of glass, at the corner of the row,
began to be knocked up at night oftener than he used to be; and
once we were very much alarmed by hearing a hackney-coach stop at
Mrs. Robinson's door, at half-past two o'clock in the morning, out
of which there emerged a fat old woman, in a cloak and night-cap,
with a bundle in one hand, and a pair of pattens in the other, who
looked as if she had been suddenly knocked up out of bed for some
very special purpose.

When we got up in the morning we saw that the knocker was tied up
in an old white kid glove; and we, in our innocence (we were in a
state of bachelorship then), wondered what on earth it all meant,
until we heard the eldest Miss Willis, IN PROPRIA PERSONA say, with
great dignity, in answer to the next inquiry, 'MY compliments, and
Mrs. Robinson's doing as well as can be expected, and the little
girl thrives wonderfully.' And then, in common with the rest of
the row, our curiosity was satisfied, and we began to wonder it had
never occurred to us what the matter was, before.

CHAPTER IV - THE ELECTION FOR BEADLE

A great event has recently occurred in our parish. A contest of
paramount interest has just terminated; a parochial convulsion has
taken place. It has been succeeded by a glorious triumph, which
the country - or at least the parish - it is all the same - will
long remember. We have had an election; an election for beadle.
The supporters of the old beadle system have been defeated in their
stronghold, and the advocates of the great new beadle principles
have achieved a proud victory.

Our parish, which, like all other parishes, is a little world of
its own, has long been divided into two parties, whose contentions,
slumbering for a while, have never failed to burst forth with
unabated vigour, on any occasion on which they could by possibility
be renewed. Watching-rates, lighting-rates, paving-rates, sewer's-
rates, church-rates, poor's-rates - all sorts of rates, have been
in their turns the subjects of a grand struggle; and as to
questions of patronage, the asperity and determination with which
they have been contested is scarcely credible.

The leader of the official party - the steady advocate of the
churchwardens, and the unflinching supporter of the overseers - is
an old gentleman who lives in our row. He owns some half a dozen
houses in it, and always walks on the opposite side of the way, so
that he may be able to take in a view of the whole of his property
at once. He is a tall, thin, bony man, with an interrogative nose,
and little restless perking eyes, which appear to have been given
him for the sole purpose of peeping into other people's affairs
with. He is deeply impressed with the importance of our parish
business, and prides himself, not a little, on his style of
addressing the parishioners in vestry assembled. His views are
rather confined than extensive; his principles more narrow than
liberal. He has been heard to declaim very loudly in favour of the
liberty of the press, and advocates the repeal of the stamp duty on
newspapers, because the daily journals who now have a monopoly of
the public, never give VERBATIM reports of vestry meetings. He
would not appear egotistical for the world, but at the same time he
must say, that there are SPEECHES - that celebrated speech of his
own, on the emoluments of the sexton, and the duties of the office,
for instance - which might be communicated to the public, greatly
to their improvement and advantage.

His great opponent in public life is Captain Purday, the old naval
officer on half-pay, to whom we have already introduced our
readers. The captain being a determined opponent of the
constituted authorities, whoever they may chance to be, and our
other friend being their steady supporter, with an equal disregard
of their individual merits, it will readily be supposed, that
occasions for their coming into direct collision are neither few
nor far between. They divided the vestry fourteen times on a
motion for heating the church with warm water instead of coals:
and made speeches about liberty and expenditure, and prodigality
and hot water, which threw the whole parish into a state of
excitement. Then the captain, when he was on the visiting
committee, and his opponent overseer, brought forward certain
distinct and specific charges relative to the management of the
workhouse, boldly expressed his total want of confidence in the
existing authorities, and moved for 'a copy of the recipe by which
the paupers' soup was prepared, together with any documents
relating thereto.' This the overseer steadily resisted; he
fortified himself by precedent, appealed to the established usage,
and declined to produce the papers, on the ground of the injury
that would be done to the public service, if documents of a
strictly private nature, passing between the master of the
workhouse and the cook, were to be thus dragged to light on the
motion of any individual member of the vestry. The motion was lost
by a majority of two; and then the captain, who never allows
himself to be defeated, moved for a committee of inquiry into the
whole subject. The affair grew serious: the question was
discussed at meeting after meeting, and vestry after vestry;
speeches were made, attacks repudiated, personal defiances
exchanged, explanations received, and the greatest excitement
prevailed, until at last, just as the question was going to be
finally decided, the vestry found that somehow or other, they had
become entangled in a point of form, from which it was impossible
to escape with propriety. So, the motion was dropped, and
everybody looked extremely important, and seemed quite satisfied
with the meritorious nature of the whole proceeding.

This was the state of affairs in our parish a week or two since,
when Simmons, the beadle, suddenly died. The lamented deceased had
over-exerted himself, a day or two previously, in conveying an aged
female, highly intoxicated, to the strong room of the work-house.
The excitement thus occasioned, added to a severe cold, which this
indefatigable officer had caught in his capacity of director of the
parish engine, by inadvertently playing over himself instead of a
fire, proved too much for a constitution already enfeebled by age;
and the intelligence was conveyed to the Board one evening that
Simmons had died, and left his respects.

The breath was scarcely out of the body of the deceased
functionary, when the field was filled with competitors for the
vacant office, each of whom rested his claims to public support,
entirely on the number and extent of his family, as if the office
of beadle were originally instituted as an encouragement for the
propagation of the human species. 'Bung for Beadle. Five small
children!' - 'Hopkins for Beadle. Seven small children!!' -
'Timkins for Beadle. Nine small children!!!' Such were the
placards in large black letters on a white ground, which were
plentifully pasted on the walls, and posted in the windows of the
principal shops. Timkins's success was considered certain:
several mothers of families half promised their votes, and the nine
small children would have run over the course, but for the
production of another placard, announcing the appearance of a still
more meritorious candidate. 'Spruggins for Beadle. Ten small
children (two of them twins), and a wife!!!' There was no
resisting this; ten small children would have been almost
irresistible in themselves, without the twins, but the touching
parenthesis about that interesting production of nature, and the
still more touching allusion to Mrs. Spruggins, must ensure
success. Spruggins was the favourite at once, and the appearance
of his lady, as she went about to solicit votes (which encouraged
confident hopes of a still further addition to the house of
Spruggins at no remote period), increased the general prepossession
in his favour. The other candidates, Bung alone excepted, resigned
in despair. The day of election was fixed; and the canvass
proceeded with briskness and perseverance on both sides.

The members of the vestry could not be supposed to escape the
contagious excitement inseparable from the occasion. The majority
of the lady inhabitants of the parish declared at once for
Spruggins; and the QUONDAM overseer took the same side, on the
ground that men with large families always had been elected to the
office, and that although he must admit, that, in other respects,
Spruggins was the least qualified candidate of the two, still it
was an old practice, and he saw no reason why an old practice
should be departed from. This was enough for the captain. He
immediately sided with Bung, canvassed for him personally in all
directions, wrote squibs on Spruggins, and got his butcher to
skewer them up on conspicuous joints in his shop-front; frightened
his neighbour, the old lady, into a palpitation of the heart, by
his awful denunciations of Spruggins's party; and bounced in and
out, and up and down, and backwards and forwards, until all the
sober inhabitants of the parish thought it inevitable that he must
die of a brain fever, long before the election began.

The day of election arrived. It was no longer an individual
struggle, but a party contest between the ins and outs. The
question was, whether the withering influence of the overseers, the
domination of the churchwardens, and the blighting despotism of the
vestry-clerk, should be allowed to render the election of beadle a
form - a nullity: whether they should impose a vestry-elected
beadle on the parish, to do their bidding and forward their views,
or whether the parishioners, fearlessly asserting their undoubted
rights, should elect an independent beadle of their own.

The nomination was fixed to take place in the vestry, but so great
was the throng of anxious spectators, that it was found necessary
to adjourn to the church, where the ceremony commenced with due
solemnity. The appearance of the churchwardens and overseers, and
the ex-churchwardens and ex-overseers, with Spruggins in the rear,
excited general attention. Spruggins was a little thin man, in
rusty black, with a long pale face, and a countenance expressive of
care and fatigue, which might either be attributed to the extent of
his family or the anxiety of his feelings. His opponent appeared
in a cast-off coat of the captain's - a blue coat with bright
buttons; white trousers, and that description of shoes familiarly
known by the appellation of 'high-lows.' There was a serenity in
the open countenance of Bung - a kind of moral dignity in his
confident air - an 'I wish you may get it' sort of expression in
his eye - which infused animation into his supporters, and
evidently dispirited his opponents.

The ex-churchwarden rose to propose Thomas Spruggins for beadle.
He had known him long. He had had his eye upon him closely for
years; he had watched him with twofold vigilance for months. (A
parishioner here suggested that this might be termed 'taking a
double sight,' but the observation was drowned in loud cries of
'Order!') He would repeat that he had had his eye upon him for
years, and this he would say, that a more well-conducted, a more
well-behaved, a more sober, a more quiet man, with a more well-
regulated mind, he had never met with. A man with a larger family
he had never known (cheers). The parish required a man who could
be depended on ('Hear!' from the Spruggins side, answered by
ironical cheers from the Bung party). Such a man he now proposed
('No,' 'Yes'). He would not allude to individuals (the ex-
churchwarden continued, in the celebrated negative style adopted by
great speakers). He would not advert to a gentleman who had once
held a high rank in the service of his majesty; he would not say,
that that gentleman was no gentleman; he would not assert, that
that man was no man; he would not say, that he was a turbulent
parishioner; he would not say, that he had grossly misbehaved
himself, not only on this, but on all former occasions; he would
not say, that he was one of those discontented and treasonable
spirits, who carried confusion and disorder wherever they went; he
would not say, that he harboured in his heart envy, and hatred, and
malice, and all uncharitableness. No! He wished to have
everything comfortable and pleasant, and therefore, he would say -
nothing about him (cheers).

The captain replied in a similar parliamentary style. He would not
say, he was astonished at the speech they had just heard; he would
not say, he was disgusted (cheers). He would not retort the
epithets which had been hurled against him (renewed cheering); he
would not allude to men once in office, but now happily out of it,
who had mismanaged the workhouse, ground the paupers, diluted the
beer, slack-baked the bread, boned the meat, heightened the work,
and lowered the soup (tremendous cheers). He would not ask what
such men deserved (a voice, 'Nothing a-day, and find themselves!').
He would not say, that one burst of general indignation should
drive them from the parish they polluted with their presence ('Give
it him!'). He would not allude to the unfortunate man who had been
proposed - he would not say, as the vestry's tool, but as Beadle.
He would not advert to that individual's family; he would not say,
that nine children, twins, and a wife, were very bad examples for
pauper imitation (loud cheers). He would not advert in detail to
the qualifications of Bung. The man stood before him, and he would
not say in his presence, what he might be disposed to say of him,
if he were absent. (Here Mr. Bung telegraphed to a friend near
him, under cover of his hat, by contracting his left eye, and
applying his right thumb to the tip of his nose). It had been
objected to Bung that he had only five children ('Hear, hear!' from
the opposition). Well; he had yet to learn that the legislature
had affixed any precise amount of infantine qualification to the
office of beadle; but taking it for granted that an extensive
family were a great requisite, he entreated them to look to facts,
and compare DATA, about which there could be no mistake. Bung was
35 years of age. Spruggins - of whom he wished to speak with all
possible respect - was 50. Was it not more than possible - was it
not very probable - that by the time Bung attained the latter age,
he might see around him a family, even exceeding in number and
extent, that to which Spruggins at present laid claim (deafening
cheers and waving of handkerchiefs)? The captain concluded, amidst
loud applause, by calling upon the parishioners to sound the
tocsin, rush to the poll, free themselves from dictation, or be
slaves for ever.

On the following day the polling began, and we never have had such
a bustle in our parish since we got up our famous anti-slavery
petition, which was such an important one, that the House of
Commons ordered it to be printed, on the motion of the member for
the district. The captain engaged two hackney-coaches and a cab
for Bung's people - the cab for the drunken voters, and the two
coaches for the old ladies, the greater portion of whom, owing to
the captain's impetuosity, were driven up to the poll and home
again, before they recovered from their flurry sufficiently to
know, with any degree of clearness, what they had been doing. The
opposite party wholly neglected these precautions, and the
consequence was, that a great many ladies who were walking
leisurely up to the church - for it was a very hot day - to vote
for Spruggins, were artfully decoyed into the coaches, and voted
for Bung. The captain's arguments, too, had produced considerable
effect: the attempted influence of the vestry produced a greater.
A threat of exclusive dealing was clearly established against the
vestry-clerk - a case of heartless and profligate atrocity. It
appeared that the delinquent had been in the habit of purchasing
six penn'orth of muffins, weekly, from an old woman who rents a
small house in the parish, and resides among the original settlers;
on her last weekly visit, a message was conveyed to her through the
medium of the cook, couched in mysterious terms, but indicating
with sufficient clearness, that the vestry-clerk's appetite for
muffins, in future, depended entirely on her vote on the
beadleship. This was sufficient: the stream had been turning
previously, and the impulse thus administered directed its final
course. The Bung party ordered one shilling's-worth of muffins
weekly for the remainder of the old woman's natural life; the
parishioners were loud in their exclamations; and the fate of
Spruggins was sealed.

It was in vain that the twins were exhibited in dresses of the same
pattern, and night-caps, to match, at the church door: the boy in
Mrs. Spruggins's right arm, and the girl in her left - even Mrs.
Spruggins herself failed to be an object of sympathy any longer.
The majority attained by Bung on the gross poll was four hundred
and twenty-eight, and the cause of the parishioners triumphed.

CHAPTER V - THE BROKER'S MAN

The excitement of the late election has subsided, and our parish
being once again restored to a state of comparative tranquillity,
we are enabled to devote our attention to those parishioners who
take little share in our party contests or in the turmoil and
bustle of public life. And we feel sincere pleasure in
acknowledging here, that in collecting materials for this task we
have been greatly assisted by Mr. Bung himself, who has imposed on
us a debt of obligation which we fear we can never repay. The life
of this gentleman has been one of a very chequered description: he
has undergone transitions - not from grave to gay, for he never was
grave - not from lively to severe, for severity forms no part of
his disposition; his fluctuations have been between poverty in the
extreme, and poverty modified, or, to use his own emphatic
language, 'between nothing to eat and just half enough.' He is
not, as he forcibly remarks, 'one of those fortunate men who, if
they were to dive under one side of a barge stark-naked, would come
up on the other with a new suit of clothes on, and a ticket for
soup in the waistcoat-pocket:' neither is he one of those, whose
spirit has been broken beyond redemption by misfortune and want.
He is just one of the careless, good-for-nothing, happy fellows,
who float, cork-like, on the surface, for the world to play at
hockey with: knocked here, and there, and everywhere: now to the
right, then to the left, again up in the air, and anon to the
bottom, but always reappearing and bounding with the stream
buoyantly and merrily along. Some few months before he was
prevailed upon to stand a contested election for the office of
beadle, necessity attached him to the service of a broker; and on
the opportunities he here acquired of ascertaining the condition of
most of the poorer inhabitants of the parish, his patron, the
captain, first grounded his claims to public support. Chance threw
the man in our way a short time since. We were, in the first
instance, attracted by his prepossessing impudence at the election;
we were not surprised, on further acquaintance, to find him a
shrewd, knowing fellow, with no inconsiderable power of
observation; and, after conversing with him a little, were somewhat
struck (as we dare say our readers have frequently been in other
cases) with the power some men seem to have, not only of
sympathising with, but to all appearance of understanding feelings
to which they themselves are entire strangers. We had been
expressing to the new functionary our surprise that he should ever
have served in the capacity to which we have just adverted, when we
gradually led him into one or two professional anecdotes. As we
are induced to think, on reflection, that they will tell better in
nearly his own words, than with any attempted embellishments of
ours, we will at once entitle them.

MR BUNG'S NARRATIVE

'It's very true, as you say, sir,' Mr. Bung commenced, 'that a
broker's man's is not a life to be envied; and in course you know
as well as I do, though you don't say it, that people hate and
scout 'em because they're the ministers of wretchedness, like, to
poor people. But what could I do, sir? The thing was no worse
because I did it, instead of somebody else; and if putting me in
possession of a house would put me in possession of three and
sixpence a day, and levying a distress on another man's goods would
relieve my distress and that of my family, it can't be expected but
what I'd take the job and go through with it. I never liked it,
God knows; I always looked out for something else, and the moment I
got other work to do, I left it. If there is anything wrong in
being the agent in such matters - not the principal, mind you - I'm
sure the business, to a beginner like I was, at all events, carries
its own punishment along with it. I wished again and again that
the people would only blow me up, or pitch into me - that I
wouldn't have minded, it's all in my way; but it's the being shut
up by yourself in one room for five days, without so much as an old
newspaper to look at, or anything to see out o' the winder but the
roofs and chimneys at the back of the house, or anything to listen
to, but the ticking, perhaps, of an old Dutch clock, the sobbing of
the missis, now and then, the low talking of friends in the next
room, who speak in whispers, lest "the man" should overhear them,
or perhaps the occasional opening of the door, as a child peeps in
to look at you, and then runs half-frightened away - it's all this,
that makes you feel sneaking somehow, and ashamed of yourself; and
then, if it's wintertime, they just give you fire enough to make
you think you'd like more, and bring in your grub as if they wished
it 'ud choke you - as I dare say they do, for the matter of that,
most heartily. If they're very civil, they make you up a bed in
the room at night, and if they don't, your master sends one in for
you; but there you are, without being washed or shaved all the
time, shunned by everybody, and spoken to by no one, unless some
one comes in at dinner-time, and asks you whether you want any
more, in a tone as much to say, "I hope you don't," or, in the
evening, to inquire whether you wouldn't rather have a candle,
after you've been sitting in the dark half the night. When I was
left in this way, I used to sit, think, think, thinking, till I
felt as lonesome as a kitten in a wash-house copper with the lid
on; but I believe the old brokers' men who are regularly trained to
it, never think at all. I have heard some on 'em say, indeed, that
they don't know how!

'I put in a good many distresses in my time (continued Mr. Bung),
and in course I wasn't long in finding, that some people are not as
much to be pitied as others are, and that people with good incomes
who get into difficulties, which they keep patching up day after
day and week after week, get so used to these sort of things in
time, that at last they come scarcely to feel them at all. I
remember the very first place I was put in possession of, was a
gentleman's house in this parish here, that everybody would suppose
couldn't help having money if he tried. I went with old Fixem, my
old master, 'bout half arter eight in the morning; rang the area-
bell; servant in livery opened the door: "Governor at home?" -
"Yes, he is," says the man; "but he's breakfasting just now."
"Never mind," says Fixem, "just you tell him there's a gentleman
here, as wants to speak to him partickler." So the servant he
opens his eyes, and stares about him all ways - looking for the
gentleman, as it struck me, for I don't think anybody but a man as
was stone-blind would mistake Fixem for one; and as for me, I was
as seedy as a cheap cowcumber. Hows'ever, he turns round, and goes
to the breakfast-parlour, which was a little snug sort of room at
the end of the passage, and Fixem (as we always did in that
profession), without waiting to be announced, walks in arter him,
and before the servant could get out, "Please, sir, here's a man as
wants to speak to you," looks in at the door as familiar and
pleasant as may be. "Who the devil are you, and how dare you walk
into a gentleman's house without leave?" says the master, as fierce
as a bull in fits. "My name," says Fixem, winking to the master to
send the servant away, and putting the warrant into his hands
folded up like a note, "My name's Smith," says he, "and I called
from Johnson's about that business of Thompson's." - "Oh," says the
other, quite down on him directly, "How IS Thompson?" says he;
"Pray sit down, Mr. Smith: John, leave the room." Out went the
servant; and the gentleman and Fixem looked at one another till
they couldn't look any longer, and then they varied the amusements
by looking at me, who had been standing on the mat all this time.
"Hundred and fifty pounds, I see," said the gentleman at last.
"Hundred and fifty pound," said Fixem, "besides cost of levy,
sheriff's poundage, and all other incidental expenses." - "Um,"
says the gentleman, "I shan't be able to settle this before to-
morrow afternoon." - "Very sorry; but I shall be obliged to leave
my man here till then," replies Fixem, pretending to look very
miserable over it. "That's very unfort'nate," says the gentleman,
"for I have got a large party here to-night, and I'm ruined if
those fellows of mine get an inkling of the matter - just step
here, Mr. Smith," says he, after a short pause. So Fixem walks
with him up to the window, and after a good deal of whispering, and
a little chinking of suverins, and looking at me, he comes back and
says, "Bung, you're a handy fellow, and very honest I know. This
gentleman wants an assistant to clean the plate and wait at table
to-day, and if you're not particularly engaged," says old Fixem,
grinning like mad, and shoving a couple of suverins into my hand,
"he'll be very glad to avail himself of your services." Well, I
laughed: and the gentleman laughed, and we all laughed; and I went
home and cleaned myself, leaving Fixem there, and when I went back,
Fixem went away, and I polished up the plate, and waited at table,
and gammoned the servants, and nobody had the least idea I was in
possession, though it very nearly came out after all; for one of
the last gentlemen who remained, came down-stairs into the hall
where I was sitting pretty late at night, and putting half-a-crown
into my hand, says, "Here, my man," says he, "run and get me a
coach, will you?" I thought it was a do, to get me out of the
house, and was just going to say so, sulkily enough, when the
gentleman (who was up to everything) came running down-stairs, as
if he was in great anxiety. "Bung," says he, pretending to be in a
consuming passion. "Sir," says I. "Why the devil an't you looking
after that plate?" - "I was just going to send him for a coach for
me," says the other gentleman. "And I was just a-going to say,"
says I - "Anybody else, my dear fellow," interrupts the master of
the house, pushing me down the passage to get out of the way -
"anybody else; but I have put this man in possession of all the
plate and valuables, and I cannot allow him on any consideration
whatever, to leave the house. Bung, you scoundrel, go and count
those forks in the breakfast-parlour instantly." You may be sure I
went laughing pretty hearty when I found it was all right. The
money was paid next day, with the addition of something else for
myself, and that was the best job that I (and I suspect old Fixem
too) ever got in that line.

'But this is the bright side of the picture, sir, after all,'
resumed Mr. Bung, laying aside the knowing look and flash air, with
which he had repeated the previous anecdote - 'and I'm sorry to
say, it's the side one sees very, very seldom, in comparison with
the dark one. The civility which money will purchase, is rarely
extended to those who have none; and there's a consolation even in
being able to patch up one difficulty, to make way for another, to
which very poor people are strangers. I was once put into a house
down George's-yard - that little dirty court at the back of the
gas-works; and I never shall forget the misery of them people, dear
me! It was a distress for half a year's rent - two pound ten, I
think. There was only two rooms in the house, and as there was no
passage, the lodgers up-stairs always went through the room of the
people of the house, as they passed in and out; and every time they
did so -which, on the average, was about four times every quarter
of an hour - they blowed up quite frightful: for their things had
been seized too, and included in the inventory. There was a little
piece of enclosed dust in front of the house, with a cinder-path
leading up to the door, and an open rain-water butt on one side. A
dirty striped curtain, on a very slack string, hung in the window,
and a little triangular bit of broken looking-glass rested on the
sill inside. I suppose it was meant for the people's use, but
their appearance was so wretched, and so miserable, that I'm
certain they never could have plucked up courage to look themselves
in the face a second time, if they survived the fright of doing so
once. There was two or three chairs, that might have been worth,
in their best days, from eightpence to a shilling a-piece; a small
deal table, an old corner cupboard with nothing in it, and one of
those bedsteads which turn up half way, and leave the bottom legs
sticking out for you to knock your head against, or hang your hat
upon; no bed, no bedding. There was an old sack, by way of rug,
before the fireplace, and four or five children were grovelling
about, among the sand on the floor. The execution was only put in,
to get 'em out of the house, for there was nothing to take to pay
the expenses; and here I stopped for three days, though that was a
mere form too: for, in course, I knew, and we all knew, they could
never pay the money. In one of the chairs, by the side of the
place where the fire ought to have been, was an old 'ooman - the
ugliest and dirtiest I ever see - who sat rocking herself backwards
and forwards, backwards and forwards, without once stopping, except
for an instant now and then, to clasp together the withered hands
which, with these exceptions, she kept constantly rubbing upon her
knees, just raising and depressing her fingers convulsively, in
time to the rocking of the chair. On the other side sat the mother
with an infant in her arms, which cried till it cried itself to
sleep, and when it 'woke, cried till it cried itself off again.
The old 'ooman's voice I never heard: she seemed completely
stupefied; and as to the mother's, it would have been better if she
had been so too, for misery had changed her to a devil. If you had
heard how she cursed the little naked children as was rolling on
the floor, and seen how savagely she struck the infant when it
cried with hunger, you'd have shuddered as much as I did. There
they remained all the time: the children ate a morsel of bread
once or twice, and I gave 'em best part of the dinners my missis
brought me, but the woman ate nothing; they never even laid on the
bedstead, nor was the room swept or cleaned all the time. The
neighbours were all too poor themselves to take any notice of 'em,
but from what I could make out from the abuse of the woman up-
stairs, it seemed the husband had been transported a few weeks
before. When the time was up, the landlord and old Fixem too, got
rather frightened about the family, and so they made a stir about
it, and had 'em taken to the workhouse. They sent the sick couch
for the old 'ooman, and Simmons took the children away at night.
The old 'ooman went into the infirmary, and very soon died. The
children are all in the house to this day, and very comfortable
they are in comparison. As to the mother, there was no taming her
at all. She had been a quiet, hard-working woman, I believe, but
her misery had actually drove her wild; so after she had been sent
to the house of correction half-a-dozen times, for throwing
inkstands at the overseers, blaspheming the churchwardens, and
smashing everybody as come near her, she burst a blood-vessel one
mornin', and died too; and a happy release it was, both for herself
and the old paupers, male and female, which she used to tip over in
all directions, as if they were so many skittles, and she the ball.

'Now this was bad enough,' resumed Mr. Bung, taking a half-step
towards the door, as if to intimate that he had nearly concluded.
'This was bad enough, but there was a sort of quiet misery - if you
understand what I mean by that, sir - about a lady at one house I
was put into, as touched me a good deal more. It doesn't matter
where it was exactly: indeed, I'd rather not say, but it was the
same sort o' job. I went with Fixem in the usual way - there was a
year's rent in arrear; a very small servant-girl opened the door,
and three or four fine-looking little children was in the front
parlour we were shown into, which was very clean, but very scantily
furnished, much like the children themselves. "Bung," says Fixem
to me, in a low voice, when we were left alone for a minute, "I
know something about this here family, and my opinion is, it's no
go." "Do you think they can't settle?" says I, quite anxiously;
for I liked the looks of them children. Fixem shook his head, and
was just about to reply, when the door opened, and in come a lady,
as white as ever I see any one in my days, except about the eyes,
which were red with crying. She walked in, as firm as I could have
done; shut the door carefully after her, and sat herself down with
a face as composed as if it was made of stone. "What is the
matter, gentlemen?" says she, in a surprisin' steady voice. "IS
this an execution?" "It is, mum," says Fixem. The lady looked at
him as steady as ever: she didn't seem to have understood him.
"It is, mum," says Fixem again; "this is my warrant of distress,
mum," says he, handing it over as polite as if it was a newspaper
which had been bespoke arter the next gentleman.

'The lady's lip trembled as she took the printed paper. She cast
her eye over it, and old Fixem began to explain the form, but saw
she wasn't reading it, plain enough, poor thing. "Oh, my God!"
says she, suddenly a-bursting out crying, letting the warrant fall,
and hiding her face in her hands. "Oh, my God! what will become of
us!" The noise she made, brought in a young lady of about nineteen
or twenty, who, I suppose, had been a-listening at the door, and
who had got a little boy in her arms: she sat him down in the
lady's lap, without speaking, and she hugged the poor little fellow
to her bosom, and cried over him, till even old Fixem put on his
blue spectacles to hide the two tears, that was a-trickling down,
one on each side of his dirty face. "Now, dear ma," says the young
lady, "you know how much you have borne. For all our sakes - for
pa's sake," says she, "don't give way to this!" - "No, no, I
won't!" says the lady, gathering herself up, hastily, and drying
her eyes; "I am very foolish, but I'm better now - much better."
And then she roused herself up, went with us into every room while
we took the inventory, opened all the drawers of her own accord,
sorted the children's little clothes to make the work easier; and,
except doing everything in a strange sort of hurry, seemed as calm
and composed as if nothing had happened. When we came down-stairs
again, she hesitated a minute or two, and at last says,
"Gentlemen," says she, "I am afraid I have done wrong, and perhaps
it may bring you into trouble. I secreted just now," she says,
"the only trinket I have left in the world - here it is." So she
lays down on the table a little miniature mounted in gold. "It's a
miniature," she says, "of my poor dear father! I little thought
once, that I should ever thank God for depriving me of the
original, but I do, and have done for years back, most fervently.
Take it away, sir," she says, "it's a face that never turned from
me in sickness and distress, and I can hardly bear to turn from it
now, when, God knows, I suffer both in no ordinary degree." I
couldn't say nothing, but I raised my head from the inventory which
I was filling up, and looked at Fixem; the old fellow nodded to me
significantly, so I ran my pen through the "MINI" I had just
written, and left the miniature on the table.

'Well, sir, to make short of a long story, I was left in
possession, and in possession I remained; and though I was an
ignorant man, and the master of the house a clever one, I saw what
he never did, but what he would give worlds now (if he had 'em) to
have seen in time. I saw, sir, that his wife was wasting away,
beneath cares of which she never complained, and griefs she never
told. I saw that she was dying before his eyes; I knew that one
exertion from him might have saved her, but he never made it. I
don't blame him: I don't think he COULD rouse himself. She had so
long anticipated all his wishes, and acted for him, that he was a
lost man when left to himself. I used to think when I caught sight
of her, in the clothes she used to wear, which looked shabby even
upon her, and would have been scarcely decent on any one else, that
if I was a gentleman it would wring my very heart to see the woman
that was a smart and merry girl when I courted her, so altered
through her love for me. Bitter cold and damp weather it was, yet,
though her dress was thin, and her shoes none of the best, during
the whole three days, from morning to night, she was out of doors
running about to try and raise the money. The money WAS raised and
the execution was paid out. The whole family crowded into the room
where I was, when the money arrived. The father was quite happy as
the inconvenience was removed - I dare say he didn't know how; the
children looked merry and cheerful again; the eldest girl was
bustling about, making preparations for the first comfortable meal
they had had since the distress was put in; and the mother looked
pleased to see them all so. But if ever I saw death in a woman's
face, I saw it in hers that night.

'I was right, sir,' continued Mr. Bung, hurriedly passing his coat-
sleeve over his face; 'the family grew more prosperous, and good
fortune arrived. But it was too late. Those children are
motherless now, and their father would give up all he has since
gained - house, home, goods, money: all that he has, or ever can
have, to restore the wife he has lost.'

CHAPTER VI - THE LADIES' SOCIETIES

Our Parish is very prolific in ladies' charitable institutions. In
winter, when wet feet are common, and colds not scarce, we have the
ladies' soup distribution society, the ladies' coal distribution
society, and the ladies' blanket distribution society; in summer,
when stone fruits flourish and stomach aches prevail, we have the
ladies' dispensary, and the ladies' sick visitation committee; and
all the year round we have the ladies' child's examination society,
the ladies' bible and prayer-book circulation society, and the
ladies' childbed-linen monthly loan society. The two latter are
decidedly the most important; whether they are productive of more
benefit than the rest, it is not for us to say, but we can take
upon ourselves to affirm, with the utmost solemnity, that they
create a greater stir and more bustle, than all the others put
together.

We should be disposed to affirm, on the first blush of the matter,
that the bible and prayer-book society is not so popular as the
childbed-linen society; the bible and prayer-book society has,
however, considerably increased in importance within the last year
or two, having derived some adventitious aid from the factious
opposition of the child's examination society; which factious
opposition originated in manner following:- When the young curate
was popular, and all the unmarried ladies in the parish took a
serious turn, the charity children all at once became objects of
peculiar and especial interest. The three Miss Browns
(enthusiastic admirers of the curate) taught, and exercised, and
examined, and re-examined the unfortunate children, until the boys
grew pale, and the girls consumptive with study and fatigue. The
three Miss Browns stood it out very well, because they relieved
each other; but the children, having no relief at all, exhibited
decided symptoms of weariness and care. The unthinking part of the
parishioners laughed at all this, but the more reflective portion
of the inhabitants abstained from expressing any opinion on the
subject until that of the curate had been clearly ascertained.

The opportunity was not long wanting. The curate preached a
charity sermon on behalf of the charity school, and in the charity
sermon aforesaid, expatiated in glowing terms on the praiseworthy
and indefatigable exertions of certain estimable individuals. Sobs
were heard to issue from the three Miss Browns' pew; the pew-opener
of the division was seen to hurry down the centre aisle to the
vestry door, and to return immediately, bearing a glass of water in
her hand. A low moaning ensued; two more pew-openers rushed to the
spot, and the three Miss Browns, each supported by a pew-opener,
were led out of the church, and led in again after the lapse of
five minutes with white pocket-handkerchiefs to their eyes, as if
they had been attending a funeral in the churchyard adjoining. If
any doubt had for a moment existed, as to whom the allusion was
intended to apply, it was at once removed. The wish to enlighten
the charity children became universal, and the three Miss Browns
were unanimously besought to divide the school into classes, and to
assign each class to the superintendence of two young ladies.

A little learning is a dangerous thing, but a little patronage is
more so; the three Miss Browns appointed all the old maids, and
carefully excluded the young ones. Maiden aunts triumphed, mammas
were reduced to the lowest depths of despair, and there is no
telling in what act of violence the general indignation against the
three Miss Browns might have vented itself, had not a perfectly
providential occurrence changed the tide of public feeling. Mrs.
Johnson Parker, the mother of seven extremely fine girls - all
unmarried - hastily reported to several other mammas of several
other unmarried families, that five old men, six old women, and
children innumerable, in the free seats near her pew, were in the
habit of coming to church every Sunday, without either bible or
prayer-book. Was this to be borne in a civilised country? Could
such things be tolerated in a Christian land? Never! A ladies'
bible and prayer-book distribution society was instantly formed:
president, Mrs. Johnson Parker; treasurers, auditors, and
secretary, the Misses Johnson Parker: subscriptions were entered
into, books were bought, all the free-seat people provided
therewith, and when the first lesson was given out, on the first
Sunday succeeding these events, there was such a dropping of books,
and rustling of leaves, that it was morally impossible to hear one
word of the service for five minutes afterwards.

The three Miss Browns, and their party, saw the approaching danger,
and endeavoured to avert it by ridicule and sarcasm. Neither the
old men nor the old women could read their books, now they had got
them, said the three Miss Browns. Never mind; they could learn,
replied Mrs. Johnson Parker. The children couldn't read either,
suggested the three Miss Browns. No matter; they could be taught,
retorted Mrs. Johnson Parker. A balance of parties took place.
The Miss Browns publicly examined - popular feeling inclined to the
child's examination society. The Miss Johnson Parkers publicly
distributed - a reaction took place in favour of the prayer-book
distribution. A feather would have turned the scale, and a feather
did turn it. A missionary returned from the West Indies; he was to
be presented to the Dissenters' Missionary Society on his marriage
with a wealthy widow. Overtures were made to the Dissenters by the
Johnson Parkers. Their object was the same, and why not have a
joint meeting of the two societies? The proposition was accepted.
The meeting was duly heralded by public announcement, and the room
was crowded to suffocation. The Missionary appeared on the
platform; he was hailed with enthusiasm. He repeated a dialogue he
had heard between two negroes, behind a hedge, on the subject of
distribution societies; the approbation was tumultuous. He gave an
imitation of the two negroes in broken English; the roof was rent
with applause. From that period we date (with one trifling
exception) a daily increase in the popularity of the distribution
society, and an increase of popularity, which the feeble and
impotent opposition of the examination party, has only tended to
augment.

Now, the great points about the childbed-linen monthly loan society
are, that it is less dependent on the fluctuations of public
opinion than either the distribution or the child's examination;
and that, come what may, there is never any lack of objects on
which to exercise its benevolence. Our parish is a very populous
one, and, if anything, contributes, we should be disposed to say,
rather more than its due share to the aggregate amount of births in
the metropolis and its environs. The consequence is, that the
monthly loan society flourishes, and invests its members with a
most enviable amount of bustling patronage. The society (whose
only notion of dividing time, would appear to be its allotment into
months) holds monthly tea-drinkings, at which the monthly report is
received, a secretary elected for the month ensuing, and such of
the monthly boxes as may not happen to be out on loan for the
month, carefully examined.

We were never present at one of these meetings, from all of which
it is scarcely necessary to say, gentlemen are carefully excluded;
but Mr. Bung has been called before the board once or twice, and we
have his authority for stating, that its proceedings are conducted
with great order and regularity: not more than four members being
allowed to speak at one time on any pretence whatever. The regular
committee is composed exclusively of married ladies, but a vast
number of young unmarried ladies of from eighteen to twenty-five
years of age, respectively, are admitted as honorary members,
partly because they are very useful in replenishing the boxes, and
visiting the confined; partly because it is highly desirable that
they should be initiated, at an early period, into the more serious
and matronly duties of after-life; and partly, because prudent
mammas have not unfrequently been known to turn this circumstance
to wonderfully good account in matrimonial speculations.

In addition to the loan of the monthly boxes (which are always
painted blue, with the name of the society in large white letters
on the lid), the society dispense occasional grants of beef-tea,
and a composition of warm beer, spice, eggs, and sugar, commonly
known by the name of 'candle,' to its patients. And here again the
services of the honorary members are called into requisition, and
most cheerfully conceded. Deputations of twos or threes are sent
out to visit the patients, and on these occasions there is such a
tasting of candle and beef-tea, such a stirring about of little
messes in tiny saucepans on the hob, such a dressing and undressing
of infants, such a tying, and folding, and pinning; such a nursing
and warming of little legs and feet before the fire, such a
delightful confusion of talking and cooking, bustle, importance,
and officiousness, as never can be enjoyed in its full extent but
on similar occasions.

In rivalry of these two institutions, and as a last expiring effort
to acquire parochial popularity, the child's examination people
determined, the other day, on having a grand public examination of
the pupils; and the large school-room of the national seminary was,
by and with the consent of the parish authorities, devoted to the
purpose. Invitation circulars were forwarded to all the principal
parishioners, including, of course, the heads of the other two
societies, for whose especial behoof and edification the display
was intended; and a large audience was confidently anticipated on
the occasion. The floor was carefully scrubbed the day before,
under the immediate superintendence of the three Miss Browns; forms
were placed across the room for the accommodation of the visitors,
specimens in writing were carefully selected, and as carefully
patched and touched up, until they astonished the children who had
written them, rather more than the company who read them; sums in
compound addition were rehearsed and re-rehearsed until all the
children had the totals by heart; and the preparations altogether
were on the most laborious and most comprehensive scale. The
morning arrived: the children were yellow-soaped and flannelled,
and towelled, till their faces shone again; every pupil's hair was
carefully combed into his or her eyes, as the case might be; the
girls were adorned with snow-white tippets, and caps bound round
the head by a single purple ribbon: the necks of the elder boys
were fixed into collars of startling dimensions.

The doors were thrown open, and the Misses Brown and Co. were
discovered in plain white muslin dresses, and caps of the same -
the child's examination uniform. The room filled: the greetings
of the company were loud and cordial. The distributionists
trembled, for their popularity was at stake. The eldest boy fell
forward, and delivered a propitiatory address from behind his
collar. It was from the pen of Mr. Henry Brown; the applause was
universal, and the Johnson Parkers were aghast. The examination
proceeded with success, and terminated in triumph. The child's
examination society gained a momentary victory, and the Johnson
Parkers retreated in despair.

A secret council of the distributionists was held that night, with
Mrs. Johnson Parker in the chair, to consider of the best means of
recovering the ground they had lost in the favour of the parish.
What could be done? Another meeting! Alas! who was to attend it?
The Missionary would not do twice; and the slaves were emancipated.
A bold step must be taken. The parish must be astonished in some
way or other; but no one was able to suggest what the step should
be. At length, a very old lady was heard to mumble, in indistinct
tones, 'Exeter Hall.' A sudden light broke in upon the meeting.
It was unanimously resolved, that a deputation of old ladies should
wait upon a celebrated orator, imploring his assistance, and the
favour of a speech; and the deputation should also wait on two or
three other imbecile old women, not resident in the parish, and
entreat their attendance. The application was successful, the
meeting was held; the orator (an Irishman) came. He talked of
green isles - other shores - vast Atlantic - bosom of the deep -
Christian charity - blood and extermination - mercy in hearts -
arms in hands - altars and homes - household gods. He wiped his
eyes, he blew his nose, and he quoted Latin. The effect was
tremendous - the Latin was a decided hit. Nobody knew exactly what
it was about, but everybody knew it must be affecting, because even
the orator was overcome. The popularity of the distribution
society among the ladies of our parish is unprecedented; and the
child's examination is going fast to decay.

CHAPTER VII - OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR

We are very fond of speculating as we walk through a street, on the
character and pursuits of the people who inhabit it; and nothing so
materially assists us in these speculations as the appearance of
the house doors. The various expressions of the human countenance
afford a beautiful and interesting study; but there is something in
the physiognomy of street-door knockers, almost as characteristic,
and nearly as infallible. Whenever we visit a man for the first
time, we contemplate the features of his knocker with the greatest
curiosity, for we well know, that between the man and his knocker,
there will inevitably be a greater or less degree of resemblance
and sympathy.

For instance, there is one description of knocker that used to be
common enough, but which is fast passing away - a large round one,
with the jolly face of a convivial lion smiling blandly at you, as
you twist the sides of your hair into a curl or pull up your shirt-
collar while you are waiting for the door to be opened; we never
saw that knocker on the door of a churlish man - so far as our
experience is concerned, it invariably bespoke hospitality and
another bottle.

No man ever saw this knocker on the door of a small attorney or
bill-broker; they always patronise the other lion; a heavy
ferocious-looking fellow, with a countenance expressive of savage
stupidity - a sort of grand master among the knockers, and a great
favourite with the selfish and brutal.

Then there is a little pert Egyptian knocker, with a long thin
face, a pinched-up nose, and a very sharp chin; he is most in vogue
with your government-office people, in light drabs and starched
cravats; little spare, priggish men, who are perfectly satisfied
with their own opinions, and consider themselves of paramount
importance.

We were greatly troubled a few years ago, by the innovation of a
new kind of knocker, without any face at all, composed of a wreath
depending from a hand or small truncheon. A little trouble and
attention, however, enabled us to overcome this difficulty, and to
reconcile the new system to our favourite theory. You will
invariably find this knocker on the doors of cold and formal
people, who always ask you why you DON'T come, and never say DO.

Everybody knows the brass knocker is common to suburban villas, and
extensive boarding-schools; and having noticed this genus we have
recapitulated all the most prominent and strongly-defined species.

Some phrenologists affirm, that the agitation of a man's brain by
different passions, produces corresponding developments in the form
of his skull. Do not let us be understood as pushing our theory to
the full length of asserting, that any alteration in a man's
disposition would produce a visible effect on the feature of his
knocker. Our position merely is, that in such a case, the
magnetism which must exist between a man and his knocker, would
induce the man to remove, and seek some knocker more congenial to
his altered feelings. If you ever find a man changing his
habitation without any reasonable pretext, depend upon it, that,
although he may not be aware of the fact himself, it is because he
and his knocker are at variance. This is a new theory, but we
venture to launch it, nevertheless, as being quite as ingenious and
infallible as many thousands of the learned speculations which are
daily broached for public good and private fortune-making.

Entertaining these feelings on the subject of knockers, it will be
readily imagined with what consternation we viewed the entire
removal of the knocker from the door of the next house to the one
we lived in, some time ago, and the substitution of a bell. This
was a calamity we had never anticipated. The bare idea of anybody
being able to exist without a knocker, appeared so wild and
visionary, that it had never for one instant entered our
imagination.

We sauntered moodily from the spot, and bent our steps towards
Eaton-square, then just building. What was our astonishment and
indignation to find that bells were fast becoming the rule, and
knockers the exception! Our theory trembled beneath the shock. We
hastened home; and fancying we foresaw in the swift progress of
events, its entire abolition, resolved from that day forward to
vent our speculations on our next-door neighbours in person. The
house adjoining ours on the left hand was uninhabited, and we had,
therefore, plenty of leisure to observe our next-door neighbours on
the other side.

The house without the knocker was in the occupation of a city
clerk, and there was a neatly-written bill in the parlour window
intimating that lodgings for a single gentleman were to be let
within.

It was a neat, dull little house, on the shady side of the way,
with new, narrow floorcloth in the passage, and new, narrow stair-
carpets up to the first floor. The paper was new, and the paint
was new, and the furniture was new; and all three, paper, paint,
and furniture, bespoke the limited means of the tenant. There was
a little red and black carpet in the drawing-room, with a border of
flooring all the way round; a few stained chairs and a pembroke
table. A pink shell was displayed on each of the little
sideboards, which, with the addition of a tea-tray and caddy, a few
more shells on the mantelpiece, and three peacock's feathers
tastefully arranged above them, completed the decorative furniture
of the apartment.

This was the room destined for the reception of the single
gentleman during the day, and a little back room on the same floor
was assigned as his sleeping apartment by night.

The bill had not been long in the window, when a stout, good-
humoured looking gentleman, of about five-and-thirty, appeared as a
candidate for the tenancy. Terms were soon arranged, for the bill
was taken down immediately after his first visit. In a day or two
the single gentleman came in, and shortly afterwards his real
character came out.

First of all, he displayed a most extraordinary partiality for
sitting up till three or four o'clock in the morning, drinking
whiskey-and-water, and smoking cigars; then he invited friends
home, who used to come at ten o'clock, and begin to get happy about
the small hours, when they evinced their perfect contentment by
singing songs with half-a-dozen verses of two lines each, and a
chorus of ten, which chorus used to be shouted forth by the whole
strength of the company, in the most enthusiastic and vociferous
manner, to the great annoyance of the neighbours, and the special
discomfort of another single gentleman overhead.

Now, this was bad enough, occurring as it did three times a week on
the average, but this was not all; for when the company DID go
away, instead of walking quietly down the street, as anybody else's
company would have done, they amused themselves by making alarming
and frightful noises, and counterfeiting the shrieks of females in
distress; and one night, a red-faced gentleman in a white hat
knocked in the most urgent manner at the door of the powdered-
headed old gentleman at No. 3, and when the powdered-headed old
gentleman, who thought one of his married daughters must have been
taken ill prematurely, had groped down-stairs, and after a great
deal of unbolting and key-turning, opened the street door, the red-
faced man in the white hat said he hoped he'd excuse his giving him
so much trouble, but he'd feel obliged if he'd favour him with a
glass of cold spring water, and the loan of a shilling for a cab to
take him home, on which the old gentleman slammed the door and went
up-stairs, and threw the contents of his water jug out of window -
very straight, only it went over the wrong man; and the whole
street was involved in confusion.

A joke's a joke; and even practical jests are very capital in their
way, if you can only get the other party to see the fun of them;
but the population of our street were so dull of apprehension, as
to be quite lost to a sense of the drollery of this proceeding:
and the consequence was, that our next-door neighbour was obliged
to tell the single gentleman, that unless he gave up entertaining
his friends at home, he really must be compelled to part with him.

The single gentleman received the remonstrance with great good-
humour, and promised from that time forward, to spend his evenings
at a coffee-house - a determination which afforded general and
unmixed satisfaction.

The next night passed off very well, everybody being delighted with
the change; but on the next, the noises were renewed with greater
spirit than ever. The single gentleman's friends being unable to
see him in his own house every alternate night, had come to the
determination of seeing him home every night; and what with the
discordant greetings of the friends at parting, and the noise
created by the single gentleman in his passage up-stairs, and his
subsequent struggles to get his boots off, the evil was not to be
borne. So, our next-door neighbour gave the single gentleman, who
was a very good lodger in other respects, notice to quit; and the
single gentleman went away, and entertained his friends in other
lodgings.

The next applicant for the vacant first floor, was of a very
different character from the troublesome single gentleman who had
just quitted it. He was a tall, thin, young gentleman, with a
profusion of brown hair, reddish whiskers, and very slightly
developed moustaches. He wore a braided surtout, with frogs
behind, light grey trousers, and wash-leather gloves, and had
altogether rather a military appearance. So unlike the roystering
single gentleman. Such insinuating manners, and such a delightful
address! So seriously disposed, too! When he first came to look
at the lodgings, he inquired most particularly whether he was sure
to be able to get a seat in the parish church; and when he had
agreed to take them, he requested to have a list of the different
local charities, as he intended to subscribe his mite to the most
deserving among them.

Our next-door neighbour was now perfectly happy. He had got a
lodger at last, of just his own way of thinking - a serious, well-
disposed man, who abhorred gaiety, and loved retirement. He took
down the bill with a light heart, and pictured in imagination a
long series of quiet Sundays, on which he and his lodger would
exchange mutual civilities and Sunday papers.

The serious man arrived, and his luggage was to arrive from the
country next morning. He borrowed a clean shirt, and a prayer-
book, from our next-door neighbour, and retired to rest at an early
hour, requesting that he might be called punctually at ten o'clock
next morning - not before, as he was much fatigued.

He WAS called, and did not answer: he was called again, but there
was no reply. Our next-door neighbour became alarmed, and burst
the door open. The serious man had left the house mysteriously;
carrying with him the shirt, the prayer-book, a teaspoon, and the
bedclothes.

Whether this occurrence, coupled with the irregularities of his
former lodger, gave our next-door neighbour an aversion to single
gentlemen, we know not; we only know that the next bill which made
its appearance in the parlour window intimated generally, that
there were furnished apartments to let on the first floor. The
bill was soon removed. The new lodgers at first attracted our
curiosity, and afterwards excited our interest.

They were a young lad of eighteen or nineteen, and his mother, a
lady of about fifty, or it might be less. The mother wore a
widow's weeds, and the boy was also clothed in deep mourning. They
were poor - very poor; for their only means of support arose from
the pittance the boy earned, by copying writings, and translating
for booksellers.

They had removed from some country place and settled in London;
partly because it afforded better chances of employment for the
boy, and partly, perhaps, with the natural desire to leave a place
where they had been in better circumstances, and where their
poverty was known. They were proud under their reverses, and above
revealing their wants and privations to strangers. How bitter
those privations were, and how hard the boy worked to remove them,
no one ever knew but themselves. Night after night, two, three,
four hours after midnight, could we hear the occasional raking up
of the scanty fire, or the hollow and half-stifled cough, which
indicated his being still at work; and day after day, could we see
more plainly that nature had set that unearthly light in his
plaintive face, which is the beacon of her worst disease.

Actuated, we hope, by a higher feeling than mere curiosity, we
contrived to establish, first an acquaintance, and then a close
intimacy, with the poor strangers. Our worst fears were realised;
the boy was sinking fast. Through a part of the winter, and the
whole of the following spring and summer, his labours were
unceasingly prolonged: and the mother attempted to procure needle-
work, embroidery - anything for bread.

A few shillings now and then, were all she could earn. The boy
worked steadily on; dying by minutes, but never once giving
utterance to complaint or murmur.

One beautiful autumn evening we went to pay our customary visit to
the invalid. His little remaining strength had been decreasing
rapidly for two or three days preceding, and he was lying on the
sofa at the open window, gazing at the setting sun. His mother had
been reading the Bible to him, for she closed the book as we
entered, and advanced to meet us.

'I was telling William,' she said, 'that we must manage to take him
into the country somewhere, so that he may get quite well. He is
not ill, you know, but he is not very strong, and has exerted
himself too much lately.' Poor thing! The tears that streamed
through her fingers, as she turned aside, as if to adjust her close
widow's cap, too plainly showed how fruitless was the attempt to
deceive herself.

We sat down by the head of the sofa, but said nothing, for we saw
the breath of life was passing gently but rapidly from the young
form before us. At every respiration, his heart beat more slowly.

The boy placed one hand in ours, grasped his mother's arm with the
other, drew her hastily towards him, and fervently kissed her
cheek. There was a pause. He sunk back upon his pillow, and
looked long and earnestly in his mother's face.

'William, William!' murmured the mother, after a long interval,
'don't look at me so - speak to me, dear!'

The boy smiled languidly, but an instant afterwards his features
resolved into the same cold, solemn gaze.

'William, dear William! rouse yourself; don't look at me so, love -
pray don't! Oh, my God! what shall I do!' cried the widow,
clasping her hands in agony - 'my dear boy! he is dying!' The boy
raised himself by a violent effort, and folded his hands together -
'Mother! dear, dear mother, bury me in the open fields - anywhere
but in these dreadful streets. I should like to be where you can
see my grave, but not in these close crowded streets; they have
killed me; kiss me again, mother; put your arm round my neck - '

He fell back, and a strange expression stole upon his features; not
of pain or suffering, but an indescribable fixing of every line and
muscle.

The boy was dead.

SCENES

CHAPTER I - THE STREETS - MORNING

The appearance presented by the streets of London an hour before
sunrise, on a summer's morning, is most striking even to the few
whose unfortunate pursuits of pleasure, or scarcely less
unfortunate pursuits of business, cause them to be well acquainted
with the scene. There is an air of cold, solitary desolation about
the noiseless streets which we are accustomed to see thronged at
other times by a busy, eager crowd, and over the quiet, closely-
shut buildings, which throughout the day are swarming with life and
bustle, that is very impressive.

The last drunken man, who shall find his way home before sunlight,
has just staggered heavily along, roaring out the burden of the
drinking song of the previous night: the last houseless vagrant
whom penury and police have left in the streets, has coiled up his
chilly limbs in some paved comer, to dream of food and warmth. The
drunken, the dissipated, and the wretched have disappeared; the
more sober and orderly part of the population have not yet awakened
to the labours of the day, and the stillness of death is over the
streets; its very hue seems to be imparted to them, cold and
lifeless as they look in the grey, sombre light of daybreak. The
coach-stands in the larger thoroughfares are deserted: the night-
houses are closed; and the chosen promenades of profligate misery
are empty.

An occasional policeman may alone be seen at the street corners,
listlessly gazing on the deserted prospect before him; and now and
then a rakish-looking cat runs stealthily across the road and
descends his own area with as much caution and slyness - bounding
first on the water-butt, then on the dust-hole, and then alighting
on the flag-stones - as if he were conscious that his character
depended on his gallantry of the preceding night escaping public
observation. A partially opened bedroom-window here and there,
bespeaks the heat of the weather, and the uneasy slumbers of its
occupant; and the dim scanty flicker of the rushlight, through the
window-blind, denotes the chamber of watching or sickness. With
these few exceptions, the streets present no signs of life, nor the
houses of habitation.

An hour wears away; the spires of the churches and roofs of the
principal buildings are faintly tinged with the light of the rising
sun; and the streets, by almost imperceptible degrees, begin to
resume their bustle and animation. Market-carts roll slowly along:
the sleepy waggoner impatiently urging on his tired horses, or
vainly endeavouring to awaken the boy, who, luxuriously stretched
on the top of the fruit-baskets, forgets, in happy oblivion, his
long-cherished curiosity to behold the wonders of London.

Rough, sleepy-looking animals of strange appearance, something
between ostlers and hackney-coachmen, begin to take down the
shutters of early public-houses; and little deal tables, with the
ordinary preparations for a street breakfast, make their appearance
at the customary stations. Numbers of men and women (principally
the latter), carrying upon their heads heavy baskets of fruit, toil
down the park side of Piccadilly, on their way to Covent-garden,
and, following each other in rapid succession, form a long
straggling line from thence to the turn of the road at
Knightsbridge.

Here and there, a bricklayer's labourer, with the day's dinner tied
up in a handkerchief, walks briskly to his work, and occasionally a
little knot of three or four schoolboys on a stolen bathing
expedition rattle merrily over the pavement, their boisterous mirth
contrasting forcibly with the demeanour of the little sweep, who,
having knocked and rung till his arm aches, and being interdicted
by a merciful legislature from endangering his lungs by calling
out, sits patiently down on the door-step, until the housemaid may
happen to awake.

Covent-garden market, and the avenues leading to it, are thronged
with carts of all sorts, sizes, and descriptions, from the heavy
lumbering waggon, with its four stout horses, to the jingling
costermonger's cart, with its consumptive donkey. The pavement is
already strewed with decayed cabbage-leaves, broken hay-bands, and
all the indescribable litter of a vegetable market; men are
shouting, carts backing, horses neighing, boys fighting, basket-
women talking, piemen expatiating on the excellence of their
pastry, and donkeys braying. These and a hundred other sounds form
a compound discordant enough to a Londoner's ears, and remarkably
disagreeable to those of country gentlemen who are sleeping at the
Hummums for the first time.

Another hour passes away, and the day begins in good earnest. The
servant of all work, who, under the plea of sleeping very soundly,
has utterly disregarded 'Missis's' ringing for half an hour
previously, is warned by Master (whom Missis has sent up in his
drapery to the landing-place for that purpose), that it's half-past
six, whereupon she awakes all of a sudden, with well-feigned
astonishment, and goes down-stairs very sulkily, wishing, while she
strikes a light, that the principle of spontaneous combustion would
extend itself to coals and kitchen range. When the fire is
lighted, she opens the street-door to take in the milk, when, by
the most singular coincidence in the world, she discovers that the
servant next door has just taken in her milk too, and that Mr.
Todd's young man over the way, is, by an equally extraordinary
chance, taking down his master's shutters. The inevitable
consequence is, that she just steps, milk-jug in hand, as far as
next door, just to say 'good morning' to Betsy Clark, and that Mr.
Todd's young man just steps over the way to say 'good morning' to
both of 'em; and as the aforesaid Mr. Todd's young man is almost as
good-looking and fascinating as the baker himself, the conversation
quickly becomes very interesting, and probably would become more
so, if Betsy Clark's Missis, who always will be a-followin' her
about, didn't give an angry tap at her bedroom window, on which Mr.
Todd's young man tries to whistle coolly, as he goes back to his
shop much faster than he came from it; and the two girls run back
to their respective places, and shut their street-doors with
surprising softness, each of them poking their heads out of the
front parlour window, a minute afterwards, however, ostensibly with
the view of looking at the mail which just then passes by, but
really for the purpose of catching another glimpse of Mr. Todd's
young man, who being fond of mails, but more of females, takes a
short look at the mails, and a long look at the girls, much to the
satisfaction of all parties concerned.

The mail itself goes on to the coach-office in due course, and the
passengers who are going out by the early coach, stare with
astonishment at the passengers who are coming in by the early
coach, who look blue and dismal, and are evidently under the
influence of that odd feeling produced by travelling, which makes
the events of yesterday morning seem as if they had happened at
least six months ago, and induces people to wonder with
considerable gravity whether the friends and relations they took
leave of a fortnight before, have altered much since they have left
them. The coach-office is all alive, and the coaches which are
just going out, are surrounded by the usual crowd of Jews and
nondescripts, who seem to consider, Heaven knows why, that it is
quite impossible any man can mount a coach without requiring at
least sixpenny-worth of oranges, a penknife, a pocket-book, a last
year's annual, a pencil-case, a piece of sponge, and a small series
of caricatures.

Half an hour more, and the sun darts his bright rays cheerfully
down the still half-empty streets, and shines with sufficient force
to rouse the dismal laziness of the apprentice, who pauses every
other minute from his task of sweeping out the shop and watering
the pavement in front of it, to tell another apprentice similarly
employed, how hot it will be to-day, or to stand with his right
hand shading his eyes, and his left resting on the broom, gazing at
the 'Wonder,' or the 'Tally-ho,' or the 'Nimrod,' or some other
fast coach, till it is out of sight, when he re-enters the shop,
envying the passengers on the outside of the fast coach, and
thinking of the old red brick house 'down in the country,' where he
went to school: the miseries of the milk and water, and thick
bread and scrapings, fading into nothing before the pleasant
recollection of the green field the boys used to play in, and the
green pond he was caned for presuming to fall into, and other
schoolboy associations.

Cabs, with trunks and band-boxes between the drivers' legs and
outside the apron, rattle briskly up and down the streets on their
way to the coach-offices or steam-packet wharfs; and the cab-
drivers and hackney-coachmen who are on the stand polish up the
ornamental part of their dingy vehicles - the former wondering how
people can prefer 'them wild beast cariwans of homnibuses, to a
riglar cab with a fast trotter,' and the latter admiring how people
can trust their necks into one of 'them crazy cabs, when they can
have a 'spectable 'ackney cotche with a pair of 'orses as von't run
away with no vun;' a consolation unquestionably founded on fact,
seeing that a hackney-coach horse never was known to run at all,
'except,' as the smart cabman in front of the rank observes,
'except one, and HE run back'ards.'

The shops are now completely opened, and apprentices and shopmen
are busily engaged in cleaning and decking the windows for the day.
The bakers' shops in town are filled with servants and children
waiting for the drawing of the first batch of rolls - an operation
which was performed a full hour ago in the suburbs: for the early
clerk population of Somers and Camden towns, Islington, and
Pentonville, are fast pouring into the city, or directing their
steps towards Chancery-lane and the Inns of Court. Middle-aged
men, whose salaries have by no means increased in the same
proportion as their families, plod steadily along, apparently with
no object in view but the counting-house; knowing by sight almost
everybody they meet or overtake, for they have seen them every
morning (Sunday excepted) during the last twenty years, but
speaking to no one. If they do happen to overtake a personal
acquaintance, they just exchange a hurried salutation, and keep
walking on either by his side, or in front of him, as his rate of
walking may chance to be. As to stopping to shake hands, or to
take the friend's arm, they seem to think that as it is not
included in their salary, they have no right to do it. Small
office lads in large hats, who are made men before they are boys,
hurry along in pairs, with their first coat carefully brushed, and
the white trousers of last Sunday plentifully besmeared with dust
and ink. It evidently requires a considerable mental struggle to
avoid investing part of the day's dinner-money in the purchase of
the stale tarts so temptingly exposed in dusty tins at the pastry-
cooks' doors; but a consciousness of their own importance and the
receipt of seven shillings a-week, with the prospect of an early
rise to eight, comes to their aid, and they accordingly put their
hats a little more on one side, and look under the bonnets of all
the milliners' and stay-makers' apprentices they meet - poor girls!
- the hardest worked, the worst paid, and too often, the worst used
class of the community.

Eleven o'clock, and a new set of people fill the streets. The
goods in the shop-windows are invitingly arranged; the shopmen in
their white neckerchiefs and spruce coats, look as it they couldn't
clean a window if their lives depended on it; the carts have
disappeared from Covent-garden; the waggoners have returned, and
the costermongers repaired to their ordinary 'beats' in the
suburbs; clerks are at their offices, and gigs, cabs, omnibuses,
and saddle-horses, are conveying their masters to the same
destination. The streets are thronged with a vast concourse of
people, gay and shabby, rich and poor, idle and industrious; and we
come to the heat, bustle, and activity of NOON.

CHAPTER II - THE STREETS - NIGHT

But the streets of London, to be beheld in the very height of their
glory, should be seen on a dark, dull, murky winter's night, when
there is just enough damp gently stealing down to make the pavement
greasy, without cleansing it of any of its impurities; and when the
heavy lazy mist, which hangs over every object, makes the gas-lamps
look brighter, and the brilliantly-lighted shops more splendid,
from the contrast they present to the darkness around. All the
people who are at home on such a night as this, seem disposed to
make themselves as snug and comfortable as possible; and the
passengers in the streets have excellent reason to envy the
fortunate individuals who are seated by their own firesides.

In the larger and better kind of streets, dining parlour curtains
are closely drawn, kitchen fires blaze brightly up, and savoury
steams of hot dinners salute the nostrils of the hungry wayfarer,
as he plods wearily by the area railings. In the suburbs, the
muffin boy rings his way down the little street, much more slowly
than he is wont to do; for Mrs. Macklin, of No. 4, has no sooner
opened her little street-door, and screamed out 'Muffins!' with all
her might, than Mrs. Walker, at No. 5, puts her head out of the
parlour-window, and screams 'Muffins!' too; and Mrs. Walker has
scarcely got the words out of her lips, than Mrs. Peplow, over the
way, lets loose Master Peplow, who darts down the street, with a
velocity which nothing but buttered muffins in perspective could
possibly inspire, and drags the boy back by main force, whereupon
Mrs. Macklin and Mrs. Walker, just to save the boy trouble, and to
say a few neighbourly words to Mrs. Peplow at the same time, run
over the way and buy their muffins at Mrs. Peplow's door, when it
appears from the voluntary statement of Mrs. Walker, that her
'kittle's jist a-biling, and the cups and sarsers ready laid,' and
that, as it was such a wretched night out o' doors, she'd made up
her mind to have a nice, hot, comfortable cup o' tea - a
determination at which, by the most singular coincidence, the other
two ladies had simultaneously arrived.

After a little conversation about the wretchedness of the weather
and the merits of tea, with a digression relative to the
viciousness of boys as a rule, and the amiability of Master Peplow
as an exception, Mrs. Walker sees her husband coming down the
street; and as he must want his tea, poor man, after his dirty walk
from the Docks, she instantly runs across, muffins in hand, and
Mrs. Macklin does the same, and after a few words to Mrs. Walker,
they all pop into their little houses, and slam their little
street-doors, which are not opened again for the remainder of the
evening, except to the nine o'clock 'beer,' who comes round with a
lantern in front of his tray, and says, as he lends Mrs. Walker
'Yesterday's 'Tiser,' that he's blessed if he can hardly hold the
pot, much less feel the paper, for it's one of the bitterest nights
he ever felt, 'cept the night when the man was frozen to death in
the Brick-field.

After a little prophetic conversation with the policeman at the
street-corner, touching a probable change in the weather, and the
setting-in of a hard frost, the nine o'clock beer returns to his
master's house, and employs himself for the remainder of the
evening, in assiduously stirring the tap-room fire, and
deferentially taking part in the conversation of the worthies
assembled round it.

The streets in the vicinity of the Marsh-gate and Victoria Theatre
present an appearance of dirt and discomfort on such a night, which
the groups who lounge about them in no degree tend to diminish.
Even the little block-tin temple sacred to baked potatoes,
surmounted by a splendid design in variegated lamps, looks less gay
than usual, and as to the kidney-pie stand, its glory has quite
departed. The candle in the transparent lamp, manufactured of oil-
paper, embellished with 'characters,' has been blown out fifty
times, so the kidney-pie merchant, tired with running backwards and
forwards to the next wine-vaults, to get a light, has given up the
idea of illumination in despair, and the only signs of his
'whereabout,' are the bright sparks, of which a long irregular
train is whirled down the street every time he opens his portable
oven to hand a hot kidney-pie to a customer.

Flat-fish, oyster, and fruit vendors linger hopelessly in the
kennel, in vain endeavouring to attract customers; and the ragged
boys who usually disport themselves about the streets, stand
crouched in little knots in some projecting doorway, or under the
canvas blind of a cheesemonger's, where great flaring gas-lights,
unshaded by any glass, display huge piles of blight red and pale
yellow cheeses, mingled with little fivepenny dabs of dingy bacon,
various tubs of weekly Dorset, and cloudy rolls of 'best fresh.'

Here they amuse themselves with theatrical converse, arising out of
their last half-price visit to the Victoria gallery, admire the
terrific combat, which is nightly encored, and expatiate on the
inimitable manner in which Bill Thompson can 'come the double
monkey,' or go through the mysterious involutions of a sailor's
hornpipe.

It is nearly eleven o'clock, and the cold thin rain which has been
drizzling so long, is beginning to pour down in good earnest; the
baked-potato man has departed - the kidney-pie man has just walked
away with his warehouse on his arm - the cheesemonger has drawn in
his blind, and the boys have dispersed. The constant clicking of
pattens on the slippy and uneven pavement, and the rustling of
umbrellas, as the wind blows against the shop-windows, bear
testimony to the inclemency of the night; and the policeman, with
his oilskin cape buttoned closely round him, seems as he holds his
hat on his head, and turns round to avoid the gust of wind and rain
which drives against him at the street-corner, to be very far from
congratulating himself on the prospect before him.

The little chandler's shop with the cracked bell behind the door,
whose melancholy tinkling has been regulated by the demand for
quarterns of sugar and half-ounces of coffee, is shutting up. The
crowds which have been passing to and fro during the whole day, are
rapidly dwindling away; and the noise of shouting and quarrelling
which issues from the public-houses, is almost the only sound that
breaks the melancholy stillness of the night.

There was another, but it has ceased. That wretched woman with the
infant in her arms, round whose meagre form the remnant of her own
scanty shawl is carefully wrapped, has been attempting to sing some
popular ballad, in the hope of wringing a few pence from the
compassionate passer-by. A brutal laugh at her weak voice is all
she has gained. The tears fall thick and fast down her own pale
face; the child is cold and hungry, and its low half-stifled
wailing adds to the misery of its wretched mother, as she moans
aloud, and sinks despairingly down, on a cold damp door-step.

Singing! How few of those who pass such a miserable creature as
this, think of the anguish of heart, the sinking of soul and
spirit, which the very effort of singing produces. Bitter mockery!
Disease, neglect, and starvation, faintly articulating the words of
the joyous ditty, that has enlivened your hours of feasting and
merriment, God knows how often! It is no subject of jeering. The
weak tremulous voice tells a fearful tale of want and famishing;
and the feeble singer of this roaring song may turn away, only to
die of cold and hunger.

One o'clock! Parties returning from the different theatres foot it
through the muddy streets; cabs, hackney-coaches, carriages, and
theatre omnibuses, roll swiftly by; watermen with dim dirty
lanterns in their hands, and large brass plates upon their breasts,
who have been shouting and rushing about for the last two hours,
retire to their watering-houses, to solace themselves with the
creature comforts of pipes and purl; the half-price pit and box
frequenters of the theatres throng to the different houses of
refreshment; and chops, kidneys, rabbits, oysters, stout, cigars,
and 'goes' innumerable, are served up amidst a noise and confusion
of smoking, running, knife-clattering, and waiter-chattering,
perfectly indescribable.

The more musical portion of the play-going community betake
themselves to some harmonic meeting. As a matter of curiosity let
us follow them thither for a few moments.

In a lofty room of spacious dimensions, are seated some eighty or a
hundred guests knocking little pewter measures on the tables, and
hammering away, with the handles of their knives, as if they were
so many trunk-makers. They are applauding a glee, which has just
been executed by the three 'professional gentlemen' at the top of
the centre table, one of whom is in the chair - the little pompous
man with the bald head just emerging from the collar of his green
coat. The others are seated on either side of him - the stout man
with the small voice, and the thin-faced dark man in black. The
little man in the chair is a most amusing personage, - such
condescending grandeur, and SUCH a voice!

'Bass!' as the young gentleman near us with the blue stock forcibly
remarks to his companion, 'bass! I b'lieve you; he can go down
lower than any man: so low sometimes that you can't hear him.'
And so he does. To hear him growling away, gradually lower and
lower down, till he can't get back again, is the most delightful
thing in the world, and it is quite impossible to witness unmoved
the impressive solemnity with which he pours forth his soul in 'My
'art's in the 'ighlands,' or 'The brave old Hoak.' The stout man
is also addicted to sentimentality, and warbles 'Fly, fly from the
world, my Bessy, with me,' or some such song, with lady-like
sweetness, and in the most seductive tones imaginable.

'Pray give your orders, gen'l'm'n - pray give your orders,' - says
the pale-faced man with the red head; and demands for 'goes' of gin
and 'goes' of brandy, and pints of stout, and cigars of peculiar
mildness, are vociferously made from all parts of the room. The
'professional gentlemen' are in the very height of their glory, and
bestow condescending nods, or even a word or two of recognition, on
the better-known frequenters of the room, in the most bland and
patronising manner possible.

The little round-faced man, with the small brown surtout, white
stockings and shoes, is in the comic line; the mixed air of self-
denial, and mental consciousness of his own powers, with which he
acknowledges the call of the chair, is particularly gratifying.
'Gen'l'men,' says the little pompous man, accompanying the word
with a knock of the president's hammer on the table - 'Gen'l'men,
allow me to claim your attention - our friend, Mr. Smuggins, will
oblige.' - 'Bravo!' shout the company; and Smuggins, after a
considerable quantity of coughing by way of symphony, and a most
facetious sniff or two, which afford general delight, sings a comic
song, with a fal-de-ral - tol-de-ral chorus at the end of every
verse, much longer than the verse itself. It is received with
unbounded applause, and after some aspiring genius has volunteered
a recitation, and failed dismally therein, the little pompous man
gives another knock, and says 'Gen'l'men, we will attempt a glee,
if you please.' This announcement calls forth tumultuous applause,
and the more energetic spirits express the unqualified approbation
it affords them, by knocking one or two stout glasses off their
legs - a humorous device; but one which frequently occasions some
slight altercation when the form of paying the damage is proposed
to be gone through by the waiter.

Scenes like these are continued until three or four o'clock in the
morning; and even when they close, fresh ones open to the
inquisitive novice. But as a description of all of them, however
slight, would require a volume, the contents of which, however
instructive, would be by no means pleasing, we make our bow, and
drop the curtain.

CHAPTER III - SHOPS AND THEIR TENANTS

What inexhaustible food for speculation, do the streets of London
afford! We never were able to agree with Sterne in pitying the man
who could travel from Dan to Beersheba, and say that all was
barren; we have not the slightest commiseration for the man who can
take up his hat and stick, and walk from Covent-garden to St.
Paul's Churchyard, and back into the bargain, without deriving some
amusement - we had almost said instruction - from his
perambulation. And yet there are such beings: we meet them every
day. Large black stocks and light waistcoats, jet canes and
discontented countenances, are the characteristics of the race;
other people brush quickly by you, steadily plodding on to
business, or cheerfully running after pleasure. These men linger
listlessly past, looking as happy and animated as a policeman on
duty. Nothing seems to make an impression on their minds: nothing
short of being knocked down by a porter, or run over by a cab, will
disturb their equanimity. You will meet them on a fine day in any
of the leading thoroughfares: peep through the window of a west-
end cigar shop in the evening, if you can manage to get a glimpse
between the blue curtains which intercept the vulgar gaze, and you
see them in their only enjoyment of existence. There they are
lounging about, on round tubs and pipe boxes, in all the dignity of
whiskers, and gilt watch-guards; whispering soft nothings to the
young lady in amber, with the large ear-rings, who, as she sits
behind the counter in a blaze of adoration and gas-light, is the
admiration of all the female servants in the neighbourhood, and the
envy of every milliner's apprentice within two miles round.

One of our principal amusements is to watch the gradual progress -
the rise or fall - of particular shops. We have formed an intimate
acquaintance with several, in different parts of town, and are
perfectly acquainted with their whole history. We could name off-
hand, twenty at least, which we are quite sure have paid no taxes
for the last six years. They are never inhabited for more than two
months consecutively, and, we verily believe, have witnessed every
retail trade in the directory.

There is one, whose history is a sample of the rest, in whose fate
we have taken especial interest, having had the pleasure of knowing
it ever since it has been a shop. It is on the Surrey side of the
water - a little distance beyond the Marsh-gate. It was originally
a substantial, good-looking private house enough; the landlord got
into difficulties, the house got into Chancery, the tenant went
away, and the house went to ruin. At this period our acquaintance
with it commenced; the paint was all worn off; the windows were
broken, the area was green with neglect and the overflowings of the
water-butt; the butt itself was without a lid, and the street-door
was the very picture of misery. The chief pastime of the children
in the vicinity had been to assemble in a body on the steps, and to
take it in turn to knock loud double knocks at the door, to the
great satisfaction of the neighbours generally, and especially of
the nervous old lady next door but one. Numerous complaints were
made, and several small basins of water discharged over the
offenders, but without effect. In this state of things, the
marine-store dealer at the corner of the street, in the most
obliging manner took the knocker off, and sold it: and the
unfortunate house looked more wretched than ever.

We deserted our friend for a few weeks. What was our surprise, on
our return, to find no trace of its existence! In its place was a
handsome shop, fast approaching to a state of completion, and on
the shutters were large bills, informing the public that it would
shortly be opened with 'an extensive stock of linen-drapery and
haberdashery.' It opened in due course; there was the name of the
proprietor 'and Co.' in gilt letters, almost too dazzling to look
at. Such ribbons and shawls! and two such elegant young men behind
the counter, each in a clean collar and white neckcloth, like the
lover in a farce. As to the proprietor, he did nothing but walk up
and down the shop, and hand seats to the ladies, and hold important
conversations with the handsomest of the young men, who was
shrewdly suspected by the neighbours to be the 'Co.' We saw all
this with sorrow; we felt a fatal presentiment that the shop was
doomed - and so it was. Its decay was slow, but sure. Tickets
gradually appeared in the windows; then rolls of flannel, with
labels on them, were stuck outside the door; then a bill was pasted
on the street-door, intimating that the first floor was to let
unfurnished; then one of the young men disappeared altogether, and
the other took to a black neckerchief, and the proprietor took to
drinking. The shop became dirty, broken panes of glass remained
unmended, and the stock disappeared piecemeal. At last the
company's man came to cut off the water, and then the linen-draper
cut off himself, leaving the landlord his compliments and the key.

The next occupant was a fancy stationer. The shop was more
modestly painted than before, still it was neat; but somehow we
always thought, as we passed, that it looked like a poor and
struggling concern. We wished the man well, but we trembled for
his success. He was a widower evidently, and had employment
elsewhere, for he passed us every morning on his road to the city.
The business was carried on by his eldest daughter. Poor girl! she
needed no assistance. We occasionally caught a glimpse of two or
three children, in mourning like herself, as they sat in the little
parlour behind the shop; and we never passed at night without
seeing the eldest girl at work, either for them, or in making some
elegant little trifle for sale. We often thought, as her pale face
looked more sad and pensive in the dim candle-light, that if those
thoughtless females who interfere with the miserable market of poor
creatures such as these, knew but one-half of the misery they
suffer, and the bitter privations they endure, in their honourable
attempts to earn a scanty subsistence, they would, perhaps, resign
even opportunities for the gratification of vanity, and an immodest
love of self-display, rather than drive them to a last dreadful
resource, which it would shock the delicate feelings of these
CHARITABLE ladies to hear named.

But we are forgetting the shop. Well, we continued to watch it,
and every day showed too clearly the increasing poverty of its
inmates. The children were clean, it is true, but their clothes
were threadbare and shabby; no tenant had been procured for the
upper part of the house, from the letting of which, a portion of
the means of paying the rent was to have been derived, and a slow,
wasting consumption prevented the eldest girl from continuing her
exertions. Quarter-day arrived. The landlord had suffered from
the extravagance of his last tenant, and he had no compassion for
the struggles of his successor; he put in an execution. As we
passed one morning, the broker's men were removing the little
furniture there was in the house, and a newly-posted bill informed
us it was again 'To Let.' What became of the last tenant we never
could learn; we believe the girl is past all suffering, and beyond
all sorrow. God help her! We hope she is.

We were somewhat curious to ascertain what would be the next stage
- for that the place had no chance of succeeding now, was perfectly
clear. The bill was soon taken down, and some alterations were
being made in the interior of the shop. We were in a fever of
expectation; we exhausted conjecture - we imagined all possible
trades, none of which were perfectly reconcilable with our idea of
the gradual decay of the tenement. It opened, and we wondered why
we had not guessed at the real state of the case before. The shop
- not a large one at the best of times - had been converted into
two: one was a bonnet-shape maker's, the other was opened by a
tobacconist, who also dealt in walking-sticks and Sunday
newspapers; the two were separated by a thin partition, covered
with tawdry striped paper.

The tobacconist remained in possession longer than any tenant
within our recollection. He was a red-faced, impudent, good-for-
nothing dog, evidently accustomed to take things as they came, and
to make the best of a bad job. He sold as many cigars as he could,
and smoked the rest. He occupied the shop as long as he could make
peace with the landlord, and when he could no longer live in quiet,
he very coolly locked the door, and bolted himself. From this
period, the two little dens have undergone innumerable changes.
The tobacconist was succeeded by a theatrical hair-dresser, who
ornamented the window with a great variety of 'characters,' and
terrific combats. The bonnet-shape maker gave place to a
greengrocer, and the histrionic barber was succeeded, in his turn,
by a tailor. So numerous have been the changes, that we have of
late done little more than mark the peculiar but certain
indications of a house being poorly inhabited. It has been
progressing by almost imperceptible degrees. The occupiers of the
shops have gradually given up room after room, until they have only
reserved the little parlour for themselves. First there appeared a
brass plate on the private door, with 'Ladies' School' legibly
engraved thereon; shortly afterwards we observed a second brass
plate, then a bell, and then another bell.

When we paused in front of our old friend, and observed these signs
of poverty, which are not to be mistaken, we thought as we turned
away, that the house had attained its lowest pitch of degradation.
We were wrong. When we last passed it, a 'dairy' was established
in the area, and a party of melancholy-looking fowls were amusing
themselves by running in at the front door, and out at the back
one.

CHAPTER IV - SCOTLAND-YARD

Scotland-yard is a small - a very small-tract of land, bounded on
one side by the river Thames, on the other by the gardens of
Northumberland House: abutting at one end on the bottom of
Northumberland-street, at the other on the back of Whitehall-place.
When this territory was first accidentally discovered by a country
gentleman who lost his way in the Strand, some years ago, the
original settlers were found to be a tailor, a publican, two
eating-house keepers, and a fruit-pie maker; and it was also found
to contain a race of strong and bulky men, who repaired to the
wharfs in Scotland-yard regularly every morning, about five or six
o'clock, to fill heavy waggons with coal, with which they proceeded
to distant places up the country, and supplied the inhabitants with
fuel. When they had emptied their waggons, they again returned for
a fresh supply; and this trade was continued throughout the year.

As the settlers derived their subsistence from ministering to the
wants of these primitive traders, the articles exposed for sale,
and the places where they were sold, bore strong outward marks of
being expressly adapted to their tastes and wishes. The tailor
displayed in his window a Lilliputian pair of leather gaiters, and
a diminutive round frock, while each doorpost was appropriately
garnished with a model of a coal-sack. The two eating-house
keepers exhibited joints of a magnitude, and puddings of a
solidity, which coalheavers alone could appreciate; and the fruit-
pie maker displayed on his well-scrubbed window-board large white
compositions of flour and dripping, ornamented with pink stains,
giving rich promise of the fruit within, which made their huge
mouths water, as they lingered past.

But the choicest spot in all Scotland-yard was the old public-house
in the corner. Here, in a dark wainscoted-room of ancient
appearance, cheered by the glow of a mighty fire, and decorated
with an enormous clock, whereof the face was white, and the figures
black, sat the lusty coalheavers, quaffing large draughts of
Barclay's best, and puffing forth volumes of smoke, which wreathed
heavily above their heads, and involved the room in a thick dark
cloud. From this apartment might their voices be heard on a
winter's night, penetrating to the very bank of the river, as they
shouted out some sturdy chorus, or roared forth the burden of a
popular song; dwelling upon the last few words with a strength and
length of emphasis which made the very roof tremble above them.

Here, too, would they tell old legends of what the Thames was in
ancient times, when the Patent Shot Manufactory wasn't built, and
Waterloo-bridge had never been thought of; and then they would
shake their heads with portentous looks, to the deep edification of
the rising generation of heavers, who crowded round them, and
wondered where all this would end; whereat the tailor would take
his pipe solemnly from his mouth, and say, how that he hoped it
might end well, but he very much doubted whether it would or not,
and couldn't rightly tell what to make of it - a mysterious
expression of opinion, delivered with a semi-prophetic air, which
never failed to elicit the fullest concurrence of the assembled
company; and so they would go on drinking and wondering till ten
o'clock came, and with it the tailor's wife to fetch him home, when
the little party broke up, to meet again in the same room, and say
and do precisely the same things, on the following evening at the
same hour.

About this time the barges that came up the river began to bring
vague rumours to Scotland-yard of somebody in the city having been
heard to say, that the Lord Mayor had threatened in so many words
to pull down the old London-bridge, and build up a new one. At
first these rumours were disregarded as idle tales, wholly
destitute of foundation, for nobody in Scotland-yard doubted that
if the Lord Mayor contemplated any such dark design, he would just
be clapped up in the Tower for a week or two, and then killed off
for high treason.

By degrees, however, the reports grew stronger, and more frequent,
and at last a barge, laden with numerous chaldrons of the best
Wallsend, brought up the positive intelligence that several of the
arches of the old bridge were stopped, and that preparations were
actually in progress for constructing the new one. What an
excitement was visible in the old tap-room on that memorable night!
Each man looked into his neighbour's face, pale with alarm and
astonishment, and read therein an echo of the sentiments which
filled his own breast. The oldest heaver present proved to
demonstration, that the moment the piers were removed, all the
water in the Thames would run clean off, and leave a dry gully in
its place. What was to become of the coal-barges - of the trade of
Scotland-yard - of the very existence of its population? The
tailor shook his head more sagely than usual, and grimly pointing
to a knife on the table, bid them wait and see what happened. He
said nothing - not he; but if the Lord Mayor didn't fall a victim
to popular indignation, why he would be rather astonished; that was
all.

They did wait; barge after barge arrived, and still no tidings of
the assassination of the Lord Mayor. The first stone was laid: it
was done by a Duke - the King's brother. Years passed away, and
the bridge was opened by the King himself. In course of time, the
piers were removed; and when the people in Scotland-yard got up
next morning in the confident expectation of being able to step
over to Pedlar's Acre without wetting the soles of their shoes,
they found to their unspeakable astonishment that the water was
just where it used to be.

A result so different from that which they had anticipated from
this first improvement, produced its full effect upon the
inhabitants of Scotland-yard. One of the eating-house keepers
began to court public opinion, and to look for customers among a
new class of people. He covered his little dining-tables with
white cloths, and got a painter's apprentice to inscribe something
about hot joints from twelve to two, in one of the little panes of
his shop-window. Improvement began to march with rapid strides to
the very threshold of Scotland-yard. A new market sprung up at
Hungerford, and the Police Commissioners established their office
in Whitehall-place. The traffic in Scotland-yard increased; fresh
Members were added to the House of Commons, the Metropolitan
Representatives found it a near cut, and many other foot passengers
followed their example.

We marked the advance of civilisation, and beheld it with a sigh.
The eating-house keeper who manfully resisted the innovation of
table-cloths, was losing ground every day, as his opponent gained
it, and a deadly feud sprung up between them. The genteel one no
longer took his evening's pint in Scotland-yard, but drank gin and
water at a 'parlour' in Parliament-street. The fruit-pie maker
still continued to visit the old room, but he took to smoking
cigars, and began to call himself a pastrycook, and to read the
papers. The old heavers still assembled round the ancient
fireplace, but their talk was mournful: and the loud song and the
joyous shout were heard no more.

And what is Scotland-yard now? How have its old customs changed;
and how has the ancient simplicity of its inhabitants faded away!
The old tottering public-house is converted into a spacious and
lofty 'wine-vaults;' gold leaf has been used in the construction of
the letters which emblazon its exterior, and the poet's art has
been called into requisition, to intimate that if you drink a
certain description of ale, you must hold fast by the rail. The
tailor exhibits in his window the pattern of a foreign-looking
brown surtout, with silk buttons, a fur collar, and fur cuffs. He
wears a stripe down the outside of each leg of his trousers: and
we have detected his assistants (for he has assistants now) in the
act of sitting on the shop-board in the same uniform.

At the other end of the little row of houses a boot-maker has
established himself in a brick box, with the additional innovation
of a first floor; and here he exposes for sale, boots - real
Wellington boots - an article which a few years ago, none of the
original inhabitants had ever seen or heard of. It was but the
other day, that a dress-maker opened another little box in the
middle of the row; and, when we thought that the spirit of change
could produce no alteration beyond that, a jeweller appeared, and
not content with exposing gilt rings and copper bracelets out of
number, put up an announcement, which still sticks in his window,
that 'ladies' ears may be pierced within.' The dress-maker employs
a young lady who wears pockets in her apron; and the tailor informs
the public that gentlemen may have their own materials made up.

Amidst all this change, and restlessness, and innovation, there
remains but one old man, who seems to mourn the downfall of this
ancient place. He holds no converse with human kind, but, seated
on a wooden bench at the angle of the wall which fronts the
crossing from Whitehall-place, watches in silence the gambols of
his sleek and well-fed dogs. He is the presiding genius of
Scotland-yard. Years and years have rolled over his head; but, in
fine weather or in foul, hot or cold, wet or dry, hail, rain, or
snow, he is still in his accustomed spot. Misery and want are
depicted in his countenance; his form is bent by age, his head is
grey with length of trial, but there he sits from day to day,
brooding over the past; and thither he will continue to drag his
feeble limbs, until his eyes have closed upon Scotland-yard, and
upon the world together.

A few years hence, and the antiquary of another generation looking
into some mouldy record of the strife and passions that agitated
the world in these times, may glance his eye over the pages we have
just filled: and not all his knowledge of the history of the past,
not all his black-letter lore, or his skill in book-collecting, not
all the dry studies of a long life, or the dusty volumes that have
cost him a fortune, may help him to the whereabouts, either of
Scotland-yard, or of any one of the landmarks we have mentioned in
describing it.

CHAPTER V - SEVEN DIALS

We have always been of opinion that if Tom King and the Frenchman
had not immortalised Seven Dials, Seven Dials would have
immortalised itself. Seven Dials! the region of song and poetry -
first effusions, and last dying speeches: hallowed by the names of
Catnach and of Pitts - names that will entwine themselves with
costermongers, and barrel-organs, when penny magazines shall have
superseded penny yards of song, and capital punishment be unknown!

Look at the construction of the place. The Gordian knot was all
very well in its way: so was the maze of Hampton Court: so is the
maze at the Beulah Spa: so were the ties of stiff white
neckcloths, when the difficulty of getting one on, was only to be
equalled by the apparent impossibility of ever getting it off
again. But what involutions can compare with those of Seven Dials?
Where is there such another maze of streets, courts, lanes, and
alleys? Where such a pure mixture of Englishmen and Irishmen, as
in this complicated part of London? We boldly aver that we doubt
the veracity of the legend to which we have adverted. We CAN
suppose a man rash enough to inquire at random - at a house with
lodgers too - for a Mr. Thompson, with all but the certainty before
his eyes, of finding at least two or three Thompsons in any house
of moderate dimensions; but a Frenchman - a Frenchman in Seven
Dials! Pooh! He was an Irishman. Tom King's education had been
neglected in his infancy, and as he couldn't understand half the
man said, he took it for granted he was talking French.

The stranger who finds himself in 'The Dials' for the first time,
and stands Belzoni-like, at the entrance of seven obscure passages,
uncertain which to take, will see enough around him to keep his
curiosity and attention awake for no inconsiderable time. From the
irregular square into which he has plunged, the streets and courts
dart in all directions, until they are lost in the unwholesome
vapour which hangs over the house-tops, and renders the dirty
perspective uncertain and confined; and lounging at every corner,
as if they came there to take a few gasps of such fresh air as has
found its way so far, but is too much exhausted already, to be
enabled to force itself into the narrow alleys around, are groups
of people, whose appearance and dwellings would fill any mind but a
regular Londoner's with astonishment.

On one side, a little crowd has collected round a couple of ladies,
who having imbibed the contents of various 'three-outs' of gin and
bitters in the course of the morning, have at length differed on
some point of domestic arrangement, and are on the eve of settling
the quarrel satisfactorily, by an appeal to blows, greatly to the
interest of other ladies who live in the same house, and tenements
adjoining, and who are all partisans on one side or other.

'Vy don't you pitch into her, Sarah?' exclaims one half-dressed
matron, by way of encouragement. 'Vy don't you? if MY 'usband had
treated her with a drain last night, unbeknown to me, I'd tear her
precious eyes out - a wixen!'

'What's the matter, ma'am?' inquires another old woman, who has
just bustled up to the spot.

'Matter!' replies the first speaker, talking AT the obnoxious
combatant, 'matter! Here's poor dear Mrs. Sulliwin, as has five
blessed children of her own, can't go out a charing for one
arternoon, but what hussies must be a comin', and 'ticing avay her
oun' 'usband, as she's been married to twelve year come next Easter
Monday, for I see the certificate ven I vas a drinkin' a cup o' tea
vith her, only the werry last blessed Ven'sday as ever was sent. I
'appen'd to say promiscuously, "Mrs. Sulliwin," says I - '

'What do you mean by hussies?' interrupts a champion of the other
party, who has evinced a strong inclination throughout to get up a
branch fight on her own account ('Hooroar,' ejaculates a pot-boy in
parenthesis, 'put the kye-bosk on her, Mary!'), 'What do you mean
by hussies?' reiterates the champion.

'Niver mind,' replies the opposition expressively, 'niver mind; YOU
go home, and, ven you're quite sober, mend your stockings.'

This somewhat personal allusion, not only to the lady's habits of
intemperance, but also to the state of her wardrobe, rouses her
utmost ire, and she accordingly complies with the urgent request of
the bystanders to 'pitch in,' with considerable alacrity. The
scuffle became general, and terminates, in minor play-bill
phraseology, with 'arrival of the policemen, interior of the
station-house, and impressive DENOUEMENT.'

In addition to the numerous groups who are idling about the gin-
shops and squabbling in the centre of the road, every post in the
open space has its occupant, who leans against it for hours, with
listless perseverance. It is odd enough that one class of men in
London appear to have no enjoyment beyond leaning against posts.
We never saw a regular bricklayer's labourer take any other
recreation, fighting excepted. Pass through St. Giles's in the
evening of a week-day, there they are in their fustian dresses,
spotted with brick-dust and whitewash, leaning against posts. Walk
through Seven Dials on Sunday morning: there they are again, drab
or light corduroy trousers, Blucher boots, blue coats, and great
yellow waistcoats, leaning against posts. The idea of a man
dressing himself in his best clothes, to lean against a post all
day!

The peculiar character of these streets, and the close resemblance
each one bears to its neighbour, by no means tends to decrease the
bewilderment in which the unexperienced wayfarer through 'the
Dials' finds himself involved. He traverses streets of dirty,
straggling houses, with now and then an unexpected court composed
of buildings as ill-proportioned and deformed as the half-naked
children that wallow in the kennels. Here and there, a little dark
chandler's shop, with a cracked bell hung up behind the door to
announce the entrance of a customer, or betray the presence of some
young gentleman in whom a passion for shop tills has developed
itself at an early age: others, as if for support, against some
handsome lofty building, which usurps the place of a low dingy
public-house; long rows of broken and patched windows expose plants
that may have flourished when 'the Dials' were built, in vessels as
dirty as 'the Dials' themselves; and shops for the purchase of
rags, bones, old iron, and kitchen-stuff, vie in cleanliness with
the bird-fanciers and rabbit-dealers, which one might fancy so many
arks, but for the irresistible conviction that no bird in its
proper senses, who was permitted to leave one of them, would ever
come back again. Brokers' shops, which would seem to have been
established by humane individuals, as refuges for destitute bugs,
interspersed with announcements of day-schools, penny theatres,
petition-writers, mangles, and music for balls or routs, complete
the 'still life' of the subject; and dirty men, filthy women,
squalid children, fluttering shuttlecocks, noisy battledores,
reeking pipes, bad fruit, more than doubtful oysters, attenuated
cats, depressed dogs, and anatomical fowls, are its cheerful
accompaniments.

If the external appearance of the houses, or a glance at their
inhabitants, present but few attractions, a closer acquaintance
with either is little calculated to alter one's first impression.
Every room has its separate tenant, and every tenant is, by the
same mysterious dispensation which causes a country curate to
'increase and multiply' most marvellously, generally the head of a
numerous family.

The man in the shop, perhaps, is in the baked 'jemmy' line, or the
fire-wood and hearth-stone line, or any other line which requires a
floating capital of eighteen-pence or thereabouts: and he and his
family live in the shop, and the small back parlour behind it.
Then there is an Irish labourer and HIS family in the back kitchen,
and a jobbing man - carpet-beater and so forth - with HIS family in
the front one. In the front one-pair, there's another man with
another wife and family, and in the back one-pair, there's 'a young
'oman as takes in tambour-work, and dresses quite genteel,' who
talks a good deal about 'my friend,' and can't 'a-bear anything
low.' The second floor front, and the rest of the lodgers, are
just a second edition of the people below, except a shabby-genteel
man in the back attic, who has his half-pint of coffee every
morning from the coffee-shop next door but one, which boasts a
little front den called a coffee-room, with a fireplace, over which
is an inscription, politely requesting that, 'to prevent mistakes,'
customers will 'please to pay on delivery.' The shabby-genteel man
is an object of some mystery, but as he leads a life of seclusion,
and never was known to buy anything beyond an occasional pen,
except half-pints of coffee, penny loaves, and ha'porths of ink,
his fellow-lodgers very naturally suppose him to be an author; and
rumours are current in the Dials, that he writes poems for Mr.
Warren.

Now anybody who passed through the Dials on a hot summer's evening,
and saw the different women of the house gossiping on the steps,
would be apt to think that all was harmony among them, and that a
more primitive set of people than the native Diallers could not be
imagined. Alas! the man in the shop ill-treats his family; the
carpet-beater extends his professional pursuits to his wife; the
one-pair front has an undying feud with the two-pair front, in
consequence of the two-pair front persisting in dancing over his
(the one-pair front's) head, when he and his family have retired
for the night; the two-pair back will interfere with the front
kitchen's children; the Irishman comes home drunk every other
night, and attacks everybody; and the one-pair back screams at
everything. Animosities spring up between floor and floor; the
very cellar asserts his equality. Mrs. A. 'smacks' Mrs. B.'s child
for 'making faces.' Mrs. B. forthwith throws cold water over Mrs.
A.'s child for 'calling names.' The husbands are embroiled - the
quarrel becomes general - an assault is the consequence, and a
police-officer the result.

CHAPTER VI - MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH-STREET

We have always entertained a particular attachment towards
Monmouth-street, as the only true and real emporium for second-hand
wearing apparel. Monmouth-street is venerable from its antiquity,
and respectable from its usefulness. Holywell-street we despise;
the red-headed and red-whiskered Jews who forcibly haul you into
their squalid houses, and thrust you into a suit of clothes,
whether you will or not, we detest.

The inhabitants of Monmouth-street are a distinct class; a
peaceable and retiring race, who immure themselves for the most
part in deep cellars, or small back parlours, and who seldom come
forth into the world, except in the dusk and coolness of the
evening, when they may be seen seated, in chairs on the pavement,
smoking their pipes, or watching the gambols of their engaging
children as they revel in the gutter, a happy troop of infantine
scavengers. Their countenances bear a thoughtful and a dirty cast,
certain indications of their love of traffic; and their habitations
are distinguished by that disregard of outward appearance and
neglect of personal comfort, so common among people who are
constantly immersed in profound speculations, and deeply engaged in
sedentary pursuits.

We have hinted at the antiquity of our favourite spot. 'A
Monmouth-street laced coat' was a by-word a century ago; and still
we find Monmouth-street the same. Pilot great-coats with wooden
buttons, have usurped the place of the ponderous laced coats with
full skirts; embroidered waistcoats with large flaps, have yielded
to double-breasted checks with roll-collars; and three-cornered
hats of quaint appearance, have given place to the low crowns and
broad brims of the coachman school; but it is the times that have
changed, not Monmouth-street. Through every alteration and every
change, Monmouth-street has still remained the burial-place of the
fashions; and such, to judge from all present appearances, it will
remain until there are no more fashions to bury.

We love to walk among these extensive groves of the illustrious
dead, and to indulge in the speculations to which they give rise;
now fitting a deceased coat, then a dead pair of trousers, and anon
the mortal remains of a gaudy waistcoat, upon some being of our own
conjuring up, and endeavouring, from the shape and fashion of the
garment itself, to bring its former owner before our mind's eye.
We have gone on speculating in this way, until whole rows of coats
have started from their pegs, and buttoned up, of their own accord,
round the waists of imaginary wearers; lines of trousers have
jumped down to meet them; waistcoats have almost burst with anxiety
to put themselves on; and half an acre of shoes have suddenly found
feet to fit them, and gone stumping down the street with a noise
which has fairly awakened us from our pleasant reverie, and driven
us slowly away, with a bewildered stare, an object of astonishment
to the good people of Monmouth-street, and of no slight suspicion
to the policemen at the opposite street corner.

We were occupied in this manner the other day, endeavouring to fit
a pair of lace-up half-boots on an ideal personage, for whom, to
say the truth, they were full a couple of sizes too small, when our
eyes happened to alight on a few suits of clothes ranged outside a
shop-window, which it immediately struck us, must at different
periods have all belonged to, and been worn by, the same
individual, and had now, by one of those strange conjunctions of
circumstances which will occur sometimes, come to be exposed
together for sale in the same shop. The idea seemed a fantastic
one, and we looked at the clothes again with a firm determination
not to be easily led away. No, we were right; the more we looked,
the more we were convinced of the accuracy of our previous
impression. There was the man's whole life written as legibly on
those clothes, as if we had his autobiography engrossed on
parchment before us.

The first was a patched and much-soiled skeleton suit; one of those
straight blue cloth cases in which small boys used to be confined,
before belts and tunics had come in, and old notions had gone out:
an ingenious contrivance for displaying the full symmetry of a
boy's figure, by fastening him into a very tight jacket, with an
ornamental row of buttons over each shoulder, and then buttoning
his trousers over it, so as to give his legs the appearance of
being hooked on, just under the armpits. This was the boy's dress.
It had belonged to a town boy, we could see; there was a shortness
about the legs and arms of the suit; and a bagging at the knees,
peculiar to the rising youth of London streets. A small day-school
he had been at, evidently. If it had been a regular boys' school
they wouldn't have let him play on the floor so much, and rub his
knees so white. He had an indulgent mother too, and plenty of
halfpence, as the numerous smears of some sticky substance about
the pockets, and just below the chin, which even the salesman's
skill could not succeed in disguising, sufficiently betokened.
They were decent people, but not overburdened with riches, or he
would not have so far outgrown the suit when he passed into those
corduroys with the round jacket; in which he went to a boys'
school, however, and learnt to write - and in ink of pretty
tolerable blackness, too, if the place where he used to wipe his
pen might be taken as evidence.

A black suit and the jacket changed into a diminutive coat. His
father had died, and the mother had got the boy a message-lad's
place in some office. A long-worn suit that one; rusty and
threadbare before it was laid aside, but clean and free from soil
to the last. Poor woman! We could imagine her assumed
cheerfulness over the scanty meal, and the refusal of her own small
portion, that her hungry boy might have enough. Her constant
anxiety for his welfare, her pride in his growth mingled sometimes
with the thought, almost too acute to bear, that as he grew to be a
man his old affection might cool, old kindnesses fade from his
mind, and old promises be forgotten - the sharp pain that even then
a careless word or a cold look would give her - all crowded on our
thoughts as vividly as if the very scene were passing before us.

These things happen every hour, and we all know it; and yet we felt
as much sorrow when we saw, or fancied we saw - it makes no
difference which - the change that began to take place now, as if
we had just conceived the bare possibility of such a thing for the
first time. The next suit, smart but slovenly; meant to be gay,
and yet not half so decent as the threadbare apparel; redolent of
the idle lounge, and the blackguard companions, told us, we
thought, that the widow's comfort had rapidly faded away. We could
imagine that coat - imagine! we could see it; we HAD seen it a
hundred times - sauntering in company with three or four other
coats of the same cut, about some place of profligate resort at
night.

We dressed, from the same shop-window in an instant, half a dozen
boys of from fifteen to twenty; and putting cigars into their
mouths, and their hands into their pockets, watched them as they
sauntered down the street, and lingered at the corner, with the
obscene jest, and the oft-repeated oath. We never lost sight of
them, till they had cocked their hats a little more on one side,
and swaggered into the public-house; and then we entered the
desolate home, where the mother sat late in the night, alone; we
watched her, as she paced the room in feverish anxiety, and every
now and then opened the door, looked wistfully into the dark and
empty street, and again returned, to be again and again
disappointed. We beheld the look of patience with which she bore
the brutish threat, nay, even the drunken blow; and we heard the
agony of tears that gushed from her very heart, as she sank upon
her knees in her solitary and wretched apartment.

A long period had elapsed, and a greater change had taken place, by
the time of casting off the suit that hung above. It was that of a
stout, broad-shouldered, sturdy-chested man; and we knew at once,
as anybody would, who glanced at that broad-skirted green coat,
with the large metal buttons, that its wearer seldom walked forth
without a dog at his heels, and some idle ruffian, the very
counterpart of himself, at his side. The vices of the boy had
grown with the man, and we fancied his home then - if such a place
deserve the name.

We saw the bare and miserable room, destitute of furniture, crowded
with his wife and children, pale, hungry, and emaciated; the man
cursing their lamentations, staggering to the tap-room, from whence
he had just returned, followed by his wife and a sickly infant,
clamouring for bread; and heard the street-wrangle and noisy
recrimination that his striking her occasioned. And then
imagination led us to some metropolitan workhouse, situated in the
midst of crowded streets and alleys, filled with noxious vapours,
and ringing with boisterous cries, where an old and feeble woman,
imploring pardon for her son, lay dying in a close dark room, with
no child to clasp her hand, and no pure air from heaven to fan her
brow. A stranger closed the eyes that settled into a cold
unmeaning glare, and strange ears received the words that murmured
from the white and half-closed lips.

A coarse round frock, with a worn cotton neckerchief, and other
articles of clothing of the commonest description, completed the
history. A prison, and the sentence - banishment or the gallows.
What would the man have given then, to be once again the contented
humble drudge of his boyish years; to have been restored to life,
but for a week, a day, an hour, a minute, only for so long a time
as would enable him to say one word of passionate regret to, and
hear one sound of heartfelt forgiveness from, the cold and ghastly
form that lay rotting in the pauper's grave! The children wild in
the streets, the mother a destitute widow; both deeply tainted with
the deep disgrace of the husband and father's name, and impelled by
sheer necessity, down the precipice that had led him to a lingering
death, possibly of many years' duration, thousands of miles away.
We had no clue to the end of the tale; but it was easy to guess its
termination.

We took a step or two further on, and by way of restoring the
naturally cheerful tone of our thoughts, began fitting visionary
feet and legs into a cellar-board full of boots and shoes, with a
speed and accuracy that would have astonished the most expert
artist in leather, living. There was one pair of boots in
particular - a jolly, good-tempered, hearty-looking pair of tops,
that excited our warmest regard; and we had got a fine, red-faced,
jovial fellow of a market-gardener into them, before we had made
their acquaintance half a minute. They were just the very thing
for him. There was his huge fat legs bulging over the tops, and
fitting them too tight to admit of his tucking in the loops he had
pulled them on by; and his knee-cords with an interval of stocking;
and his blue apron tucked up round his waist; and his red
neckerchief and blue coat, and a white hat stuck on one side of his
head; and there he stood with a broad grin on his great red face,
whistling away, as if any other idea but that of being happy and
comfortable had never entered his brain.

This was the very man after our own heart; we knew all about him;
we had seen him coming up to Covent-garden in his green chaise-
cart, with the fat, tubby little horse, half a thousand times; and
even while we cast an affectionate look upon his boots, at that
instant, the form of a coquettish servant-maid suddenly sprung into
a pair of Denmark satin shoes that stood beside them, and we at
once recognised the very girl who accepted his offer of a ride,
just on this side the Hammersmith suspension-bridge, the very last
Tuesday morning we rode into town from Richmond.

A very smart female, in a showy bonnet, stepped into a pair of grey
cloth boots, with black fringe and binding, that were studiously
pointing out their toes on the other side of the top-boots, and
seemed very anxious to engage his attention, but we didn't observe
that our friend the market-gardener appeared at all captivated with
these blandishments; for beyond giving a knowing wink when they
first began, as if to imply that he quite understood their end and
object, he took no further notice of them. His indifference,
however, was amply recompensed by the excessive gallantry of a very
old gentleman with a silver-headed stick, who tottered into a pair
of large list shoes, that were standing in one corner of the board,
and indulged in a variety of gestures expressive of his admiration
of the lady in the cloth boots, to the immeasurable amusement of a
young fellow we put into a pair of long-quartered pumps, who we
thought would have split the coat that slid down to meet him, with
laughing.

We had been looking on at this little pantomime with great
satisfaction for some time, when, to our unspeakable astonishment,
we perceived that the whole of the characters, including a numerous
CORPS DE BALLET of boots and shoes in the background, into which we
had been hastily thrusting as many feet as we could press into the
service, were arranging themselves in order for dancing; and some
music striking up at the moment, to it they went without delay. It
was perfectly delightful to witness the agility of the market-
gardener. Out went the boots, first on one side, then on the
other, then cutting, then shuffling, then setting to the Denmark
satins, then advancing, then retreating, then going round, and then
repeating the whole of the evolutions again, without appearing to
suffer in the least from the violence of the exercise.

Nor were the Denmark satins a bit behindhand, for they jumped and
bounded about, in all directions; and though they were neither so
regular, nor so true to the time as the cloth boots, still, as they
seemed to do it from the heart, and to enjoy it more, we candidly
confess that we preferred their style of dancing to the other. But
the old gentleman in the list shoes was the most amusing object in
the whole party; for, besides his grotesque attempts to appear
youthful, and amorous, which were sufficiently entertaining in
themselves, the young fellow in the pumps managed so artfully that
every time the old gentleman advanced to salute the lady in the
cloth boots, he trod with his whole weight on the old fellow's
toes, which made him roar with anguish, and rendered all the others
like to die of laughing.

We were in the full enjoyment of these festivities when we heard a
shrill, and by no means musical voice, exclaim, 'Hope you'll know
me agin, imperence!' and on looking intently forward to see from
whence the sound came, we found that it proceeded, not from the
young lady in the cloth boots, as we had at first been inclined to
suppose, but from a bulky lady of elderly appearance who was seated
in a chair at the head of the cellar-steps, apparently for the
purpose of superintending the sale of the articles arranged there.

A barrel-organ, which had been in full force close behind us,
ceased playing; the people we had been fitting into the shoes and
boots took to flight at the interruption; and as we were conscious
that in the depth of our meditations we might have been rudely
staring at the old lady for half an hour without knowing it, we
took to flight too, and were soon immersed in the deepest obscurity
of the adjacent 'Dials.'

CHAPTER VII - HACKNEY-COACH STANDS

We maintain that hackney-coaches, properly so called, belong solely
to the metropolis. We may be told, that there are hackney-coach
stands in Edinburgh; and not to go quite so far for a contradiction
to our position, we may be reminded that Liverpool, Manchester,
'and other large towns' (as the Parliamentary phrase goes), have
THEIR hackney-coach stands. We readily concede to these places the
possession of certain vehicles, which may look almost as dirty, and
even go almost as slowly, as London hackney-coaches; but that they
have the slightest claim to compete with the metropolis, either in
point of stands, drivers, or cattle, we indignantly deny.

Take a regular, ponderous, rickety, London hackney-coach of the old
school, and let any man have the boldness to assert, if he can,
that he ever beheld any object on the face of the earth which at
all resembles it, unless, indeed, it were another hackney-coach of
the same date. We have recently observed on certain stands, and we
say it with deep regret, rather dapper green chariots, and coaches
of polished yellow, with four wheels of the same colour as the
coach, whereas it is perfectly notorious to every one who has
studied the subject, that every wheel ought to be of a different
colour, and a different size. These are innovations, and, like
other miscalled improvements, awful signs of the restlessness of
the public mind, and the little respect paid to our time-honoured
institutions. Why should hackney-coaches be clean? Our ancestors
found them dirty, and left them so. Why should we, with a feverish
wish to 'keep moving,' desire to roll along at the rate of six
miles an hour, while they were content to rumble over the stones at
four? These are solemn considerations. Hackney-coaches are part
and parcel of the law of the land; they were settled by the
Legislature; plated and numbered by the wisdom of Parliament.

Then why have they been swamped by cabs and omnibuses? Or why
should people be allowed to ride quickly for eightpence a mile,
after Parliament had come to the solemn decision that they should
pay a shilling a mile for riding slowly? We pause for a reply; -
and, having no chance of getting one, begin a fresh paragraph.

Our acquaintance with hackney-coach stands is of long standing. We
are a walking book of fares, feeling ourselves, half bound, as it
were, to be always in the right on contested points. We know all
the regular watermen within three miles of Covent-garden by sight,
and should be almost tempted to believe that all the hackney-coach
horses in that district knew us by sight too, if one-half of them
were not blind. We take great interest in hackney-coaches, but we
seldom drive, having a knack of turning ourselves over when we
attempt to do so. We are as great friends to horses, hackney-coach
and otherwise, as the renowned Mr. Martin, of costermonger
notoriety, and yet we never ride. We keep no horse, but a clothes-
horse; enjoy no saddle so much as a saddle of mutton; and,
following our own inclinations, have never followed the hounds.
Leaving these fleeter means of getting over the ground, or of
depositing oneself upon it, to those who like them, by hackney-
coach stands we take our stand.

There is a hackney-coach stand under the very window at which we
are writing; there is only one coach on it now, but it is a fair
specimen of the class of vehicles to which we have alluded - a
great, lumbering, square concern of a dingy yellow colour (like a
bilious brunette), with very small glasses, but very large frames;
the panels are ornamented with a faded coat of arms, in shape
something like a dissected bat, the axletree is red, and the
majority of the wheels are green. The box is partially covered by
an old great-coat, with a multiplicity of capes, and some
extraordinary-looking clothes; and the straw, with which the canvas
cushion is stuffed, is sticking up in several places, as if in
rivalry of the hay, which is peeping through the chinks in the
boot. The horses, with drooping heads, and each with a mane and
tail as scanty and straggling as those of a worn-out rocking-horse,
are standing patiently on some damp straw, occasionally wincing,
and rattling the harness; and now and then, one of them lifts his
mouth to the ear of his companion, as if he were saying, in a
whisper, that he should like to assassinate the coachman. The
coachman himself is in the watering-house; and the waterman, with
his hands forced into his pockets as far as they can possibly go,
is dancing the 'double shuffle,' in front of the pump, to keep his
feet warm.

The servant-girl, with the pink ribbons, at No. 5, opposite,
suddenly opens the street-door, and four small children forthwith
rush out, and scream 'Coach!' with all their might and main. The
waterman darts from the pump, seizes the horses by their respective
bridles, and drags them, and the coach too, round to the house,
shouting all the time for the coachman at the very top, or rather
very bottom of his voice, for it is a deep bass growl. A response
is heard from the tap-room; the coachman, in his wooden-soled
shoes, makes the street echo again as he runs across it; and then
there is such a struggling, and backing, and grating of the kennel,
to get the coach-door opposite the house-door, that the children
are in perfect ecstasies of delight. What a commotion! The old
lady, who has been stopping there for the last month, is going back
to the country. Out comes box after box, and one side of the
vehicle is filled with luggage in no time; the children get into
everybody's way, and the youngest, who has upset himself in his
attempts to carry an umbrella, is borne off wounded and kicking.
The youngsters disappear, and a short pause ensues, during which
the old lady is, no doubt, kissing them all round in the back
parlour. She appears at last, followed by her married daughter,
all the children, and both the servants, who, with the joint
assistance of the coachman and waterman, manage to get her safely
into the coach. A cloak is handed in, and a little basket, which
we could almost swear contains a small black bottle, and a paper of
sandwiches. Up go the steps, bang goes the door, 'Golden-cross,
Charing-cross, Tom,' says the waterman; 'Good-bye, grandma,' cry
the children, off jingles the coach at the rate of three miles an
hour, and the mamma and children retire into the house, with the
exception of one little villain, who runs up the street at the top
of his speed, pursued by the servant; not ill-pleased to have such
an opportunity of displaying her attractions. She brings him back,
and, after casting two or three gracious glances across the way,
which are either intended for us or the potboy (we are not quite
certain which), shuts the door, and the hackney-coach stand is
again at a standstill.

We have been frequently amused with the intense delight with which
'a servant of all work,' who is sent for a coach, deposits herself
inside; and the unspeakable gratification which boys, who have been
despatched on a similar errand, appear to derive from mounting the
box. But we never recollect to have been more amused with a
hackney-coach party, than one we saw early the other morning in
Tottenham-court-road. It was a wedding-party, and emerged from one
of the inferior streets near Fitzroy-square. There were the bride,
with a thin white dress, and a great red face; and the bridesmaid,
a little, dumpy, good-humoured young woman, dressed, of course, in
the same appropriate costume; and the bridegroom and his chosen
friend, in blue coats, yellow waist-coats, white trousers, and
Berlin gloves to match. They stopped at the corner of the street,
and called a coach with an air of indescribable dignity. The
moment they were in, the bridesmaid threw a red shawl, which she
had, no doubt, brought on purpose, negligently over the number on
the door, evidently to delude pedestrians into the belief that the
hackney-coach was a private carriage; and away they went, perfectly
satisfied that the imposition was successful, and quite unconscious
that there was a great staring number stuck up behind, on a plate
as large as a schoolboy's slate. A shilling a mile! - the ride was
worth five, at least, to them.

What an interesting book a hackney-coach might produce, if it could
carry as much in its head as it does in its body! The
autobiography of a broken-down hackney-coach, would surely be as
amusing as the autobiography of a broken-down hackneyed dramatist;
and it might tell as much of its travels WITH the pole, as others
have of their expeditions TO it. How many stories might be related
of the different people it had conveyed on matters of business or
profit - pleasure or pain! And how many melancholy tales of the
same people at different periods! The country-girl - the showy,
over-dressed woman - the drunken prostitute! The raw apprentice -
the dissipated spendthrift - the thief!

Talk of cabs! Cabs are all very well in cases of expedition, when
it's a matter of neck or nothing, life or death, your temporary
home or your long one. But, besides a cab's lacking that gravity
of deportment which so peculiarly distinguishes a hackney-coach,
let it never be forgotten that a cab is a thing of yesterday, and
that he never was anything better. A hackney-cab has always been a
hackney-cab, from his first entry into life; whereas a hackney-
coach is a remnant of past gentility, a victim to fashion, a
hanger-on of an old English family, wearing their arms, and, in
days of yore, escorted by men wearing their livery, stripped of his
finery, and thrown upon the world, like a once-smart footman when
he is no longer sufficiently juvenile for his office, progressing
lower and lower in the scale of four-wheeled degradation, until at
last it comes to - A STAND!

CHAPTER VIII - DOCTORS' COMMONS

Walking without any definite object through St. Paul's Churchyard,
a little while ago, we happened to turn down a street entitled
'Paul's-chain,' and keeping straight forward for a few hundred
yards, found ourself, as a natural consequence, in Doctors'
Commons. Now Doctors' Commons being familiar by name to everybody,
as the place where they grant marriage-licenses to love-sick
couples, and divorces to unfaithful ones; register the wills of
people who have any property to leave, and punish hasty gentlemen
who call ladies by unpleasant names, we no sooner discovered that
we were really within its precincts, than we felt a laudable desire
to become better acquainted therewith; and as the first object of
our curiosity was the Court, whose decrees can even unloose the
bonds of matrimony, we procured a direction to it; and bent our
steps thither without delay.

Crossing a quiet and shady court-yard, paved with stone, and
frowned upon by old red brick houses, on the doors of which were
painted the names of sundry learned civilians, we paused before a
small, green-baized, brass-headed-nailed door, which yielding to
our gentle push, at once admitted us into an old quaint-looking
apartment, with sunken windows, and black carved wainscoting, at
the upper end of which, seated on a raised platform, of
semicircular shape, were about a dozen solemn-looking gentlemen, in
crimson gowns and wigs.

At a more elevated desk in the centre, sat a very fat and red-faced
gentleman, in tortoise-shell spectacles, whose dignified appearance
announced the judge; and round a long green-baized table below,
something like a billiard-table without the cushions and pockets,
were a number of very self-important-looking personages, in stiff
neckcloths, and black gowns with white fur collars, whom we at once
set down as proctors. At the lower end of the billiard-table was
an individual in an arm-chair, and a wig, whom we afterwards
discovered to be the registrar; and seated behind a little desk,
near the door, were a respectable-looking man in black, of about
twenty-stone weight or thereabouts, and a fat-faced, smirking,
civil-looking body, in a black gown, black kid gloves, knee shorts,
and silks, with a shirt-frill in his bosom, curls on his head, and
a silver staff in his hand, whom we had no difficulty in
recognising as the officer of the Court. The latter, indeed,
speedily set our mind at rest upon this point, for, advancing to
our elbow, and opening a conversation forthwith, he had
communicated to us, in less than five minutes, that he was the
apparitor, and the other the court-keeper; that this was the Arches
Court, and therefore the counsel wore red gowns, and the proctors
fur collars; and that when the other Courts sat there, they didn't
wear red gowns or fur collars either; with many other scraps of
intelligence equally interesting. Besides these two officers,
there was a little thin old man, with long grizzly hair, crouched
in a remote corner, whose duty, our communicative friend informed
us, was to ring a large hand-bell when the Court opened in the
morning, and who, for aught his appearance betokened to the
contrary, might have been similarly employed for the last two
centuries at least.

The red-faced gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles had got
all the talk to himself just then, and very well he was doing it,
too, only he spoke very fast, but that was habit; and rather thick,
but that was good living. So we had plenty of time to look about
us. There was one individual who amused us mightily. This was one
of the bewigged gentlemen in the red robes, who was straddling
before the fire in the centre of the Court, in the attitude of the
brazen Colossus, to the complete exclusion of everybody else. He
had gathered up his robe behind, in much the same manner as a
slovenly woman would her petticoats on a very dirty day, in order
that he might feel the full warmth of the fire. His wig was put on
all awry, with the tail straggling about his neck; his scanty grey
trousers and short black gaiters, made in the worst possible style,
imported an additional inelegant appearance to his uncouth person;
and his limp, badly-starched shirt-collar almost obscured his eyes.
We shall never be able to claim any credit as a physiognomist
again, for, after a careful scrutiny of this gentleman's
countenance, we had come to the conclusion that it bespoke nothing
but conceit and silliness, when our friend with the silver staff
whispered in our ear that he was no other than a doctor of civil
law, and heaven knows what besides. So of course we were mistaken,
and he must be a very talented man. He conceals it so well though
- perhaps with the merciful view of not astonishing ordinary people
too much - that you would suppose him to be one of the stupidest
dogs alive.

The gentleman in the spectacles having concluded his judgment, and
a few minutes having been allowed to elapse, to afford time for the
buzz of the Court to subside, the registrar called on the next
cause, which was 'the office of the Judge promoted by Bumple
against Sludberry.' A general movement was visible in the Court,
at this announcement, and the obliging functionary with silver
staff whispered us that 'there would be some fun now, for this was
a brawling case.'

We were not rendered much the wiser by this piece of information,
till we found by the opening speech of the counsel for the
promoter, that, under a half-obsolete statute of one of the
Edwards, the court was empowered to visit with the penalty of
excommunication, any person who should be proved guilty of the
crime of 'brawling,' or 'smiting,' in any church, or vestry
adjoining thereto; and it appeared, by some eight-and-twenty
affidavits, which were duly referred to, that on a certain night,
at a certain vestry-meeting, in a certain parish particularly set
forth, Thomas Sludberry, the party appeared against in that suit,
had made use of, and applied to Michael Bumple, the promoter, the
words 'You be blowed;' and that, on the said Michael Bumple and
others remonstrating with the said Thomas Sludberry, on the
impropriety of his conduct, the said Thomas Sludberry repeated the
aforesaid expression, 'You be blowed;' and furthermore desired and
requested to know, whether the said Michael Bumple 'wanted anything
for himself;' adding, 'that if the said Michael Bumple did want
anything for himself, he, the said Thomas Sludberry, was the man to
give it him;' at the same time making use of other heinous and
sinful expressions, all of which, Bumple submitted, came within the
intent and meaning of the Act; and therefore he, for the soul's
health and chastening of Sludberry, prayed for sentence of
excommunication against him accordingly.

Upon these facts a long argument was entered into, on both sides,
to the great edification of a number of persons interested in the
parochial squabbles, who crowded the court; and when some very long
and grave speeches had been made PRO and CON, the red-faced
gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles took a review of the
case, which occupied half an hour more, and then pronounced upon
Sludberry the awful sentence of excommunication for a fortnight,
and payment of the costs of the suit. Upon this, Sludberry, who
was a little, red-faced, sly-looking, ginger-beer seller, addressed
the court, and said, if they'd be good enough to take off the
costs, and excommunicate him for the term of his natural life
instead, it would be much more convenient to him, for he never went
to church at all. To this appeal the gentleman in the spectacles
made no other reply than a look of virtuous indignation; and
Sludberry and his friends retired. As the man with the silver
staff informed us that the court was on the point of rising, we
retired too - pondering, as we walked away, upon the beautiful
spirit of these ancient ecclesiastical laws, the kind and
neighbourly feelings they are calculated to awaken, and the strong
attachment to religious institutions which they cannot fail to
engender.

We were so lost in these meditations, that we had turned into the
street, and run up against a door-post, before we recollected where
we were walking. On looking upwards to see what house we had
stumbled upon, the words 'Prerogative-Office,' written in large
characters, met our eye; and as we were in a sight-seeing humour
and the place was a public one, we walked in.

The room into which we walked, was a long, busy-looking place,
partitioned off, on either side, into a variety of little boxes, in
which a few clerks were engaged in copying or examining deeds.
Down the centre of the room were several desks nearly breast high,
at each of which, three or four people were standing, poring over
large volumes. As we knew that they were searching for wills, they
attracted our attention at once.

It was curious to contrast the lazy indifference of the attorneys'
clerks who were making a search for some legal purpose, with the
air of earnestness and interest which distinguished the strangers
to the place, who were looking up the will of some deceased
relative; the former pausing every now and then with an impatient
yawn, or raising their heads to look at the people who passed up
and down the room; the latter stooping over the book, and running
down column after column of names in the deepest abstraction.

There was one little dirty-faced man in a blue apron, who after a
whole morning's search, extending some fifty years back, had just
found the will to which he wished to refer, which one of the
officials was reading to him in a low hurried voice from a thick
vellum book with large clasps. It was perfectly evident that the
more the clerk read, the less the man with the blue apron
understood about the matter. When the volume was first brought
down, he took off his hat, smoothed down his hair, smiled with
great self-satisfaction, and looked up in the reader's face with
the air of a man who had made up his mind to recollect every word
he heard. The first two or three lines were intelligible enough;
but then the technicalities began, and the little man began to look
rather dubious. Then came a whole string of complicated trusts,
and he was regularly at sea. As the reader proceeded, it was quite
apparent that it was a hopeless case, and the little man, with his
mouth open and his eyes fixed upon his face, looked on with an
expression of bewilderment and perplexity irresistibly ludicrous.

A little further on, a hard-featured old man with a deeply-wrinkled
face, was intently perusing a lengthy will with the aid of a pair
of horn spectacles: occasionally pausing from his task, and slily
noting down some brief memorandum of the bequests contained in it.
Every wrinkle about his toothless mouth, and sharp keen eyes, told
of avarice and cunning. His clothes were nearly threadbare, but it
was easy to see that he wore them from choice and not from
necessity; all his looks and gestures down to the very small
pinches of snuff which he every now and then took from a little tin
canister, told of wealth, and penury, and avarice.

As he leisurely closed the register, put up his spectacles, and
folded his scraps of paper in a large leathern pocket-book, we
thought what a nice hard bargain he was driving with some poverty-
stricken legatee, who, tired of waiting year after year, until some
life-interest should fall in, was selling his chance, just as it
began to grow most valuable, for a twelfth part of its worth. It
was a good speculation - a very safe one. The old man stowed his
pocket-book carefully in the breast of his great-coat, and hobbled
away with a leer of triumph. That will had made him ten years
younger at the lowest computation.

Having commenced our observations, we should certainly have
extended them to another dozen of people at least, had not a sudden
shutting up and putting away of the worm-eaten old books, warned us
that the time for closing the office had arrived; and thus deprived
us of a pleasure, and spared our readers an infliction.

We naturally fell into a train of reflection as we walked
homewards, upon the curious old records of likings and dislikings;
of jealousies and revenges; of affection defying the power of
death, and hatred pursued beyond the grave, which these
depositories contain; silent but striking tokens, some of them, of
excellence of heart, and nobleness of soul; melancholy examples,
others, of the worst passions of human nature. How many men as
they lay speechless and helpless on the bed of death, would have
given worlds but for the strength and power to blot out the silent
evidence of animosity and bitterness, which now stands registered
against them in Doctors' Commons!

CHAPTER IX - LONDON RECREATIONS

The wish of persons in the humbler classes of life, to ape the
manners and customs of those whom fortune has placed above them, is
often the subject of remark, and not unfrequently of complaint.
The inclination may, and no doubt does, exist to a great extent,
among the small gentility - the would-be aristocrats - of the
middle classes. Tradesmen and clerks, with fashionable novel-
reading families, and circulating-library-subscribing daughters,
get up small assemblies in humble imitation of Almack's, and
promenade the dingy 'large room' of some second-rate hotel with as
much complacency as the enviable few who are privileged to exhibit
their magnificence in that exclusive haunt of fashion and foolery.
Aspiring young ladies, who read flaming accounts of some 'fancy
fair in high life,' suddenly grow desperately charitable; visions
of admiration and matrimony float before their eyes; some
wonderfully meritorious institution, which, by the strangest
accident in the world, has never been heard of before, is
discovered to be in a languishing condition: Thomson's great room,
or Johnson's nursery-ground, is forthwith engaged, and the
aforesaid young ladies, from mere charity, exhibit themselves for
three days, from twelve to four, for the small charge of one
shilling per head! With the exception of these classes of society,
however, and a few weak and insignificant persons, we do not think
the attempt at imitation to which we have alluded, prevails in any
great degree. The different character of the recreations of
different classes, has often afforded us amusement; and we have
chosen it for the subject of our present sketch, in the hope that
it may possess some amusement for our readers.

If the regular City man, who leaves Lloyd's at five o'clock, and
drives home to Hackney, Clapton, Stamford-hill, or elsewhere, can
be said to have any daily recreation beyond his dinner, it is his
garden. He never does anything to it with his own hands; but he
takes great pride in it notwithstanding; and if you are desirous of
paying your addresses to the youngest daughter, be sure to be in
raptures with every flower and shrub it contains. If your poverty
of expression compel you to make any distinction between the two,
we would certainly recommend your bestowing more admiration on his
garden than his wine. He always takes a walk round it, before he
starts for town in the morning, and is particularly anxious that
the fish-pond should be kept specially neat. If you call on him on
Sunday in summer-time, about an hour before dinner, you will find
him sitting in an arm-chair, on the lawn behind the house, with a
straw hat on, reading a Sunday paper. A short distance from him
you will most likely observe a handsome paroquet in a large brass-
wire cage; ten to one but the two eldest girls are loitering in one
of the side walks accompanied by a couple of young gentlemen, who
are holding parasols over them - of course only to keep the sun off
- while the younger children, with the under nursery-maid, are
strolling listlessly about, in the shade. Beyond these occasions,
his delight in his garden appears to arise more from the
consciousness of possession than actual enjoyment of it. When he
drives you down to dinner on a week-day, he is rather fatigued with
the occupations of the morning, and tolerably cross into the
bargain; but when the cloth is removed, and he has drank three or
four glasses of his favourite port, he orders the French windows of
his dining-room (which of course look into the garden) to be
opened, and throwing a silk handkerchief over his head, and leaning
back in his arm-chair, descants at considerable length upon its
beauty, and the cost of maintaining it. This is to impress you -
who are a young friend of the family - with a due sense of the
excellence of the garden, and the wealth of its owner; and when he
has exhausted the subject, he goes to sleep.

There is another and a very different class of men, whose
recreation is their garden. An individual of this class, resides
some short distance from town - say in the Hampstead-road, or the
Kilburn-road, or any other road where the houses are small and
neat, and have little slips of back garden. He and his wife - who
is as clean and compact a little body as himself - have occupied
the same house ever since he retired from business twenty years
ago. They have no family. They once had a son, who died at about
five years old. The child's portrait hangs over the mantelpiece in
the best sitting-room, and a little cart he used to draw about, is
carefully preserved as a relic.

In fine weather the old gentleman is almost constantly in the
garden; and when it is too wet to go into it, he will look out of
the window at it, by the hour together. He has always something to
do there, and you will see him digging, and sweeping, and cutting,
and planting, with manifest delight. In spring-time, there is no
end to the sowing of seeds, and sticking little bits of wood over
them, with labels, which look like epitaphs to their memory; and in
the evening, when the sun has gone down, the perseverance with
which he lugs a great watering-pot about is perfectly astonishing.
The only other recreation he has, is the newspaper, which he
peruses every day, from beginning to end, generally reading the
most interesting pieces of intelligence to his wife, during
breakfast. The old lady is very fond of flowers, as the hyacinth-
glasses in the parlour-window, and geranium-pots in the little
front court, testify. She takes great pride in the garden too:
and when one of the four fruit-trees produces rather a larger
gooseberry than usual, it is carefully preserved under a wine-glass
on the sideboard, for the edification of visitors, who are duly
informed that Mr. So-and-so planted the tree which produced it,
with his own hands. On a summer's evening, when the large
watering-pot has been filled and emptied some fourteen times, and
the old couple have quite exhausted themselves by trotting about,
you will see them sitting happily together in the little
summerhouse, enjoying the calm and peace of the twilight, and
watching the shadows as they fall upon the garden, and gradually
growing thicker and more sombre, obscure the tints of their gayest
flowers - no bad emblem of the years that have silently rolled over
their heads, deadening in their course the brightest hues of early
hopes and feelings which have long since faded away. These are
their only recreations, and they require no more. They have within
themselves, the materials of comfort and content; and the only
anxiety of each, is to die before the other.

This is no ideal sketch. There USED to be many old people of this
description; their numbers may have diminished, and may decrease
still more. Whether the course female education has taken of late
days - whether the pursuit of giddy frivolities, and empty
nothings, has tended to unfit women for that quiet domestic life,
in which they show far more beautifully than in the most crowded
assembly, is a question we should feel little gratification in
discussing: we hope not.

Let us turn now, to another portion of the London population, whose
recreations present about as strong a contrast as can well be
conceived - we mean the Sunday pleasurers; and let us beg our
readers to imagine themselves stationed by our side in some well-
known rural 'Tea-gardens.'

The heat is intense this afternoon, and the people, of whom there
are additional parties arriving every moment, look as warm as the
tables which have been recently painted, and have the appearance of
being red-hot. What a dust and noise! Men and women - boys and
girls - sweethearts and married people - babies in arms, and
children in chaises - pipes and shrimps - cigars and periwinkles -
tea and tobacco. Gentlemen, in alarming waistcoats, and steel
watch-guards, promenading about, three abreast, with surprising
dignity (or as the gentleman in the next box facetiously observes,
'cutting it uncommon fat!') - ladies, with great, long, white
pocket-handkerchiefs like small table-cloths, in their hands,
chasing one another on the grass in the most playful and
interesting manner, with the view of attracting the attention of
the aforesaid gentlemen - husbands in perspective ordering bottles
of ginger-beer for the objects of their affections, with a lavish
disregard of expense; and the said objects washing down huge
quantities of 'shrimps' and 'winkles,' with an equal disregard of
their own bodily health and subsequent comfort - boys, with great
silk hats just balanced on the top of their heads, smoking cigars,
and trying to look as if they liked them - gentlemen in pink shirts
and blue waistcoats, occasionally upsetting either themselves, or
somebody else, with their own canes.

Some of the finery of these people provokes a smile, but they are
all clean, and happy, and disposed to be good-natured and sociable.
Those two motherly-looking women in the smart pelisses, who are
chatting so confidentially, inserting a 'ma'am' at every fourth
word, scraped an acquaintance about a quarter of an hour ago: it
originated in admiration of the little boy who belongs to one of
them - that diminutive specimen of mortality in the three-cornered
pink satin hat with black feathers. The two men in the blue coats
and drab trousers, who are walking up and down, smoking their
pipes, are their husbands. The party in the opposite box are a
pretty fair specimen of the generality of the visitors. These are
the father and mother, and old grandmother: a young man and woman,
and an individual addressed by the euphonious title of 'Uncle
Bill,' who is evidently the wit of the party. They have some half-
dozen children with them, but it is scarcely necessary to notice
the fact, for that is a matter of course here. Every woman in 'the
gardens,' who has been married for any length of time, must have
had twins on two or three occasions; it is impossible to account
for the extent of juvenile population in any other way.

Observe the inexpressible delight of the old grandmother, at Uncle
Bill's splendid joke of 'tea for four: bread-and-butter for
forty;' and the loud explosion of mirth which follows his wafering
a paper 'pigtail' on the waiter's collar. The young man is
evidently 'keeping company' with Uncle Bill's niece: and Uncle
Bill's hints - such as 'Don't forget me at the dinner, you know,'
'I shall look out for the cake, Sally,' 'I'll be godfather to your
first - wager it's a boy,' and so forth, are equally embarrassing
to the young people, and delightful to the elder ones. As to the
old grandmother, she is in perfect ecstasies, and does nothing but
laugh herself into fits of coughing, until they have finished the
'gin-and-water warm with,' of which Uncle Bill ordered 'glasses
round' after tea, 'just to keep the night air out, and to do it up
comfortable and riglar arter sitch an as-tonishing hot day!'

It is getting dark, and the people begin to move. The field
leading to town is quite full of them; the little hand-chaises are
dragged wearily along, the children are tired, and amuse themselves
and the company generally by crying, or resort to the much more
pleasant expedient of going to sleep - the mothers begin to wish
they were at home again - sweethearts grow more sentimental than
ever, as the time for parting arrives - the gardens look mournful
enough, by the light of the two lanterns which hang against the
trees for the convenience of smokers - and the waiters who have
been running about incessantly for the last six hours, think they
feel a little tired, as they count their glasses and their gains.

CHAPTER X - THE RIVER

'Are you fond of the water?' is a question very frequently asked,
in hot summer weather, by amphibious-looking young men. 'Very,' is
the general reply. 'An't you?' - 'Hardly ever off it,' is the
response, accompanied by sundry adjectives, expressive of the
speaker's heartfelt admiration of that element. Now, with all
respect for the opinion of society in general, and cutter clubs in
particular, we humbly suggest that some of the most painful
reminiscences in the mind of every individual who has occasionally
disported himself on the Thames, must be connected with his aquatic
recreations. Who ever heard of a successful water-party? - or to
put the question in a still more intelligible form, who ever saw
one? We have been on water excursions out of number, but we
solemnly declare that we cannot call to mind one single occasion of
the kind, which was not marked by more miseries than any one would
suppose could be reasonably crowded into the space of some eight or
nine hours. Something has always gone wrong. Either the cork of
the salad-dressing has come out, or the most anxiously expected
member of the party has not come out, or the most disagreeable man
in company would come out, or a child or two have fallen into the
water, or the gentleman who undertook to steer has endangered
everybody's life all the way, or the gentlemen who volunteered to
row have been 'out of practice,' and performed very alarming
evolutions, putting their oars down into the water and not being
able to get them up again, or taking terrific pulls without putting
them in at all; in either case, pitching over on the backs of their
heads with startling violence, and exhibiting the soles of their
pumps to the 'sitters' in the boat, in a very humiliating manner.

We grant that the banks of the Thames are very beautiful at
Richmond and Twickenham, and other distant havens, often sought
though seldom reached; but from the 'Red-us' back to Blackfriars-
bridge, the scene is wonderfully changed. The Penitentiary is a
noble building, no doubt, and the sportive youths who 'go in' at
that particular part of the river, on a summer's evening, may be
all very well in perspective; but when you are obliged to keep in
shore coming home, and the young ladies will colour up, and look
perseveringly the other way, while the married dittos cough
slightly, and stare very hard at the water, you feel awkward -
especially if you happen to have been attempting the most distant
approach to sentimentality, for an hour or two previously.

Although experience and suffering have produced in our minds the
result we have just stated, we are by no means blind to a proper
sense of the fun which a looker-on may extract from the amateurs of
boating. What can be more amusing than Searle's yard on a fine
Sunday morning? It's a Richmond tide, and some dozen boats are
preparing for the reception of the parties who have engaged them.
Two or three fellows in great rough trousers and Guernsey shirts,
are getting them ready by easy stages; now coming down the yard
with a pair of sculls and a cushion - then having a chat with the
'Jack,' who, like all his tribe, seems to be wholly incapable of
doing anything but lounging about - then going back again, and
returning with a rudder-line and a stretcher - then solacing
themselves with another chat - and then wondering, with their hands
in their capacious pockets, 'where them gentlemen's got to as
ordered the six.' One of these, the head man, with the legs of his
trousers carefully tucked up at the bottom, to admit the water, we
presume - for it is an element in which he is infinitely more at
home than on land - is quite a character, and shares with the
defunct oyster-swallower the celebrated name of 'Dando.' Watch
him, as taking a few minutes' respite from his toils, he
negligently seats himself on the edge of a boat, and fans his broad
bushy chest with a cap scarcely half so furry. Look at his
magnificent, though reddish whiskers, and mark the somewhat native
humour with which he 'chaffs' the boys and 'prentices, or cunningly
gammons the gen'lm'n into the gift of a glass of gin, of which we
verily believe he swallows in one day as much as any six ordinary
men, without ever being one atom the worse for it.

But the party arrives, and Dando, relieved from his state of
uncertainty, starts up into activity. They approach in full
aquatic costume, with round blue jackets, striped shirts, and caps
of all sizes and patterns, from the velvet skull-cap of French
manufacture, to the easy head-dress familiar to the students of the
old spelling-books, as having, on the authority of the portrait,
formed part of the costume of the Reverend Mr. Dilworth.

This is the most amusing time to observe a regular Sunday water-
party. There has evidently been up to this period no
inconsiderable degree of boasting on everybody's part relative to
his knowledge of navigation; the sight of the water rapidly cools
their courage, and the air of self-denial with which each of them
insists on somebody else's taking an oar, is perfectly delightful.
At length, after a great deal of changing and fidgeting, consequent
upon the election of a stroke-oar: the inability of one gentleman
to pull on this side, of another to pull on that, and of a third to
pull at all, the boat's crew are seated. 'Shove her off!' cries
the cockswain, who looks as easy and comfortable as if he were
steering in the Bay of Biscay. The order is obeyed; the boat is
immediately turned completely round, and proceeds towards
Westminster-bridge, amidst such a splashing and struggling as never
was seen before, except when the Royal George went down. 'Back
wa'ater, sir,' shouts Dando, 'Back wa'ater, you sir, aft;' upon
which everybody thinking he must be the individual referred to,
they all back water, and back comes the boat, stern first, to the
spot whence it started. 'Back water, you sir, aft; pull round, you
sir, for'ad, can't you?' shouts Dando, in a frenzy of excitement.
'Pull round, Tom, can't you?' re-echoes one of the party. 'Tom
an't for'ad,' replies another. 'Yes, he is,' cries a third; and
the unfortunate young man, at the imminent risk of breaking a
blood-vessel, pulls and pulls, until the head of the boat fairly
lies in the direction of Vauxhall-bridge. 'That's right - now pull
all on you!' shouts Dando again, adding, in an under-tone, to
somebody by him, 'Blowed if hever I see sich a set of muffs!' and
away jogs the boat in a zigzag direction, every one of the six oars
dipping into the water at a different time; and the yard is once
more clear, until the arrival of the next party.

A well-contested rowing-match on the Thames, is a very lively and
interesting scene. The water is studded with boats of all sorts,
kinds, and descriptions; places in the coal-barges at the different
wharfs are let to crowds of spectators, beer and tobacco flow
freely about; men, women, and children wait for the start in
breathless expectation; cutters of six and eight oars glide gently
up and down, waiting to accompany their PROTEGES during the race;
bands of music add to the animation, if not to the harmony of the
scene; groups of watermen are assembled at the different stairs,
discussing the merits of the respective candidates; and the prize
wherry, which is rowed slowly about by a pair of sculls, is an
object of general interest.

Two o'clock strikes, and everybody looks anxiously in the direction
of the bridge through which the candidates for the prize will come
- half-past two, and the general attention which has been preserved
so long begins to flag, when suddenly a gun is heard, and a noise
of distant hurra'ing along each bank of the river - every head is
bent forward - the noise draws nearer and nearer - the boats which
have been waiting at the bridge start briskly up the river, and a
well-manned galley shoots through the arch, the sitters cheering on
the boats behind them, which are not yet visible.

'Here they are,' is the general cry - and through darts the first
boat, the men in her, stripped to the skin, and exerting every
muscle to preserve the advantage they have gained - four other
boats follow close astern; there are not two boats' length between
them - the shouting is tremendous, and the interest intense. 'Go
on, Pink' - 'Give it her, Red' - 'Sulliwin for ever' - 'Bravo!
George' - 'Now, Tom, now - now - now - why don't your partner
stretch out?' - 'Two pots to a pint on Yellow,' &c., &c. Every
little public-house fires its gun, and hoists its flag; and the men
who win the heat, come in, amidst a splashing and shouting, and
banging and confusion, which no one can imagine who has not
witnessed it, and of which any description would convey a very
faint idea.

One of the most amusing places we know is the steam-wharf of the
London Bridge, or St. Katharine's Dock Company, on a Saturday
morning in summer, when the Gravesend and Margate steamers are
usually crowded to excess; and as we have just taken a glance at
the river above bridge, we hope our readers will not object to
accompany us on board a Gravesend packet.

Coaches are every moment setting down at the entrance to the wharf,
and the stare of bewildered astonishment with which the 'fares'
resign themselves and their luggage into the hands of the porters,
who seize all the packages at once as a matter of course, and run
away with them, heaven knows where, is laughable in the extreme. A
Margate boat lies alongside the wharf, the Gravesend boat (which
starts first) lies alongside that again; and as a temporary
communication is formed between the two, by means of a plank and
hand-rail, the natural confusion of the scene is by no means
diminished.

'Gravesend?' inquires a stout father of a stout family, who follow
him, under the guidance of their mother, and a servant, at the no
small risk of two or three of them being left behind in the
confusion. 'Gravesend?'

'Pass on, if you please, sir,' replies the attendant - 'other boat,
sir.'

Hereupon the stout father, being rather mystified, and the stout
mother rather distracted by maternal anxiety, the whole party
deposit themselves in the Margate boat, and after having
congratulated himself on having secured very comfortable seats, the
stout father sallies to the chimney to look for his luggage, which
he has a faint recollection of having given some man, something, to
take somewhere. No luggage, however, bearing the most remote
resemblance to his own, in shape or form, is to be discovered; on
which the stout father calls very loudly for an officer, to whom he
states the case, in the presence of another father of another
family - a little thin man - who entirely concurs with him (the
stout father) in thinking that it's high time something was done
with these steam companies, and that as the Corporation Bill failed
to do it, something else must; for really people's property is not
to be sacrificed in this way; and that if the luggage isn't
restored without delay, he will take care it shall be put in the
papers, for the public is not to be the victim of these great
monopolies. To this, the officer, in his turn, replies, that that
company, ever since it has been St. Kat'rine's Dock Company, has
protected life and property; that if it had been the London Bridge
Wharf Company, indeed, he shouldn't have wondered, seeing that the
morality of that company (they being the opposition) can't be
answered for, by no one; but as it is, he's convinced there must be
some mistake, and he wouldn't mind making a solemn oath afore a
magistrate that the gentleman'll find his luggage afore he gets to
Margate.

Here the stout father, thinking he is making a capital point,
replies, that as it happens, he is not going to Margate at all, and
that 'Passenger to Gravesend' was on the luggage, in letters of
full two inches long; on which the officer rapidly explains the
mistake, and the stout mother, and the stout children, and the
servant, are hurried with all possible despatch on board the
Gravesend boat, which they reached just in time to discover that
their luggage is there, and that their comfortable seats are not.
Then the bell, which is the signal for the Gravesend boat starting,
begins to ring most furiously: and people keep time to the bell,
by running in and out of our boat at a double-quick pace. The bell
stops; the boat starts: people who have been taking leave of their
friends on board, are carried away against their will; and people
who have been taking leave of their friends on shore, find that
they have performed a very needless ceremony, in consequence of
their not being carried away at all. The regular passengers, who
have season tickets, go below to breakfast; people who have
purchased morning papers, compose themselves to read them; and
people who have not been down the river before, think that both the
shipping and the water, look a great deal better at a distance.

When we get down about as far as Blackwall, and begin to move at a
quicker rate, the spirits of the passengers appear to rise in
proportion. Old women who have brought large wicker hand-baskets
with them, set seriously to work at the demolition of heavy
sandwiches, and pass round a wine-glass, which is frequently
replenished from a flat bottle like a stomach-warmer, with
considerable glee: handing it first to the gentleman in the
foraging-cap, who plays the harp - partly as an expression of
satisfaction with his previous exertions, and partly to induce him
to play 'Dumbledumbdeary,' for 'Alick' to dance to; which being
done, Alick, who is a damp earthy child in red worsted socks, takes
certain small jumps upon the deck, to the unspeakable satisfaction
of his family circle. Girls who have brought the first volume of
some new novel in their reticule, become extremely plaintive, and
expatiate to Mr. Brown, or young Mr. O'Brien, who has been looking
over them, on the blueness of the sky, and brightness of the water;
on which Mr. Brown or Mr. O'Brien, as the case may be, remarks in a
low voice that he has been quite insensible of late to the beauties
of nature, that his whole thoughts and wishes have centred in one
object alone - whereupon the young lady looks up, and failing in
her attempt to appear unconscious, looks down again; and turns over
the next leaf with great difficulty, in order to afford opportunity
for a lengthened pressure of the hand.

Telescopes, sandwiches, and glasses of brandy-and-water cold
without, begin to be in great requisition; and bashful men who have
been looking down the hatchway at the engine, find, to their great
relief, a subject on which they can converse with one another - and
a copious one too - Steam.

'Wonderful thing steam, sir.' 'Ah! (a deep-drawn sigh) it is
indeed, sir.' 'Great power, sir.' 'Immense - immense!' 'Great
deal done by steam, sir.' 'Ah! (another sigh at the immensity of
the subject, and a knowing shake of the head) you may say that,
sir.' 'Still in its infancy, they say, sir.' Novel remarks of
this kind, are generally the commencement of a conversation which
is prolonged until the conclusion of the trip, and, perhaps, lays
the foundation of a speaking acquaintance between half-a-dozen
gentlemen, who, having their families at Gravesend, take season
tickets for the boat, and dine on board regularly every afternoon.

CHAPTER XI - ASTLEY'S

We never see any very large, staring, black Roman capitals, in a
book, or shop-window, or placarded on a wall, without their
immediately recalling to our mind an indistinct and confused
recollection of the time when we were first initiated in the
mysteries of the alphabet. We almost fancy we see the pin's point
following the letter, to impress its form more strongly on our
bewildered imagination; and wince involuntarily, as we remember the
hard knuckles with which the reverend old lady who instilled into
our mind the first principles of education for ninepence per week,
or ten and sixpence per quarter, was wont to poke our juvenile head
occasionally, by way of adjusting the confusion of ideas in which
we were generally involved. The same kind of feeling pursues us in
many other instances, but there is no place which recalls so
strongly our recollections of childhood as Astley's. It was not a
'Royal Amphitheatre' in those days, nor had Ducrow arisen to shed
the light of classic taste and portable gas over the sawdust of the
circus; but the whole character of the place was the same, the
pieces were the same, the clown's jokes were the same, the riding-
masters were equally grand, the comic performers equally witty, the
tragedians equally hoarse, and the 'highly-trained chargers'
equally spirited. Astley's has altered for the better - we have
changed for the worse. Our histrionic taste is gone, and with
shame we confess, that we are far more delighted and amused with
the audience, than with the pageantry we once so highly
appreciated.

We like to watch a regular Astley's party in the Easter or
Midsummer holidays - pa and ma, and nine or ten children, varying
from five foot six to two foot eleven: from fourteen years of age
to four. We had just taken our seat in one of the boxes, in the
centre of the house, the other night, when the next was occupied by
just such a party as we should have attempted to describe, had we
depicted our BEAU IDEAL of a group of Astley's visitors.

First of all, there came three little boys and a little girl, who,
in pursuance of pa's directions, issued in a very audible voice
from the box-door, occupied the front row; then two more little
girls were ushered in by a young lady, evidently the governess.
Then came three more little boys, dressed like the first, in blue
jackets and trousers, with lay-down shirt-collars: then a child in
a braided frock and high state of astonishment, with very large
round eyes, opened to their utmost width, was lifted over the seats
- a process which occasioned a considerable display of little pink
legs - then came ma and pa, and then the eldest son, a boy of
fourteen years old, who was evidently trying to look as if he did
not belong to the family.

The first five minutes were occupied in taking the shawls off the
little girls, and adjusting the bows which ornamented their hair;
then it was providentially discovered that one of the little boys
was seated behind a pillar and could not see, so the governess was
stuck behind the pillar, and the boy lifted into her place. Then
pa drilled the boys, and directed the stowing away of their pocket-
handkerchiefs, and ma having first nodded and winked to the
governess to pull the girls' frocks a little more off their
shoulders, stood up to review the little troop - an inspection
which appeared to terminate much to her own satisfaction, for she
looked with a complacent air at pa, who was standing up at the
further end of the seat. Pa returned the glance, and blew his nose
very emphatically; and the poor governess peeped out from behind
the pillar, and timidly tried to catch ma's eye, with a look
expressive of her high admiration of the whole family. Then two of
the little boys who had been discussing the point whether Astley's
was more than twice as large as Drury Lane, agreed to refer it to
'George' for his decision; at which 'George,' who was no other than
the young gentleman before noticed, waxed indignant, and
remonstrated in no very gentle terms on the gross impropriety of
having his name repeated in so loud a voice at a public place, on
which all the children laughed very heartily, and one of the little
boys wound up by expressing his opinion, that 'George began to
think himself quite a man now,' whereupon both pa and ma laughed
too; and George (who carried a dress cane and was cultivating
whiskers) muttered that 'William always was encouraged in his
impertinence;' and assumed a look of profound contempt, which
lasted the whole evening.

The play began, and the interest of the little boys knew no bounds.
Pa was clearly interested too, although he very unsuccessfully
endeavoured to look as if he wasn't. As for ma, she was perfectly
overcome by the drollery of the principal comedian, and laughed
till every one of the immense bows on her ample cap trembled, at
which the governess peeped out from behind the pillar again, and
whenever she could catch ma's eye, put her handkerchief to her
mouth, and appeared, as in duty bound, to be in convulsions of
laughter also. Then when the man in the splendid armour vowed to
rescue the lady or perish in the attempt, the little boys applauded
vehemently, especially one little fellow who was apparently on a
visit to the family, and had been carrying on a child's flirtation,
the whole evening, with a small coquette of twelve years old, who
looked like a model of her mamma on a reduced scale; and who, in
common with the other little girls (who generally speaking have
even more coquettishness about them than much older ones), looked
very properly shocked, when the knight's squire kissed the
princess's confidential chambermaid.

When the scenes in the circle commenced, the children were more
delighted than ever; and the wish to see what was going forward,
completely conquering pa's dignity, he stood up in the box, and
applauded as loudly as any of them. Between each feat of
horsemanship, the governess leant across to ma, and retailed the
clever remarks of the children on that which had preceded: and ma,
in the openness of her heart, offered the governess an acidulated
drop, and the governess, gratified to be taken notice of, retired
behind her pillar again with a brighter countenance: and the whole
party seemed quite happy, except the exquisite in the back of the
box, who, being too grand to take any interest in the children, and
too insignificant to be taken notice of by anybody else, occupied
himself, from time to time, in rubbing the place where the whiskers
ought to be, and was completely alone in his glory.

We defy any one who has been to Astley's two or three times, and is
consequently capable of appreciating the perseverance with which
precisely the same jokes are repeated night after night, and season
after season, not to be amused with one part of the performances at
least - we mean the scenes in the circle. For ourself, we know
that when the hoop, composed of jets of gas, is let down, the
curtain drawn up for the convenience of the half-price on their
ejectment from the ring, the orange-peel cleared away, and the
sawdust shaken, with mathematical precision, into a complete
circle, we feel as much enlivened as the youngest child present;
and actually join in the laugh which follows the clown's shrill
shout of 'Here we are!' just for old acquaintance' sake. Nor can
we quite divest ourself of our old feeling of reverence for the
riding-master, who follows the clown with a long whip in his hand,
and bows to the audience with graceful dignity. He is none of your
second-rate riding-masters in nankeen dressing-gowns, with brown
frogs, but the regular gentleman-attendant on the principal riders,
who always wears a military uniform with a table-cloth inside the
breast of the coat, in which costume he forcibly reminds one of a
fowl trussed for roasting. He is - but why should we attempt to
describe that of which no description can convey an adequate idea?
Everybody knows the man, and everybody remembers his polished
boots, his graceful demeanour, stiff, as some misjudging persons
have in their jealousy considered it, and the splendid head of
black hair, parted high on the forehead, to impart to the
countenance an appearance of deep thought and poetic melancholy.
His soft and pleasing voice, too, is in perfect unison with his
noble bearing, as he humours the clown by indulging in a little
badinage; and the striking recollection of his own dignity, with
which he exclaims, 'Now, sir, if you please, inquire for Miss
Woolford, sir,' can never be forgotten. The graceful air, too,
with which he introduces Miss Woolford into the arena, and, after
assisting her to the saddle, follows her fairy courser round the
circle, can never fail to create a deep impression in the bosom of
every female servant present.

When Miss Woolford, and the horse, and the orchestra, all stop
together to take breath, he urbanely takes part in some such
dialogue as the following (commenced by the clown): 'I say, sir!'
- 'Well, sir?' (it's always conducted in the politest manner.) -
'Did you ever happen to hear I was in the army, sir?' - 'No, sir.'
- 'Oh, yes, sir - I can go through my exercise, sir.' - 'Indeed,
sir!' - 'Shall I do it now, sir?' - 'If you please, sir; come, sir
- make haste' (a cut with the long whip, and 'Ha' done now - I
don't like it,' from the clown). Here the clown throws himself on
the ground, and goes through a variety of gymnastic convulsions,
doubling himself up, and untying himself again, and making himself
look very like a man in the most hopeless extreme of human agony,
to the vociferous delight of the gallery, until he is interrupted
by a second cut from the long whip, and a request to see 'what Miss
Woolford's stopping for?' On which, to the inexpressible mirth of
the gallery, he exclaims, 'Now, Miss Woolford, what can I come for
to go, for to fetch, for to bring, for to carry, for to do, for
you, ma'am?' On the lady's announcing with a sweet smile that she
wants the two flags, they are, with sundry grimaces, procured and
handed up; the clown facetiously observing after the performance of
the latter ceremony - 'He, he, oh! I say, sir, Miss Woolford knows
me; she smiled at me.' Another cut from the whip, a burst from the
orchestra, a start from the horse, and round goes Miss Woolford
again on her graceful performance, to the delight of every member
of the audience, young or old. The next pause affords an
opportunity for similar witticisms, the only additional fun being
that of the clown making ludicrous grimaces at the riding-master
every time his back is turned; and finally quitting the circle by
jumping over his head, having previously directed his attention
another way.

Did any of our readers ever notice the class of people, who hang
about the stage-doors of our minor theatres in the daytime? You
will rarely pass one of these entrances without seeing a group of
three or four men conversing on the pavement, with an indescribable
public-house-parlour swagger, and a kind of conscious air, peculiar
to people of this description. They always seem to think they are
exhibiting; the lamps are ever before them. That young fellow in
the faded brown coat, and very full light green trousers, pulls
down the wristbands of his check shirt, as ostentatiously as if it
were of the finest linen, and cocks the white hat of the summer-
before-last as knowingly over his right eye, as if it were a
purchase of yesterday. Look at the dirty white Berlin gloves, and
the cheap silk handkerchief stuck in the bosom of his threadbare
coat. Is it possible to see him for an instant, and not come to
the conclusion that he is the walking gentleman who wears a blue
surtout, clean collar, and white trousers, for half an hour, and
then shrinks into his worn-out scanty clothes: who has to boast
night after night of his splendid fortune, with the painful
consciousness of a pound a-week and his boots to find; to talk of
his father's mansion in the country, with a dreary recollection of
his own two-pair back, in the New Cut; and to be envied and
flattered as the favoured lover of a rich heiress, remembering all
the while that the ex-dancer at home is in the family way, and out
of an engagement?

Next to him, perhaps, you will see a thin pale man, with a very
long face, in a suit of shining black, thoughtfully knocking that
part of his boot which once had a heel, with an ash stick. He is
the man who does the heavy business, such as prosy fathers,
virtuous servants, curates, landlords, and so forth.

By the way, talking of fathers, we should very much like to see
some piece in which all the dramatis personae were orphans.
Fathers are invariably great nuisances on the stage, and always
have to give the hero or heroine a long explanation of what was
done before the curtain rose, usually commencing with 'It is now
nineteen years, my dear child, since your blessed mother (here the
old villain's voice falters) confided you to my charge. You were
then an infant,' &c., &c. Or else they have to discover, all of a
sudden, that somebody whom they have been in constant communication
with, during three long acts, without the slightest suspicion, is
their own child: in which case they exclaim, 'Ah! what do I see?
This bracelet! That smile! These documents! Those eyes! Can I
believe my senses? - It must be! - Yes - it is, it is my child!' -
'My father!' exclaims the child; and they fall into each other's
arms, and look over each other's shoulders, and the audience give
three rounds of applause.

To return from this digression, we were about to say, that these
are the sort of people whom you see talking, and attitudinising,
outside the stage-doors of our minor theatres. At Astley's they
are always more numerous than at any other place. There is
generally a groom or two, sitting on the window-sill, and two or
three dirty shabby-genteel men in checked neckerchiefs, and sallow
linen, lounging about, and carrying, perhaps, under one arm, a pair
of stage shoes badly wrapped up in a piece of old newspaper. Some
years ago we used to stand looking, open-mouthed, at these men,
with a feeling of mysterious curiosity, the very recollection of
which provokes a smile at the moment we are writing. We could not
believe that the beings of light and elegance, in milk-white
tunics, salmon-coloured legs, and blue scarfs, who flitted on sleek
cream-coloured horses before our eyes at night, with all the aid of
lights, music, and artificial flowers, could be the pale,
dissipated-looking creatures we beheld by day.

We can hardly believe it now. Of the lower class of actors we have
seen something, and it requires no great exercise of imagination to
identify the walking gentleman with the 'dirty swell,' the comic
singer with the public-house chairman, or the leading tragedian
with drunkenness and distress; but these other men are mysterious
beings, never seen out of the ring, never beheld but in the costume
of gods and sylphs. With the exception of Ducrow, who can scarcely
be classed among them, who ever knew a rider at Astley's, or saw
him but on horseback? Can our friend in the military uniform ever
appear in threadbare attire, or descend to the comparatively un-
wadded costume of every-day life? Impossible! We cannot - we will
not - believe it.

CHAPTER XII - GREENWICH FAIR

If the Parks be 'the lungs of London,' we wonder what Greenwich
Fair is - a periodical breaking out, we suppose, a sort of spring-
rash: a three days' fever, which cools the blood for six months
afterwards, and at the expiration of which London is restored to
its old habits of plodding industry, as suddenly and completely as
if nothing had ever happened to disturb them.

In our earlier days, we were a constant frequenter of Greenwich
Fair, for years. We have proceeded to, and returned from it, in
almost every description of vehicle. We cannot conscientiously
deny the charge of having once made the passage in a spring-van,
accompanied by thirteen gentlemen, fourteen ladies, an unlimited
number of children, and a barrel of beer; and we have a vague
recollection of having, in later days, found ourself the eighth
outside, on the top of a hackney-coach, at something past four
o'clock in the morning, with a rather confused idea of our own
name, or place of residence. We have grown older since then, and
quiet, and steady: liking nothing better than to spend our Easter,
and all our other holidays, in some quiet nook, with people of whom
we shall never tire; but we think we still remember something of
Greenwich Fair, and of those who resort to it. At all events we
will try.

The road to Greenwich during the whole of Easter Monday, is in a
state of perpetual bustle and noise. Cabs, hackney-coaches, 'shay'
carts, coal-waggons, stages, omnibuses, sociables, gigs, donkey-
chaises - all crammed with people (for the question never is, what
the horse can draw, but what the vehicle will hold), roll along at
their utmost speed; the dust flies in clouds, ginger-beer corks go
off in volleys, the balcony of every public-house is crowded with
people, smoking and drinking, half the private houses are turned
into tea-shops, fiddles are in great request, every little fruit-
shop displays its stall of gilt gingerbread and penny toys;
turnpike men are in despair; horses won't go on, and wheels will
come off; ladies in 'carawans' scream with fright at every fresh
concussion, and their admirers find it necessary to sit remarkably
close to them, by way of encouragement; servants-of-all-work, who
are not allowed to have followers, and have got a holiday for the
day, make the most of their time with the faithful admirer who
waits for a stolen interview at the corner of the street every
night, when they go to fetch the beer - apprentices grow
sentimental, and straw-bonnet makers kind. Everybody is anxious to
get on, and actuated by the common wish to be at the fair, or in
the park, as soon as possible.

Pedestrians linger in groups at the roadside, unable to resist the
allurements of the stout proprietress of the 'Jack-in-the-box,
three shies a penny,' or the more splendid offers of the man with
three thimbles and a pea on a little round board, who astonishes
the bewildered crowd with some such address as, 'Here's the sort o'
game to make you laugh seven years arter you're dead, and turn
ev'ry air on your ed gray vith delight! Three thimbles and vun
little pea - with a vun, two, three, and a two, three, vun: catch
him who can, look on, keep your eyes open, and niver say die! niver
mind the change, and the expense: all fair and above board: them
as don't play can't vin, and luck attend the ryal sportsman! Bet
any gen'lm'n any sum of money, from harf-a-crown up to a suverin,
as he doesn't name the thimble as kivers the pea!' Here some
greenhorn whispers his friend that he distinctly saw the pea roll
under the middle thimble - an impression which is immediately
confirmed by a gentleman in top-boots, who is standing by, and who,
in a low tone, regrets his own inability to bet, in consequence of
having unfortunately left his purse at home, but strongly urges the
stranger not to neglect such a golden opportunity. The 'plant' is
successful, the bet is made, the stranger of course loses: and the
gentleman with the thimbles consoles him, as he pockets the money,
with an assurance that it's 'all the fortin of war! this time I
vin, next time you vin: niver mind the loss of two bob and a
bender! Do it up in a small parcel, and break out in a fresh
place. Here's the sort o' game,' &c. - and the eloquent harangue,
with such variations as the speaker's exuberant fancy suggests, is
again repeated to the gaping crowd, reinforced by the accession of
several new-comers.

The chief place of resort in the daytime, after the public-houses,
is the park, in which the principal amusement is to drag young
ladies up the steep hill which leads to the Observatory, and then
drag them down again, at the very top of their speed, greatly to
the derangement of their curls and bonnet-caps, and much to the
edification of lookers-on from below. 'Kiss in the Ring,' and
'Threading my Grandmother's Needle,' too, are sports which receive
their full share of patronage. Love-sick swains, under the
influence of gin-and-water, and the tender passion, become
violently affectionate: and the fair objects of their regard
enhance the value of stolen kisses, by a vast deal of struggling,
and holding down of heads, and cries of 'Oh! Ha' done, then,
George - Oh, do tickle him for me, Mary - Well, I never!' and
similar Lucretian ejaculations. Little old men and women, with a
small basket under one arm, and a wine-glass, without a foot, in
the other hand, tender 'a drop o' the right sort' to the different
groups; and young ladies, who are persuaded to indulge in a drop of
the aforesaid right sort, display a pleasing degree of reluctance
to taste it, and cough afterwards with great propriety.

The old pensioners, who, for the moderate charge of a penny,
exhibit the mast-house, the Thames and shipping, the place where
the men used to hang in chains, and other interesting sights,
through a telescope, are asked questions about objects within the
range of the glass, which it would puzzle a Solomon to answer; and
requested to find out particular houses in particular streets,
which it would have been a task of some difficulty for Mr. Horner
(not the young gentleman who ate mince-pies with his thumb, but the
man of Colosseum notoriety) to discover. Here and there, where
some three or four couple are sitting on the grass together, you
will see a sun-burnt woman in a red cloak 'telling fortunes' and
prophesying husbands, which it requires no extraordinary
observation to describe, for the originals are before her.
Thereupon, the lady concerned laughs and blushes, and ultimately
buries her face in an imitation cambric handkerchief, and the
gentleman described looks extremely foolish, and squeezes her hand,
and fees the gipsy liberally; and the gipsy goes away, perfectly
satisfied herself, and leaving those behind her perfectly satisfied
also: and the prophecy, like many other prophecies of greater
importance, fulfils itself in time.

But it grows dark: the crowd has gradually dispersed, and only a
few stragglers are left behind. The light in the direction of the
church shows that the fair is illuminated; and the distant noise
proves it to be filling fast. The spot, which half an hour ago was
ringing with the shouts of boisterous mirth, is as calm and quiet
as if nothing could ever disturb its serenity: the fine old trees,
the majestic building at their feet, with the noble river beyond,
glistening in the moonlight, appear in all their beauty, and under
their most favourable aspect; the voices of the boys, singing their
evening hymn, are borne gently on the air; and the humblest
mechanic who has been lingering on the grass so pleasant to the
feet that beat the same dull round from week to week in the paved
streets of London, feels proud to think as he surveys the scene
before him, that he belongs to the country which has selected such
a spot as a retreat for its oldest and best defenders in the
decline of their lives.

Five minutes' walking brings you to the fair; a scene calculated to
awaken very different feelings. The entrance is occupied on either
side by the vendors of gingerbread and toys: the stalls are gaily
lighted up, the most attractive goods profusely disposed, and
unbonneted young ladies, in their zeal for the interest of their
employers, seize you by the coat, and use all the blandishments of
'Do, dear' - 'There's a love' - 'Don't be cross, now,' &c., to
induce you to purchase half a pound of the real spice nuts, of
which the majority of the regular fair-goers carry a pound or two
as a present supply, tied up in a cotton pocket-handkerchief.
Occasionally you pass a deal table, on which are exposed pen'orths
of pickled salmon (fennel included), in little white saucers:
oysters, with shells as large as cheese-plates, and divers
specimens of a species of snail (WILKS, we think they are called),
floating in a somewhat bilious-looking green liquid. Cigars, too,
are in great demand; gentlemen must smoke, of course, and here they
are, two a penny, in a regular authentic cigar-box, with a lighted
tallow candle in the centre.

Imagine yourself in an extremely dense crowd, which swings you to
and fro, and in and out, and every way but the right one; add to
this the screams of women, the shouts of boys, the clanging of
gongs, the firing of pistols, the ringing of bells, the bellowings
of speaking-trumpets, the squeaking of penny dittos, the noise of a
dozen bands, with three drums in each, all playing different tunes
at the same time, the hallooing of showmen, and an occasional roar
from the wild-beast shows; and you are in the very centre and heart
of the fair.

This immense booth, with the large stage in front, so brightly
illuminated with variegated lamps, and pots of burning fat, is
'Richardson's,' where you have a melodrama (with three murders and
a ghost), a pantomime, a comic song, an overture, and some
incidental music, all done in five-and-twenty minutes.

The company are now promenading outside in all the dignity of wigs,
spangles, red-ochre, and whitening. See with what a ferocious air
the gentleman who personates the Mexican chief, paces up and down,
and with what an eye of calm dignity the principal tragedian gazes
on the crowd below, or converses confidentially with the harlequin!
The four clowns, who are engaged in a mock broadsword combat, may
be all very well for the low-minded holiday-makers; but these are
the people for the reflective portion of the community. They look
so noble in those Roman dresses, with their yellow legs and arms,
long black curly heads, bushy eyebrows, and scowl expressive of
assassination, and vengeance, and everything else that is grand and
solemn. Then, the ladies - were there ever such innocent and
awful-looking beings; as they walk up and down the platform in twos
and threes, with their arms round each other's waists, or leaning
for support on one of those majestic men! Their spangled muslin
dresses and blue satin shoes and sandals (a LEETLE the worse for
wear) are the admiration of all beholders; and the playful manner
in which they check the advances of the clown, is perfectly
enchanting.

'Just a-going to begin! Pray come for'erd, come for'erd,' exclaims
the man in the countryman's dress, for the seventieth time: and
people force their way up the steps in crowds. The band suddenly
strikes up, the harlequin and columbine set the example, reels are
formed in less than no time, the Roman heroes place their arms a-
kimbo, and dance with considerable agility; and the leading tragic
actress, and the gentleman who enacts the 'swell' in the pantomime,
foot it to perfection. 'All in to begin,' shouts the manager, when
no more people can be induced to 'come for'erd,' and away rush the
leading members of the company to do the dreadful in the first
piece.

A change of performance takes place every day during the fair, but
the story of the tragedy is always pretty much the same. There is
a rightful heir, who loves a young lady, and is beloved by her; and
a wrongful heir, who loves her too, and isn't beloved by her; and
the wrongful heir gets hold of the rightful heir, and throws him
into a dungeon, just to kill him off when convenient, for which
purpose he hires a couple of assassins - a good one and a bad one -
who, the moment they are left alone, get up a little murder on
their own account, the good one killing the bad one, and the bad
one wounding the good one. Then the rightful heir is discovered in
prison, carefully holding a long chain in his hands, and seated
despondingly in a large arm-chair; and the young lady comes in to
two bars of soft music, and embraces the rightful heir; and then
the wrongful heir comes in to two bars of quick music (technically
called 'a hurry'), and goes on in the most shocking manner,
throwing the young lady about as if she was nobody, and calling the
rightful heir 'Ar-recreant - ar-wretch!' in a very loud voice,
which answers the double purpose of displaying his passion, and
preventing the sound being deadened by the sawdust. The interest
becomes intense; the wrongful heir draws his sword, and rushes on
the rightful heir; a blue smoke is seen, a gong is heard, and a
tall white figure (who has been all this time, behind the arm-
chair, covered over with a table-cloth), slowly rises to the tune
of 'Oft in the stilly night.' This is no other than the ghost of
the rightful heir's father, who was killed by the wrongful heir's
father, at sight of which the wrongful heir becomes apoplectic, and
is literally 'struck all of a heap,' the stage not being large
enough to admit of his falling down at full length. Then the good
assassin staggers in, and says he was hired in conjunction with the
bad assassin, by the wrongful heir, to kill the rightful heir; and
he's killed a good many people in his time, but he's very sorry for
it, and won't do so any more - a promise which he immediately
redeems, by dying off hand without any nonsense about it. Then the
rightful heir throws down his chain; and then two men, a sailor,
and a young woman (the tenantry of the rightful heir) come in, and
the ghost makes dumb motions to them, which they, by supernatural
interference, understand - for no one else can; and the ghost (who
can't do anything without blue fire) blesses the rightful heir and
the young lady, by half suffocating them with smoke: and then a
muffin-bell rings, and the curtain drops.

The exhibitions next in popularity to these itinerant theatres are
the travelling menageries, or, to speak more intelligibly, the
'Wild-beast shows,' where a military band in beef-eater's costume,
with leopard-skin caps, play incessantly; and where large highly-
coloured representations of tigers tearing men's heads open, and a
lion being burnt with red-hot irons to induce him to drop his
victim, are hung up outside, by way of attracting visitors.

The principal officer at these places is generally a very tall,
hoarse man, in a scarlet coat, with a cane in his hand, with which
he occasionally raps the pictures we have just noticed, by way of
illustrating his description - something in this way. 'Here, here,
here; the lion, the lion (tap), exactly as he is represented on the
canvas outside (three taps): no waiting, remember; no deception.
The fe-ro-cious lion (tap, tap) who bit off the gentleman's head
last Cambervel vos a twelvemonth, and has killed on the awerage
three keepers a-year ever since he arrived at matoority. No extra
charge on this account recollect; the price of admission is only
sixpence.' This address never fails to produce a considerable
sensation, and sixpences flow into the treasury with wonderful
rapidity.

The dwarfs are also objects of great curiosity, and as a dwarf, a
giantess, a living skeleton, a wild Indian, 'a young lady of
singular beauty, with perfectly white hair and pink eyes,' and two
or three other natural curiosities, are usually exhibited together
for the small charge of a penny, they attract very numerous
audiences. The best thing about a dwarf is, that he has always a
little box, about two feet six inches high, into which, by long
practice, he can just manage to get, by doubling himself up like a
boot-jack; this box is painted outside like a six-roomed house, and
as the crowd see him ring a bell, or fire a pistol out of the
first-floor window, they verily believe that it is his ordinary
town residence, divided like other mansions into drawing-rooms,
dining-parlour, and bedchambers. Shut up in this case, the
unfortunate little object is brought out to delight the throng by
holding a facetious dialogue with the proprietor: in the course of
which, the dwarf (who is always particularly drunk) pledges himself
to sing a comic song inside, and pays various compliments to the
ladies, which induce them to 'come for'erd' with great alacrity.
As a giant is not so easily moved, a pair of indescribables of most
capacious dimensions, and a huge shoe, are usually brought out,
into which two or three stout men get all at once, to the
enthusiastic delight of the crowd, who are quite satisfied with the
solemn assurance that these habiliments form part of the giant's
everyday costume.

The grandest and most numerously-frequented booth in the whole
fair, however, is 'The Crown and Anchor' - a temporary ball-room -
we forget how many hundred feet long, the price of admission to
which is one shilling. Immediately on your right hand as you
enter, after paying your money, is a refreshment place, at which
cold beef, roast and boiled, French rolls, stout, wine, tongue,
ham, even fowls, if we recollect right, are displayed in tempting
array. There is a raised orchestra, and the place is boarded all
the way down, in patches, just wide enough for a country dance.

There is no master of the ceremonies in this artificial Eden - all
is primitive, unreserved, and unstudied. The dust is blinding, the
heat insupportable, the company somewhat noisy, and in the highest
spirits possible: the ladies, in the height of their innocent
animation, dancing in the gentlemen's hats, and the gentlemen
promenading 'the gay and festive scene' in the ladies' bonnets, or
with the more expensive ornaments of false noses, and low-crowned,
tinder-box-looking hats: playing children's drums, and accompanied
by ladies on the penny trumpet.

The noise of these various instruments, the orchestra, the
shouting, the 'scratchers,' and the dancing, is perfectly
bewildering. The dancing, itself, beggars description - every
figure lasts about an hour, and the ladies bounce up and down the
middle, with a degree of spirit which is quite indescribable. As
to the gentlemen, they stamp their feet against the ground, every
time 'hands four round' begins, go down the middle and up again,
with cigars in their mouths, and silk handkerchiefs in their hands,
and whirl their partners round, nothing loth, scrambling and
falling, and embracing, and knocking up against the other couples,
until they are fairly tired out, and can move no longer. The same
scene is repeated again and again (slightly varied by an occasional
'row') until a late hour at night: and a great many clerks and
'prentices find themselves next morning with aching heads, empty
pockets, damaged hats, and a very imperfect recollection of how it
was they did NOT get home.

CHAPTER XIII - PRIVATE THEATRES

'RICHARD THE THIRD. - DUKE OF GLO'STER 2L.; EARL OF RICHMOND, 1L;
DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, 15S.; CATESBY, 12S.; TRESSEL, 10S. 6D.; LORD
STANLEY, 5S.; LORD MAYOR OF LONDON, 2S. 6D.'

Such are the written placards wafered up in the gentlemen's
dressing-room, or the green-room (where there is any), at a private
theatre; and such are the sums extracted from the shop-till, or
overcharged in the office expenditure, by the donkeys who are
prevailed upon to pay for permission to exhibit their lamentable
ignorance and boobyism on the stage of a private theatre. This
they do, in proportion to the scope afforded by the character for
the display of their imbecility. For instance, the Duke of
Glo'ster is well worth two pounds, because he has it all to
himself; he must wear a real sword, and what is better still, he
must draw it, several times in the course of the piece. The
soliloquies alone are well worth fifteen shillings; then there is
the stabbing King Henry - decidedly cheap at three-and-sixpence,
that's eighteen-and-sixpence; bullying the coffin-bearers - say
eighteen-pence, though it's worth much more - that's a pound. Then
the love scene with Lady Ann, and the bustle of the fourth act
can't be dear at ten shillings more - that's only one pound ten,
including the 'off with his head!' - which is sure to bring down
the applause, and it is very easy to do - 'Orf with his ed' (very
quick and loud; - then slow and sneeringly) - 'So much for Bu-u-u-
uckingham!' Lay the emphasis on the 'uck;' get yourself gradually
into a corner, and work with your right hand, while you're saying
it, as if you were feeling your way, and it's sure to do. The tent
scene is confessedly worth half-a-sovereign, and so you have the
fight in, gratis, and everybody knows what an effect may be
produced by a good combat. One - two - three - four - over; then,
one - two - three - four - under; then thrust; then dodge and slide
about; then fall down on one knee; then fight upon it, and then get
up again and stagger. You may keep on doing this, as long as it
seems to take - say ten minutes - and then fall down (backwards, if
you can manage it without hurting yourself), and die game: nothing
like it for producing an effect. They always do it at Astley's and
Sadler's Wells, and if they don't know how to do this sort of
thing, who in the world does? A small child, or a female in white,
increases the interest of a combat materially - indeed, we are not
aware that a regular legitimate terrific broadsword combat could be
done without; but it would be rather difficult, and somewhat
unusual, to introduce this effect in the last scene of Richard the
Third, so the only thing to be done, is, just to make the best of a
bad bargain, and be as long as possible fighting it out.

The principal patrons of private theatres are dirty boys, low
copying-clerks, in attorneys' offices, capacious-headed youths from
city counting-houses, Jews whose business, as lenders of fancy
dresses, is a sure passport to the amateur stage, shop-boys who now
and then mistake their masters' money for their own; and a choice
miscellany of idle vagabonds. The proprietor of a private theatre
may be an ex-scene-painter, a low coffee-house-keeper, a
disappointed eighth-rate actor, a retired smuggler, or
uncertificated bankrupt. The theatre itself may be in Catherine-
street, Strand, the purlieus of the city, the neighbourhood of
Gray's-inn-lane, or the vicinity of Sadler's Wells; or it may,
perhaps, form the chief nuisance of some shabby street, on the
Surrey side of Waterloo-bridge.

The lady performers pay nothing for their characters, and it is
needless to add, are usually selected from one class of society;
the audiences are necessarily of much the same character as the
performers, who receive, in return for their contributions to the
management, tickets to the amount of the money they pay.

All the minor theatres in London, especially the lowest, constitute
the centre of a little stage-struck neighbourhood. Each of them
has an audience exclusively its own; and at any you will see
dropping into the pit at half-price, or swaggering into the back of
a box, if the price of admission be a reduced one, divers boys of
from fifteen to twenty-one years of age, who throw back their coat
and turn up their wristbands, after the portraits of Count D'Orsay,
hum tunes and whistle when the curtain is down, by way of
persuading the people near them, that they are not at all anxious
to have it up again, and speak familiarly of the inferior
performers as Bill Such-a-one, and Ned So-and-so, or tell each
other how a new piece called THE UNKNOWN BANDIT OF THE INVISIBLE
CAVERN, is in rehearsal; how Mister Palmer is to play THE UNKNOWN
BANDIT; how Charley Scarton is to take the part of an English
sailor, and fight a broadsword combat with six unknown bandits, at
one and the same time (one theatrical sailor is always equal to
half a dozen men at least); how Mister Palmer and Charley Scarton
are to go through a double hornpipe in fetters in the second act;
how the interior of the invisible cavern is to occupy the whole
extent of the stage; and other town-surprising theatrical
announcements. These gentlemen are the amateurs - the RICHARDS,
SHYLOCKS, BEVERLEYS, and OTHELLOS - the YOUNG DORNTONS, ROVERS,
CAPTAIN ABSOLUTES, and CHARLES SURFACES - a private theatre.

See them at the neighbouring public-house or the theatrical coffee-
shop! They are the kings of the place, supposing no real
performers to be present; and roll about, hats on one side, and
arms a-kimbo, as if they had actually come into possession of
eighteen shillings a-week, and a share of a ticket night. If one
of them does but know an Astley's supernumerary he is a happy
fellow. The mingled air of envy and admiration with which his
companions will regard him, as he converses familiarly with some
mouldy-looking man in a fancy neckerchief, whose partially corked
eyebrows, and half-rouged face, testify to the fact of his having
just left the stage or the circle, sufficiently shows in what high
admiration these public characters are held.

With the double view of guarding against the discovery of friends
or employers, and enhancing the interest of an assumed character,
by attaching a high-sounding name to its representative, these
geniuses assume fictitious names, which are not the least amusing
part of the play-bill of a private theatre. Belville, Melville,
Treville, Berkeley, Randolph, Byron, St. Clair, and so forth, are
among the humblest; and the less imposing titles of Jenkins,
Walker, Thomson, Barker, Solomons, &c., are completely laid aside.
There is something imposing in this, and it is an excellent apology
for shabbiness into the bargain. A shrunken, faded coat, a decayed
hat, a patched and soiled pair of trousers - nay, even a very dirty
shirt (and none of these appearances are very uncommon among the
members of the CORPS DRAMATIQUE), may be worn for the purpose of
disguise, and to prevent the remotest chance of recognition. Then
it prevents any troublesome inquiries or explanations about
employment and pursuits; everybody is a gentleman at large, for the
occasion, and there are none of those unpleasant and unnecessary
distinctions to which even genius must occasionally succumb
elsewhere. As to the ladies (God bless them), they are quite above
any formal absurdities; the mere circumstance of your being behind
the scenes is a sufficient introduction to their society - for of
course they know that none but strictly respectable persons would
be admitted into that close fellowship with them, which acting
engenders. They place implicit reliance on the manager, no doubt;
and as to the manager, he is all affability when he knows you well,
- or, in other words, when he has pocketed your money once, and
entertains confident hopes of doing so again.

A quarter before eight - there will be a full house to-night - six
parties in the boxes, already; four little boys and a woman in the
pit; and two fiddles and a flute in the orchestra, who have got
through five overtures since seven o'clock (the hour fixed for the
commencement of the performances), and have just begun the sixth.
There will be plenty of it, though, when it does begin, for there
is enough in the bill to last six hours at least.

That gentleman in the white hat and checked shirt, brown coat and
brass buttons, lounging behind the stage-box on the O. P. side, is
Mr. Horatio St. Julien, alias Jem Larkins. His line is genteel
comedy - his father's, coal and potato. He DOES Alfred Highflier
in the last piece, and very well he'll do it - at the price. The
party of gentlemen in the opposite box, to whom he has just nodded,
are friends and supporters of Mr. Beverley (otherwise Loggins), the
MACBETH of the night. You observe their attempts to appear easy
and gentlemanly, each member of the party, with his feet cocked
upon the cushion in front of the box! They let them do these
things here, upon the same humane principle which permits poor
people's children to knock double knocks at the door of an empty
house - because they can't do it anywhere else. The two stout men
in the centre box, with an opera-glass ostentatiously placed before
them, are friends of the proprietor - opulent country managers, as
he confidentially informs every individual among the crew behind
the curtain - opulent country managers looking out for recruits; a
representation which Mr. Nathan, the dresser, who is in the
manager's interest, and has just arrived with the costumes, offers
to confirm upon oath if required - corroborative evidence, however,
is quite unnecessary, for the gulls believe it at once.

The stout Jewess who has just entered, is the mother of the pale,
bony little girl, with the necklace of blue glass beads, sitting by
her; she is being brought up to 'the profession.' Pantomime is to
be her line, and she is coming out to-night, in a hornpipe after
the tragedy. The short thin man beside Mr. St. Julien, whose white
face is so deeply seared with the small-pox, and whose dirty shirt-
front is inlaid with open-work, and embossed with coral studs like
ladybirds, is the low comedian and comic singer of the
establishment. The remainder of the audience - a tolerably
numerous one by this time - are a motley group of dupes and
blackguards.

The foot-lights have just made their appearance: the wicks of the
six little oil lamps round the only tier of boxes, are being turned
up, and the additional light thus afforded serves to show the
presence of dirt, and absence of paint, which forms a prominent
feature in the audience part of the house. As these preparations,
however, announce the speedy commencement of the play, let us take
a peep 'behind,' previous to the ringing-up.

The little narrow passages beneath the stage are neither especially
clean nor too brilliantly lighted; and the absence of any flooring,
together with the damp mildewy smell which pervades the place, does
not conduce in any great degree to their comfortable appearance.
Don't fall over this plate basket - it's one of the 'properties' -
the caldron for the witches' cave; and the three uncouth-looking
figures, with broken clothes-props in their hands, who are drinking
gin-and-water out of a pint pot, are the weird sisters. This
miserable room, lighted by candles in sconces placed at lengthened
intervals round the wall, is the dressing-room, common to the
gentlemen performers, and the square hole in the ceiling is THE
trap-door of the stage above. You will observe that the ceiling is
ornamented with the beams that support the boards, and tastefully
hung with cobwebs.

The characters in the tragedy are all dressed, and their own
clothes are scattered in hurried confusion over the wooden dresser
which surrounds the room. That snuff-shop-looking figure, in front
of the glass, is BANQUO, and the young lady with the liberal
display of legs, who is kindly painting his face with a hare's
foot, is dressed for FLEANCE. The large woman, who is consulting
the stage directions in Cumberland's edition of MACBETH, is the
LADY MACBETH of the night; she is always selected to play the part,
because she is tall and stout, and LOOKS a little like Mrs. Siddons
- at a considerable distance. That stupid-looking milksop, with
light hair and bow legs - a kind of man whom you can warrant town-
made - is fresh caught; he plays MALCOLM to-night, just to accustom
himself to an audience. He will get on better by degrees; he will
play OTHELLO in a month, and in a month more, will very probably be
apprehended on a charge of embezzlement. The black-eyed female
with whom he is talking so earnestly, is dressed for the
'gentlewoman.' It is HER first appearance, too - in that
character. The boy of fourteen who is having his eyebrows smeared
with soap and whitening, is DUNCAN, King of Scotland; and the two
dirty men with the corked countenances, in very old green tunics,
and dirty drab boots, are the 'army.'

'Look sharp below there, gents,' exclaims the dresser, a red-headed
and red-whiskered Jew, calling through the trap, 'they're a-going
to ring up. The flute says he'll be blowed if he plays any more,
and they're getting precious noisy in front.' A general rush
immediately takes place to the half-dozen little steep steps
leading to the stage, and the heterogeneous group are soon
assembled at the side scenes, in breathless anxiety and motley
confusion.

'Now,' cries the manager, consulting the written list which hangs
behind the first P. S, wing, 'Scene 1, open country - lamps down -
thunder and lightning - all ready, White?' [This is addressed to
one of the army.] 'All ready.' - 'Very well. Scene 2, front
chamber. Is the front chamber down?' - 'Yes.' - 'Very well.' -
'Jones' [to the other army who is up in the flies]. 'Hallo!' -
'Wind up the open country when we ring up.' - 'I'll take care.' -
'Scene 3, back perspective with practical bridge. Bridge ready,
White? Got the tressels there?' - 'All right.'

'Very well. Clear the stage,' cries the manager, hastily packing
every member of the company into the little space there is between
the wings and the wall, and one wing and another. 'Places, places.
Now then, Witches - Duncan - Malcolm - bleeding officer - where's
the bleeding officer?' - 'Here!' replies the officer, who has been
rose-pinking for the character. 'Get ready, then; now, White, ring
the second music-bell.' The actors who are to be discovered, are
hastily arranged, and the actors who are not to be discovered place
themselves, in their anxiety to peep at the house, just where the
audience can see them. The bell rings, and the orchestra, in
acknowledgment of the call, play three distinct chords. The bell
rings - the tragedy (!) opens - and our description closes.

CHAPTER XIV - VAUXHALL-GARDENS BY DAY

There was a time when if a man ventured to wonder how Vauxhall-
gardens would look by day, he was hailed with a shout of derision
at the absurdity of the idea. Vauxhall by daylight! A porter-pot
without porter, the House of Commons without the Speaker, a gas-
lamp without the gas - pooh, nonsense, the thing was not to be
thought of. It was rumoured, too, in those times, that Vauxhall-
gardens by day, were the scene of secret and hidden experiments;
that there, carvers were exercised in the mystic art of cutting a
moderate-sized ham into slices thin enough to pave the whole of the
grounds; that beneath the shade of the tall trees, studious men
were constantly engaged in chemical experiments, with the view of
discovering how much water a bowl of negus could possibly bear; and
that in some retired nooks, appropriated to the study of
ornithology, other sage and learned men were, by a process known
only to themselves, incessantly employed in reducing fowls to a
mere combination of skin and bone.

Vague rumours of this kind, together with many others of a similar
nature, cast over Vauxhall-gardens an air of deep mystery; and as
there is a great deal in the mysterious, there is no doubt that to
a good many people, at all events, the pleasure they afforded was
not a little enhanced by this very circumstance.

Of this class of people we confess to having made one. We loved to
wander among these illuminated groves, thinking of the patient and
laborious researches which had been carried on there during the
day, and witnessing their results in the suppers which were served
up beneath the light of lamps and to the sound of music at night.
The temples and saloons and cosmoramas and fountains glittered and
sparkled before our eyes; the beauty of the lady singers and the
elegant deportment of the gentlemen, captivated our hearts; a few
hundred thousand of additional lamps dazzled our senses; a bowl or
two of punch bewildered our brains; and we were happy.

In an evil hour, the proprietors of Vauxhall-gardens took to
opening them by day. We regretted this, as rudely and harshly
disturbing that veil of mystery which had hung about the property
for many years, and which none but the noonday sun, and the late
Mr. Simpson, had ever penetrated. We shrunk from going; at this
moment we scarcely know why. Perhaps a morbid consciousness of
approaching disappointment - perhaps a fatal presentiment - perhaps
the weather; whatever it was, we did NOT go until the second or
third announcement of a race between two balloons tempted us, and
we went.

We paid our shilling at the gate, and then we saw for the first
time, that the entrance, if there had been any magic about it at
all, was now decidedly disenchanted, being, in fact, nothing more
nor less than a combination of very roughly-painted boards and
sawdust. We glanced at the orchestra and supper-room as we hurried
past - we just recognised them, and that was all. We bent our
steps to the firework-ground; there, at least, we should not be
disappointed. We reached it, and stood rooted to the spot with
mortification and astonishment. THAT the Moorish tower - that
wooden shed with a door in the centre, and daubs of crimson and
yellow all round, like a gigantic watch-case! THAT the place where
night after night we had beheld the undaunted Mr. Blackmore make
his terrific ascent, surrounded by flames of fire, and peals of
artillery, and where the white garments of Madame Somebody (we
forget even her name now), who nobly devoted her life to the
manufacture of fireworks, had so often been seen fluttering in the
wind, as she called up a red, blue, or party-coloured light to
illumine her temple! THAT the - but at this moment the bell rung;
the people scampered away, pell-mell, to the spot from whence the
sound proceeded; and we, from the mere force of habit, found
ourself running among the first, as if for very life.

It was for the concert in the orchestra. A small party of dismal
men in cocked hats were 'executing' the overture to TANCREDI, and a
numerous assemblage of ladies and gentlemen, with their families,
had rushed from their half-emptied stout mugs in the supper boxes,
and crowded to the spot. Intense was the low murmur of admiration
when a particularly small gentleman, in a dress coat, led on a
particularly tall lady in a blue sarcenet pelisse and bonnet of the
same, ornamented with large white feathers, and forthwith commenced
a plaintive duet.

We knew the small gentleman well; we had seen a lithographed
semblance of him, on many a piece of music, with his mouth wide
open as if in the act of singing; a wine-glass in his hand; and a
table with two decanters and four pine-apples on it in the
background. The tall lady, too, we had gazed on, lost in raptures
of admiration, many and many a time - how different people DO look
by daylight, and without punch, to be sure! It was a beautiful
duet: first the small gentleman asked a question, and then the
tall lady answered it; then the small gentleman and the tall lady
sang together most melodiously; then the small gentleman went
through a little piece of vehemence by himself, and got very tenor
indeed, in the excitement of his feelings, to which the tall lady
responded in a similar manner; then the small gentleman had a shake
or two, after which the tall lady had the same, and then they both
merged imperceptibly into the original air: and the band wound
themselves up to a pitch of fury, and the small gentleman handed
the tall lady out, and the applause was rapturous.

The comic singer, however, was the especial favourite; we really
thought that a gentleman, with his dinner in a pocket-handkerchief,
who stood near us, would have fainted with excess of joy. A
marvellously facetious gentleman that comic singer is; his
distinguishing characteristics are, a wig approaching to the
flaxen, and an aged countenance, and he bears the name of one of
the English counties, if we recollect right. He sang a very good
song about the seven ages, the first half-hour of which afforded
the assembly the purest delight; of the rest we can make no report,
as we did not stay to hear any more.

We walked about, and met with a disappointment at every turn; our
favourite views were mere patches of paint; the fountain that had
sparkled so showily by lamp-light, presented very much the
appearance of a water-pipe that had burst; all the ornaments were
dingy, and all the walks gloomy. There was a spectral attempt at
rope-dancing in the little open theatre. The sun shone upon the
spangled dresses of the performers, and their evolutions were about
as inspiriting and appropriate as a country-dance in a family
vault. So we retraced our steps to the firework-ground, and
mingled with the little crowd of people who were contemplating Mr.
Green.

Some half-dozen men were restraining the impetuosity of one of the
balloons, which was completely filled, and had the car already
attached; and as rumours had gone abroad that a Lord was 'going
up,' the crowd were more than usually anxious and talkative. There
was one little man in faded black, with a dirty face and a rusty
black neckerchief with a red border, tied in a narrow wisp round
his neck, who entered into conversation with everybody, and had
something to say upon every remark that was made within his
hearing. He was standing with his arms folded, staring up at the
balloon, and every now and then vented his feelings of reverence
for the aeronaut, by saying, as he looked round to catch somebody's
eye, 'He's a rum 'un is Green; think o' this here being up'ards of
his two hundredth ascent; ecod, the man as is ekal to Green never
had the toothache yet, nor won't have within this hundred year, and
that's all about it. When you meets with real talent, and native,
too, encourage it, that's what I say;' and when he had delivered
himself to this effect, he would fold his arms with more
determination than ever, and stare at the balloon with a sort of
admiring defiance of any other man alive, beyond himself and Green,
that impressed the crowd with the opinion that he was an oracle.

'Ah, you're very right, sir,' said another gentleman, with his
wife, and children, and mother, and wife's sister, and a host of
female friends, in all the gentility of white pocket-handkerchiefs,
frills, and spencers, 'Mr. Green is a steady hand, sir, and there's
no fear about him.'

'Fear!' said the little man: 'isn't it a lovely thing to see him
and his wife a going up in one balloon, and his own son and HIS
wife a jostling up against them in another, and all of them going
twenty or thirty mile in three hours or so, and then coming back in
pochayses? I don't know where this here science is to stop, mind
you; that's what bothers me.'

Here there was a considerable talking among the females in the
spencers.

'What's the ladies a laughing at, sir?' inquired the little man,
condescendingly.

'It's only my sister Mary,' said one of the girls, 'as says she
hopes his lordship won't be frightened when he's in the car, and
want to come out again.'

'Make yourself easy about that there, my dear,' replied the little
man. 'If he was so much as to move a inch without leave, Green
would jist fetch him a crack over the head with the telescope, as
would send him into the bottom of the basket in no time, and stun
him till they come down again.'

'Would he, though?' inquired the other man.

'Yes, would he,' replied the little one, 'and think nothing of it,
neither, if he was the king himself. Green's presence of mind is
wonderful.'

Just at this moment all eyes were directed to the preparations
which were being made for starting. The car was attached to the
second balloon, the two were brought pretty close together, and a
military band commenced playing, with a zeal and fervour which
would render the most timid man in existence but too happy to
accept any means of quitting that particular spot of earth on which
they were stationed. Then Mr. Green, sen., and his noble companion
entered one car, and Mr. Green, jun., and HIS companion the other;
and then the balloons went up, and the aerial travellers stood up,
and the crowd outside roared with delight, and the two gentlemen
who had never ascended before, tried to wave their flags, as if
they were not nervous, but held on very fast all the while; and the
balloons were wafted gently away, our little friend solemnly
protesting, long after they were reduced to mere specks in the air,
that he could still distinguish the white hat of Mr. Green. The
gardens disgorged their multitudes, boys ran up and down screaming
'bal-loon;' and in all the crowded thoroughfares people rushed out
of their shops into the middle of the road, and having stared up in
the air at two little black objects till they almost dislocated
their necks, walked slowly in again, perfectly satisfied.

The next day there was a grand account of the ascent in the morning
papers, and the public were informed how it was the finest day but
four in Mr. Green's remembrance; how they retained sight of the
earth till they lost it behind the clouds; and how the reflection
of the balloon on the undulating masses of vapour was gorgeously
picturesque; together with a little science about the refraction of
the sun's rays, and some mysterious hints respecting atmospheric
heat and eddying currents of air.

There was also an interesting account how a man in a boat was
distinctly heard by Mr. Green, jun., to exclaim, 'My eye!' which
Mr. Green, jun., attributed to his voice rising to the balloon, and
the sound being thrown back from its surface into the car; and the
whole concluded with a slight allusion to another ascent next
Wednesday, all of which was very instructive and very amusing, as
our readers will see if they look to the papers. If we have
forgotten to mention the date, they have only to wait till next
summer, and take the account of the first ascent, and it will
answer the purpose equally well.

CHAPTER XV - EARLY COACHES

We have often wondered how many months' incessant travelling in a
post-chaise it would take to kill a man; and wondering by analogy,
we should very much like to know how many months of constant
travelling in a succession of early coaches, an unfortunate mortal
could endure. Breaking a man alive upon the wheel, would be
nothing to breaking his rest, his peace, his heart - everything but
his fast - upon four; and the punishment of Ixion (the only
practical person, by-the-bye, who has discovered the secret of the
perpetual motion) would sink into utter insignificance before the
one we have suggested. If we had been a powerful churchman in
those good times when blood was shed as freely as water, and men
were mowed down like grass, in the sacred cause of religion, we
would have lain by very quietly till we got hold of some especially
obstinate miscreant, who positively refused to be converted to our
faith, and then we would have booked him for an inside place in a
small coach, which travelled day and night: and securing the
remainder of the places for stout men with a slight tendency to
coughing and spitting, we would have started him forth on his last
travels: leaving him mercilessly to all the tortures which the
waiters, landlords, coachmen, guards, boots, chambermaids, and
other familiars on his line of road, might think proper to inflict.

Who has not experienced the miseries inevitably consequent upon a
summons to undertake a hasty journey? You receive an intimation
from your place of business - wherever that may be, or whatever you
may be - that it will be necessary to leave town without delay.
You and your family are forthwith thrown into a state of tremendous
excitement; an express is immediately dispatched to the
washerwoman's; everybody is in a bustle; and you, yourself, with a
feeling of dignity which you cannot altogether conceal, sally forth
to the booking-office to secure your place. Here a painful
consciousness of your own unimportance first rushes on your mind -
the people are as cool and collected as if nobody were going out of
town, or as if a journey of a hundred odd miles were a mere
nothing. You enter a mouldy-looking room, ornamented with large
posting-bills; the greater part of the place enclosed behind a
huge, lumbering, rough counter, and fitted up with recesses that
look like the dens of the smaller animals in a travelling
menagerie, without the bars. Some half-dozen people are 'booking'
brown-paper parcels, which one of the clerks flings into the
aforesaid recesses with an air of recklessness which you,
remembering the new carpet-bag you bought in the morning, feel
considerably annoyed at; porters, looking like so many Atlases,
keep rushing in and out, with large packages on their shoulders;
and while you are waiting to make the necessary inquiries, you
wonder what on earth the booking-office clerks can have been before
they were booking-office clerks; one of them with his pen behind
his ear, and his hands behind him, is standing in front of the
fire, like a full-length portrait of Napoleon; the other with his
hat half off his head, enters the passengers' names in the books
with a coolness which is inexpressibly provoking; and the villain
whistles - actually whistles - while a man asks him what the fare
is outside, all the way to Holyhead! - in frosty weather, too!
They are clearly an isolated race, evidently possessing no
sympathies or feelings in common with the rest of mankind. Your
turn comes at last, and having paid the fare, you tremblingly
inquire - 'What time will it be necessary for me to be here in the
morning?' - 'Six o'clock,' replies the whistler, carelessly
pitching the sovereign you have just parted with, into a wooden
bowl on the desk. 'Rather before than arter,' adds the man with
the semi-roasted unmentionables, with just as much ease and
complacency as if the whole world got out of bed at five. You turn
into the street, ruminating as you bend your steps homewards on the
extent to which men become hardened in cruelty, by custom.

If there be one thing in existence more miserable than another, it
most unquestionably is the being compelled to rise by candlelight.
If you have ever doubted the fact, you are painfully convinced of
your error, on the morning of your departure. You left strict
orders, overnight, to be called at half-past four, and you have
done nothing all night but doze for five minutes at a time, and
start up suddenly from a terrific dream of a large church-clock
with the small hand running round, with astonishing rapidity, to
every figure on the dial-plate. At last, completely exhausted, you
fall gradually into a refreshing sleep - your thoughts grow
confused - the stage-coaches, which have been 'going off' before
your eyes all night, become less and less distinct, until they go
off altogether; one moment you are driving with all the skill and
smartness of an experienced whip - the next you are exhibiting E LA
Ducrow, on the off-leader; anon you are closely muffled up, inside,
and have just recognised in the person of the guard an old
schoolfellow, whose funeral, even in your dream, you remember to
have attended eighteen years ago. At last you fall into a state of
complete oblivion, from which you are aroused, as if into a new
state of existence, by a singular illusion. You are apprenticed to
a trunk-maker; how, or why, or when, or wherefore, you don't take
the trouble to inquire; but there you are, pasting the lining in
the lid of a portmanteau. Confound that other apprentice in the
back shop, how he is hammering! - rap, rap, rap - what an
industrious fellow he must be! you have heard him at work for half
an hour past, and he has been hammering incessantly the whole time.
Rap, rap, rap, again - he's talking now - what's that he said?
Five o'clock! You make a violent exertion, and start up in bed.
The vision is at once dispelled; the trunk-maker's shop is your own
bedroom, and the other apprentice your shivering servant, who has
been vainly endeavouring to wake you for the last quarter of an
hour, at the imminent risk of breaking either his own knuckles or
the panels of the door.

You proceed to dress yourself, with all possible dispatch. The
flaring flat candle with the long snuff, gives light enough to show
that the things you want, are not where they ought to be, and you
undergo a trifling delay in consequence of having carefully packed
up one of your boots in your over-anxiety of the preceding night.
You soon complete your toilet, however, for you are not particular
on such an occasion, and you shaved yesterday evening; so mounting
your Petersham great-coat, and green travelling shawl, and grasping
your carpet-bag in your right hand, you walk lightly down-stairs,
lest you should awaken any of the family, and after pausing in the
common sitting-room for one moment, just to have a cup of coffee
(the said common sitting-room looking remarkably comfortable, with
everything out of its place, and strewed with the crumbs of last
night's supper), you undo the chain and bolts of the street-door,
and find yourself fairly in the street.

A thaw, by all that is miserable! The frost is completely broken
up. You look down the long perspective of Oxford-street, the gas-
lights mournfully reflected on the wet pavement, and can discern no
speck in the road to encourage the belief that there is a cab or a
coach to be had - the very coachmen have gone home in despair. The
cold sleet is drizzling down with that gentle regularity, which
betokens a duration of four-and-twenty hours at least; the damp
hangs upon the house-tops and lamp-posts, and clings to you like an
invisible cloak. The water is 'coming in' in every area, the pipes
have burst, the water-butts are running over; the kennels seem to
be doing matches against time, pump-handles descend of their own
accord, horses in market-carts fall down, and there's no one to
help them up again, policemen look as if they had been carefully
sprinkled with powdered glass; here and there a milk-woman trudges
slowly along, with a bit of list round each foot to keep her from
slipping; boys who 'don't sleep in the house,' and are not allowed
much sleep out of it, can't wake their masters by thundering at the
shop-door, and cry with the cold - the compound of ice, snow, and
water on the pavement, is a couple of inches thick - nobody
ventures to walk fast to keep himself warm, and nobody could
succeed in keeping himself warm if he did.

It strikes a quarter past five as you trudge down Waterloo-place on
your way to the Golden Cross, and you discover, for the first time,
that you were called about an hour too early. You have not time to
go back; there is no place open to go into, and you have,
therefore, no resource but to go forward, which you do, feeling
remarkably satisfied with yourself, and everything about you. You
arrive at the office, and look wistfully up the yard for the
Birmingham High-flier, which, for aught you can see, may have flown
away altogether, for preparations appear to be on foot for the
departure of any vehicle in the shape of a coach. You wander into
the booking-office, which with the gas-lights and blazing fire,
looks quite comfortable by contrast - that is to say, if any place
CAN look comfortable at half-past five on a winter's morning.
There stands the identical book-keeper in the same position as if
he had not moved since you saw him yesterday. As he informs you,
that the coach is up the yard, and will be brought round in about a
quarter of an hour, you leave your bag, and repair to 'The Tap' -
not with any absurd idea of warming yourself, because you feel such
a result to be utterly hopeless, but for the purpose of procuring
some hot brandy-and-water, which you do, - when the kettle boils!
an event which occurs exactly two minutes and a half before the
time fixed for the starting of the coach.

The first stroke of six, peals from St. Martin's church steeple,
just as you take the first sip of the boiling liquid. You find
yourself at the booking-office in two seconds, and the tap-waiter
finds himself much comforted by your brandy-and-water, in about the
same period. The coach is out; the horses are in, and the guard
and two or three porters, are stowing the luggage away, and running
up the steps of the booking-office, and down the steps of the
booking-office, with breathless rapidity. The place, which a few
minutes ago was so still and quiet, is now all bustle; the early
vendors of the morning papers have arrived, and you are assailed on
all sides with shouts of 'TIMES, gen'lm'n, TIMES,' 'Here's CHRON -
CHRON - CHRON,' 'HERALD, ma'am,' 'Highly interesting murder,
gen'lm'n,' 'Curious case o' breach o' promise, ladies.' The inside
passengers are already in their dens, and the outsides, with the
exception of yourself, are pacing up and down the pavement to keep
themselves warm; they consist of two young men with very long hair,
to which the sleet has communicated the appearance of crystallised
rats' tails; one thin young woman cold and peevish, one old
gentleman ditto ditto, and something in a cloak and cap, intended
to represent a military officer; every member of the party, with a
large stiff shawl over his chin, looking exactly as if he were
playing a set of Pan's pipes.

'Take off the cloths, Bob,' says the coachman, who now appears for
the first time, in a rough blue great-coat, of which the buttons
behind are so far apart, that you can't see them both at the same
time. 'Now, gen'lm'n,' cries the guard, with the waybill in his
hand. 'Five minutes behind time already!' Up jump the passengers
- the two young men smoking like lime-kilns, and the old gentleman
grumbling audibly. The thin young woman is got upon the roof, by
dint of a great deal of pulling, and pushing, and helping and
trouble, and she repays it by expressing her solemn conviction that
she will never be able to get down again.

'All right,' sings out the guard at last, jumping up as the coach
starts, and blowing his horn directly afterwards, in proof of the
soundness of his wind. 'Let 'em go, Harry, give 'em their heads,'
cries the coachman - and off we start as briskly as if the morning
were 'all right,' as well as the coach: and looking forward as
anxiously to the termination of our journey, as we fear our readers
will have done, long since, to the conclusion of our paper.

CHAPTER XVI - OMNIBUSES

It is very generally allowed that public conveyances afford an
extensive field for amusement and observation. Of all the public
conveyances that have been constructed since the days of the Ark -
we think that is the earliest on record - to the present time,
commend us to an omnibus. A long stage is not to be despised, but
there you have only six insides, and the chances are, that the same
people go all the way with you - there is no change, no variety.
Besides, after the first twelve hours or so, people get cross and
sleepy, and when you have seen a man in his nightcap, you lose all
respect for him; at least, that is the case with us. Then on
smooth roads people frequently get prosy, and tell long stories,
and even those who don't talk, may have very unpleasant
predilections. We once travelled four hundred miles, inside a
stage-coach, with a stout man, who had a glass of rum-and-water,
warm, handed in at the window at every place where we changed
horses. This was decidedly unpleasant. We have also travelled
occasionally, with a small boy of a pale aspect, with light hair,
and no perceptible neck, coming up to town from school under the
protection of the guard, and directed to be left at the Cross Keys
till called for. This is, perhaps, even worse than rum-and-water
in a close atmosphere. Then there is the whole train of evils
consequent on a change of the coachman; and the misery of the
discovery - which the guard is sure to make the moment you begin to
doze - that he wants a brown-paper parcel, which he distinctly
remembers to have deposited under the seat on which you are
reposing. A great deal of bustle and groping takes place, and when
you are thoroughly awakened, and severely cramped, by holding your
legs up by an almost supernatural exertion, while he is looking
behind them, it suddenly occurs to him that he put it in the fore-
boot. Bang goes the door; the parcel is immediately found; off
starts the coach again; and the guard plays the key-bugle as loud
as he can play it, as if in mockery of your wretchedness.

Now, you meet with none of these afflictions in an omnibus;
sameness there can never be. The passengers change as often in the
course of one journey as the figures in a kaleidoscope, and though
not so glittering, are far more amusing. We believe there is no
instance on record, of a man's having gone to sleep in one of these
vehicles. As to long stories, would any man venture to tell a long
story in an omnibus? and even if he did, where would be the harm?
nobody could possibly hear what he was talking about. Again;
children, though occasionally, are not often to be found in an
omnibus; and even when they are, if the vehicle be full, as is
generally the case, somebody sits upon them, and we are unconscious
of their presence. Yes, after mature reflection, and considerable
experience, we are decidedly of opinion, that of all known
vehicles, from the glass-coach in which we were taken to be
christened, to that sombre caravan in which we must one day make
our last earthly journey, there is nothing like an omnibus.

We will back the machine in which we make our daily peregrination
from the top of Oxford-street to the city, against any 'buss' on
the road, whether it be for the gaudiness of its exterior, the
perfect simplicity of its interior, or the native coolness of its
cad. This young gentleman is a singular instance of self-devotion;
his somewhat intemperate zeal on behalf of his employers, is
constantly getting him into trouble, and occasionally into the
house of correction. He is no sooner emancipated, however, than he
resumes the duties of his profession with unabated ardour. His
principal distinction is his activity. His great boast is, 'that
he can chuck an old gen'lm'n into the buss, shut him in, and rattle
off, afore he knows where it's a-going to' - a feat which he
frequently performs, to the infinite amusement of every one but the
old gentleman concerned, who, somehow or other, never can see the
joke of the thing.

We are not aware that it has ever been precisely ascertained, how
many passengers our omnibus will contain. The impression on the
cad's mind evidently is, that it is amply sufficient for the
accommodation of any number of persons that can be enticed into it.
'Any room?' cries a hot pedestrian. 'Plenty o' room, sir,' replies
the conductor, gradually opening the door, and not disclosing the
real state of the case, until the wretched man is on the steps.
'Where?' inquires the entrapped individual, with an attempt to back
out again. 'Either side, sir,' rejoins the cad, shoving him in,
and slamming the door. 'All right, Bill.' Retreat is impossible;
the new-comer rolls about, till he falls down somewhere, and there
he stops.

As we get into the city a little before ten, four or five of our
party are regular passengers. We always take them up at the same
places, and they generally occupy the same seats; they are always
dressed in the same manner, and invariably discuss the same topics
- the increasing rapidity of cabs, and the disregard of moral
obligations evinced by omnibus men. There is a little testy old
man, with a powdered head, who always sits on the right-hand side
of the door as you enter, with his hands folded on the top of his
umbrella. He is extremely impatient, and sits there for the
purpose of keeping a sharp eye on the cad, with whom he generally
holds a running dialogue. He is very officious in helping people
in and out, and always volunteers to give the cad a poke with his
umbrella, when any one wants to alight. He usually recommends
ladies to have sixpence ready, to prevent delay; and if anybody
puts a window down, that he can reach, he immediately puts it up
again.

'Now, what are you stopping for?' says the little man every
morning, the moment there is the slightest indication of 'pulling
up' at the corner of Regent-street, when some such dialogue as the
following takes place between him and the cad:

'What are you stopping for?'

Here the cad whistles, and affects not to hear the question.

'I say [a poke], what are you stopping for?'

'For passengers, sir. Ba - nk. - Ty.'

'I know you're stopping for passengers; but you've no business to
do so. WHY are you stopping?'

'Vy, sir, that's a difficult question. I think it is because we
perfer stopping here to going on.'

'Now mind,' exclaims the little old man, with great vehemence,
'I'll pull you up to-morrow; I've often threatened to do it; now I
will.'

'Thankee, sir,' replies the cad, touching his hat with a mock
expression of gratitude; - 'werry much obliged to you indeed, sir.'
Here the young men in the omnibus laugh very heartily, and the old
gentleman gets very red in the face, and seems highly exasperated.

The stout gentleman in the white neckcloth, at the other end of the
vehicle, looks very prophetic, and says that something must shortly
be done with these fellows, or there's no saying where all this
will end; and the shabby-genteel man with the green bag, expresses
his entire concurrence in the opinion, as he has done regularly
every morning for the last six months.

A second omnibus now comes up, and stops immediately behind us.
Another old gentleman elevates his cane in the air, and runs with
all his might towards our omnibus; we watch his progress with great
interest; the door is opened to receive him, he suddenly disappears
- he has been spirited away by the opposition. Hereupon the driver
of the opposition taunts our people with his having 'regularly done
'em out of that old swell,' and the voice of the 'old swell' is
heard, vainly protesting against this unlawful detention. We
rattle off, the other omnibus rattles after us, and every time we
stop to take up a passenger, they stop to take him too; sometimes
we get him; sometimes they get him; but whoever don't get him, say
they ought to have had him, and the cads of the respective vehicles
abuse one another accordingly.

As we arrive in the vicinity of Lincoln's-inn-fields, Bedford-row,
and other legal haunts, we drop a great many of our original
passengers, and take up fresh ones, who meet with a very sulky
reception. It is rather remarkable, that the people already in an
omnibus, always look at newcomers, as if they entertained some
undefined idea that they have no business to come in at all. We
are quite persuaded the little old man has some notion of this
kind, and that he considers their entry as a sort of negative
impertinence.

Conversation is now entirely dropped; each person gazes vacantly
through the window in front of him, and everybody thinks that his
opposite neighbour is staring at him. If one man gets out at Shoe-
lane, and another at the corner of Farringdon-street, the little
old gentleman grumbles, and suggests to the latter, that if he had
got out at Shoe-lane too, he would have saved them the delay of
another stoppage; whereupon the young men laugh again, and the old
gentleman looks very solemn, and says nothing more till he gets to
the Bank, when he trots off as fast as he can, leaving us to do the
same, and to wish, as we walk away, that we could impart to others
any portion of the amusement we have gained for ourselves.

CHAPTER XVII - THE LAST CAB-DRIVER, AND THE FIRST OMNIBUS CAD

Of all the cabriolet-drivers whom we have ever had the honour and
gratification of knowing by sight - and our acquaintance in this
way has been most extensive - there is one who made an impression
on our mind which can never be effaced, and who awakened in our
bosom a feeling of admiration and respect, which we entertain a
fatal presentiment will never be called forth again by any human
being. He was a man of most simple and prepossessing appearance.
He was a brown-whiskered, white-hatted, no-coated cabman; his nose
was generally red, and his bright blue eye not unfrequently stood
out in bold relief against a black border of artificial
workmanship; his boots were of the Wellington form, pulled up to
meet his corduroy knee-smalls, or at least to approach as near them
as their dimensions would admit of; and his neck was usually
garnished with a bright yellow handkerchief. In summer he carried
in his mouth a flower; in winter, a straw - slight, but, to a
contemplative mind, certain indications of a love of nature, and a
taste for botany.

His cabriolet was gorgeously painted - a bright red; and wherever
we went, City or West End, Paddington or Holloway, North, East,
West, or South, there was the red cab, bumping up against the posts
at the street corners, and turning in and out, among hackney-
coaches, and drays, and carts, and waggons, and omnibuses, and
contriving by some strange means or other, to get out of places
which no other vehicle but the red cab could ever by any
possibility have contrived to get into at all. Our fondness for
that red cab was unbounded. How we should have liked to have seen
it in the circle at Astley's! Our life upon it, that it should
have performed such evolutions as would have put the whole company
to shame - Indian chiefs, knights, Swiss peasants, and all.

Some people object to the exertion of getting into cabs, and others
object to the difficulty of getting out of them; we think both
these are objections which take their rise in perverse and ill-
conditioned minds. The getting into a cab is a very pretty and
graceful process, which, when well performed, is essentially
melodramatic. First, there is the expressive pantomime of every
one of the eighteen cabmen on the stand, the moment you raise your
eyes from the ground. Then there is your own pantomime in reply -
quite a little ballet. Four cabs immediately leave the stand, for
your especial accommodation; and the evolutions of the animals who
draw them, are beautiful in the extreme, as they grate the wheels
of the cabs against the curb-stones, and sport playfully in the
kennel. You single out a particular cab, and dart swiftly towards
it. One bound, and you are on the first step; turn your body
lightly round to the right, and you are on the second; bend
gracefully beneath the reins, working round to the left at the same
time, and you are in the cab. There is no difficulty in finding a
seat: the apron knocks you comfortably into it at once, and off
you go.

The getting out of a cab is, perhaps, rather more complicated in
its theory, and a shade more difficult in its execution. We have
studied the subject a great deal, and we think the best way is, to
throw yourself out, and trust to chance for alighting on your feet.
If you make the driver alight first, and then throw yourself upon
him, you will find that he breaks your fall materially. In the
event of your contemplating an offer of eightpence, on no account
make the tender, or show the money, until you are safely on the
pavement. It is very bad policy attempting to save the fourpence.
You are very much in the power of a cabman, and he considers it a
kind of fee not to do you any wilful damage. Any instruction,
however, in the art of getting out of a cab, is wholly unnecessary
if you are going any distance, because the probability is, that you
will be shot lightly out before you have completed the third mile.

We are not aware of any instance on record in which a cab-horse has
performed three consecutive miles without going down once. What of
that? It is all excitement. And in these days of derangement of
the nervous system and universal lassitude, people are content to
pay handsomely for excitement; where can it be procured at a
cheaper rate?

But to return to the red cab; it was omnipresent. You had but to
walk down Holborn, or Fleet-street, or any of the principal
thoroughfares in which there is a great deal of traffic, and judge
for yourself. You had hardly turned into the street, when you saw
a trunk or two, lying on the ground: an uprooted post, a hat-box,
a portmanteau, and a carpet-bag, strewed about in a very
picturesque manner: a horse in a cab standing by, looking about
him with great unconcern; and a crowd, shouting and screaming with
delight, cooling their flushed faces against the glass windows of a
chemist's shop. - 'What's the matter here, can you tell me?' -
'O'ny a cab, sir.' - 'Anybody hurt, do you know?' - 'O'ny the fare,
sir. I see him a turnin' the corner, and I ses to another gen'lm'n
"that's a reg'lar little oss that, and he's a comin' along rayther
sweet, an't he?" - "He just is," ses the other gen'lm'n, ven bump
they cums agin the post, and out flies the fare like bricks.' Need
we say it was the red cab; or that the gentleman with the straw in
his mouth, who emerged so coolly from the chemist's shop and
philosophically climbing into the little dickey, started off at
full gallop, was the red cab's licensed driver?

The ubiquity of this red cab, and the influence it exercised over
the risible muscles of justice itself, was perfectly astonishing.
You walked into the justice-room of the Mansion-house; the whole
court resounded with merriment. The Lord Mayor threw himself back
in his chair, in a state of frantic delight at his own joke; every
vein in Mr. Hobler's countenance was swollen with laughter, partly
at the Lord Mayor's facetiousness, but more at his own; the
constables and police-officers were (as in duty bound) in ecstasies
at Mr. Hobler and the Lord Mayor combined; and the very paupers,
glancing respectfully at the beadle's countenance, tried to smile,
as even he relaxed. A tall, weazen-faced man, with an impediment
in his speech, would be endeavouring to state a case of imposition
against the red cab's driver; and the red cab's driver, and the
Lord Mayor, and Mr. Hobler, would be having a little fun among
themselves, to the inordinate delight of everybody but the
complainant. In the end, justice would be so tickled with the red
cab-driver's native humour, that the fine would be mitigated, and
he would go away full gallop, in the red cab, to impose on somebody
else without loss of time.

The driver of the red cab, confident in the strength of his own
moral principles, like many other philosophers, was wont to set the
feelings and opinions of society at complete defiance. Generally
speaking, perhaps, he would as soon carry a fare safely to his
destination, as he would upset him - sooner, perhaps, because in
that case he not only got the money, but had the additional
amusement of running a longer heat against some smart rival. But
society made war upon him in the shape of penalties, and he must
make war upon society in his own way. This was the reasoning of
the red cab-driver. So, he bestowed a searching look upon the
fare, as he put his hand in his waistcoat pocket, when he had gone
half the mile, to get the money ready; and if he brought forth
eightpence, out he went.

The last time we saw our friend was one wet evening in Tottenham-
court-road, when he was engaged in a very warm and somewhat
personal altercation with a loquacious little gentleman in a green
coat. Poor fellow! there were great excuses to be made for him:
he had not received above eighteenpence more than his fare, and
consequently laboured under a great deal of very natural
indignation. The dispute had attained a pretty considerable
height, when at last the loquacious little gentleman, making a
mental calculation of the distance, and finding that he had already
paid more than he ought, avowed his unalterable determination to
'pull up' the cabman in the morning.

'Now, just mark this, young man,' said the little gentleman, 'I'll
pull you up to-morrow morning.'

'No! will you though?' said our friend, with a sneer.

'I will,' replied the little gentleman, 'mark my words, that's all.
If I live till to-morrow morning, you shall repent this.'

There was a steadiness of purpose, and indignation of speech, about
the little gentleman, as he took an angry pinch of snuff, after
this last declaration, which made a visible impression on the mind
of the red cab-driver. He appeared to hesitate for an instant. It
was only for an instant; his resolve was soon taken.

'You'll pull me up, will you?' said our friend.

'I will,' rejoined the little gentleman, with even greater
vehemence an before.

'Very well,' said our friend, tucking up his shirt sleeves very
calmly. 'There'll be three veeks for that. Wery good; that'll
bring me up to the middle o' next month. Three veeks more would
carry me on to my birthday, and then I've got ten pound to draw. I
may as well get board, lodgin', and washin', till then, out of the
county, as pay for it myself; consequently here goes!'

So, without more ado, the red cab-driver knocked the little
gentleman down, and then called the police to take himself into
custody, with all the civility in the world.

A story is nothing without the sequel; and therefore, we may state,
that to our certain knowledge, the board, lodging, and washing were
all provided in due course. We happen to know the fact, for it
came to our knowledge thus: We went over the House of Correction
for the county of Middlesex shortly after, to witness the operation
of the silent system; and looked on all the 'wheels' with the
greatest anxiety, in search of our long-lost friend. He was
nowhere to be seen, however, and we began to think that the little
gentleman in the green coat must have relented, when, as we were
traversing the kitchen-garden, which lies in a sequestered part of
the prison, we were startled by hearing a voice, which apparently
proceeded from the wall, pouring forth its soul in the plaintive
air of 'All round my hat,' which was then just beginning to form a
recognised portion of our national music.

We started. - 'What voice is that?' said we. The Governor shook
his head.

'Sad fellow,' he replied, 'very sad. He positively refused to work
on the wheel; so, after many trials, I was compelled to order him
into solitary confinement. He says he likes it very much though,
and I am afraid he does, for he lies on his back on the floor, and
sings comic songs all day!'

Shall we add, that our heart had not deceived us and that the comic
singer was no other than our eagerly-sought friend, the red cab-
driver?

We have never seen him since, but we have strong reason to suspect
that this noble individual was a distant relative of a waterman of
our acquaintance, who, on one occasion, when we were passing the
coach-stand over which he presides, after standing very quietly to
see a tall man struggle into a cab, ran up very briskly when it was
all over (as his brethren invariably do), and, touching his hat,
asked, as a matter of course, for 'a copper for the waterman.'
Now, the fare was by no means a handsome man; and, waxing very
indignant at the demand, he replied - 'Money! What for? Coming up
and looking at me, I suppose!' - 'Vell, sir,' rejoined the
waterman, with a smile of immovable complacency, 'THAT'S worth
twopence.'

The identical waterman afterwards attained a very prominent station
in society; and as we know something of his life, and have often
thought of telling what we DO know, perhaps we shall never have a
better opportunity than the present.

Mr. William Barker, then, for that was the gentleman's name, Mr.
William Barker was born - but why need we relate where Mr. William
Barker was born, or when? Why scrutinise the entries in parochial
ledgers, or seek to penetrate the Lucinian mysteries of lying-in
hospitals? Mr. William Barker WAS born, or he had never been.
There is a son - there was a father. There is an effect - there
was a cause. Surely this is sufficient information for the most
Fatima-like curiosity; and, if it be not, we regret our inability
to supply any further evidence on the point. Can there be a more
satisfactory, or more strictly parliamentary course? Impossible.

We at once avow a similar inability to record at what precise
period, or by what particular process, this gentleman's patronymic,
of William Barker, became corrupted into 'Bill Boorker.' Mr. Barker
acquired a high standing, and no inconsiderable reputation, among
the members of that profession to which he more peculiarly devoted
his energies; and to them he was generally known, either by the
familiar appellation of 'Bill Boorker,' or the flattering
designation of 'Aggerawatin Bill,' the latter being a playful and
expressive SOBRIQUET, illustrative of Mr. Barker's great talent in
'aggerawatin' and rendering wild such subjects of her Majesty as
are conveyed from place to place, through the instrumentality of
omnibuses. Of the early life of Mr. Barker little is known, and
even that little is involved in considerable doubt and obscurity.
A want of application, a restlessness of purpose, a thirsting after
porter, a love of all that is roving and cadger-like in nature,
shared in common with many other great geniuses, appear to have
been his leading characteristics. The busy hum of a parochial
free-school, and the shady repose of a county gaol, were alike
inefficacious in producing the slightest alteration in Mr. Barker's
disposition. His feverish attachment to change and variety nothing
could repress; his native daring no punishment could subdue.

If Mr. Barker can be fairly said to have had any weakness in his
earlier years, it was an amiable one - love; love in its most
comprehensive form - a love of ladies, liquids, and pocket-
handkerchiefs. It was no selfish feeling; it was not confined to
his own possessions, which but too many men regard with exclusive
complacency. No; it was a nobler love - a general principle. It
extended itself with equal force to the property of other people.

There is something very affecting in this. It is still more
affecting to know, that such philanthropy is but imperfectly
rewarded. Bow-street, Newgate, and Millbank, are a poor return for
general benevolence, evincing itself in an irrepressible love for
all created objects. Mr. Barker felt it so. After a lengthened
interview with the highest legal authorities, he quitted his
ungrateful country, with the consent, and at the expense, of its
Government; proceeded to a distant shore; and there employed
himself, like another Cincinnatus, in clearing and cultivating the
soil - a peaceful pursuit, in which a term of seven years glided
almost imperceptibly away.

Whether, at the expiration of the period we have just mentioned,
the British Government required Mr. Barker's presence here, or did
not require his residence abroad, we have no distinct means of
ascertaining. We should be inclined, however, to favour the latter
position, inasmuch as we do not find that he was advanced to any
other public post on his return, than the post at the corner of the
Haymarket, where he officiated as assistant-waterman to the
hackney-coach stand. Seated, in this capacity, on a couple of tubs
near the curbstone, with a brass plate and number suspended round
his neck by a massive chain, and his ankles curiously enveloped in
haybands, he is supposed to have made those observations on human
nature which exercised so material an influence over all his
proceedings in later life.

Mr. Barker had not officiated for many months in this capacity,
when the appearance of the first omnibus caused the public mind to
go in a new direction, and prevented a great many hackney-coaches
from going in any direction at all. The genius of Mr. Barker at
once perceived the whole extent of the injury that would be
eventually inflicted on cab and coach stands, and, by consequence,
on watermen also, by the progress of the system of which the first
omnibus was a part. He saw, too, the necessity of adopting some
more profitable profession; and his active mind at once perceived
how much might be done in the way of enticing the youthful and
unwary, and shoving the old and helpless, into the wrong buss, and
carrying them off, until, reduced to despair, they ransomed
themselves by the payment of sixpence a-head, or, to adopt his own
figurative expression in all its native beauty, 'till they was
rig'larly done over, and forked out the stumpy.'

An opportunity for realising his fondest anticipations, soon
presented itself. Rumours were rife on the hackney-coach stands,
that a buss was building, to run from Lisson-grove to the Bank,
down Oxford-street and Holborn; and the rapid increase of busses on
the Paddington-road, encouraged the idea. Mr. Barker secretly and
cautiously inquired in the proper quarters. The report was
correct; the 'Royal William' was to make its first journey on the
following Monday. It was a crack affair altogether. An
enterprising young cabman, of established reputation as a dashing
whip - for he had compromised with the parents of three scrunched
children, and just 'worked out' his fine for knocking down an old
lady - was the driver; and the spirited proprietor, knowing Mr.
Barker's qualifications, appointed him to the vacant office of cad
on the very first application. The buss began to run, and Mr.
Barker entered into a new suit of clothes, and on a new sphere of
action.

To recapitulate all the improvements introduced by this
extraordinary man into the omnibus system - gradually, indeed, but
surely - would occupy a far greater space than we are enabled to
devote to this imperfect memoir. To him is universally assigned
the original suggestion of the practice which afterwards became so
general - of the driver of a second buss keeping constantly behind
the first one, and driving the pole of his vehicle either into the
door of the other, every time it was opened, or through the body of
any lady or gentleman who might make an attempt to get into it; a
humorous and pleasant invention, exhibiting all that originality of
idea, and fine, bold flow of spirits, so conspicuous in every
action of this great man.

Mr. Barker had opponents of course; what man in public life has
not? But even his worst enemies cannot deny that he has taken more
old ladies and gentlemen to Paddington who wanted to go to the
Bank, and more old ladies and gentlemen to the Bank who wanted to
go to Paddington, than any six men on the road; and however much
malevolent spirits may pretend to doubt the accuracy of the
statement, they well know it to be an established fact, that he has
forcibly conveyed a variety of ancient persons of either sex, to
both places, who had not the slightest or most distant intention of
going anywhere at all.

Mr. Barker was the identical cad who nobly distinguished himself,
some time since, by keeping a tradesman on the step - the omnibus
going at full speed all the time - till he had thrashed him to his
entire satisfaction, and finally throwing him away, when he had
quite done with him. Mr. Barker it OUGHT to have been, who
honestly indignant at being ignominiously ejected from a house of
public entertainment, kicked the landlord in the knee, and thereby
caused his death. We say it OUGHT to have been Mr. Barker, because
the action was not a common one, and could have emanated from no
ordinary mind.

It has now become matter of history; it is recorded in the Newgate
Calendar; and we wish we could attribute this piece of daring
heroism to Mr. Barker. We regret being compelled to state that it
was not performed by him. Would, for the family credit we could
add, that it was achieved by his brother!

It was in the exercise of the nicer details of his profession, that
Mr. Barker's knowledge of human nature was beautifully displayed.
He could tell at a glance where a passenger wanted to go to, and
would shout the name of the place accordingly, without the
slightest reference to the real destination of the vehicle. He
knew exactly the kind of old lady that would be too much flurried
by the process of pushing in and pulling out of the caravan, to
discover where she had been put down, until too late; had an
intuitive perception of what was passing in a passenger's mind when
he inwardly resolved to 'pull that cad up to-morrow morning;' and
never failed to make himself agreeable to female servants, whom he
would place next the door, and talk to all the way.

Human judgment is never infallible, and it would occasionally
happen that Mr. Barker experimentalised with the timidity or
forbearance of the wrong person, in which case a summons to a
Police-office, was, on more than one occasion, followed by a
committal to prison. It was not in the power of trifles such as
these, however, to subdue the freedom of his spirit. As soon as
they passed away, he resumed the duties of his profession with
unabated ardour.

We have spoken of Mr. Barker and of the red cab-driver, in the past
tense. Alas! Mr. Barker has again become an absentee; and the
class of men to which they both belonged is fast disappearing.
Improvement has peered beneath the aprons of our cabs, and
penetrated to the very innermost recesses of our omnibuses. Dirt
and fustian will vanish before cleanliness and livery. Slang will
be forgotten when civility becomes general: and that enlightened,
eloquent, sage, and profound body, the Magistracy of London, will
be deprived of half their amusement, and half their occupation.

CHAPTER XVIII - A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH

We hope our readers will not be alarmed at this rather ominous
title. We assure them that we are not about to become political,
neither have we the slightest intention of being more prosy than
usual - if we can help it. It has occurred to us that a slight
sketch of the general aspect of 'the House,' and the crowds that
resort to it on the night of an important debate, would be
productive of some amusement: and as we have made some few calls
at the aforesaid house in our time - have visited it quite often
enough for our purpose, and a great deal too often for our personal
peace and comfort - we have determined to attempt the description.
Dismissing from our minds, therefore, all that feeling of awe,
which vague ideas of breaches of privilege, Serjeant-at-Arms, heavy
denunciations, and still heavier fees, are calculated to awaken, we
enter at once into the building, and upon our subject.

Half-past four o'clock - and at five the mover of the Address will
be 'on his legs,' as the newspapers announce sometimes by way of
novelty, as if speakers were occasionally in the habit of standing
on their heads. The members are pouring in, one after the other,
in shoals. The few spectators who can obtain standing-room in the
passages, scrutinise them as they pass, with the utmost interest,
and the man who can identify a member occasionally, becomes a
person of great importance. Every now and then you hear earnest
whispers of 'That's Sir John Thomson.' 'Which? him with the gilt
order round his neck?' 'No, no; that's one of the messengers -
that other with the yellow gloves, is Sir John Thomson.' 'Here's
Mr. Smith.' 'Lor!' 'Yes, how d'ye do, sir? - (He is our new
member) - How do you do, sir?' Mr. Smith stops: turns round with
an air of enchanting urbanity (for the rumour of an intended
dissolution has been very extensively circulated this morning);
seizes both the hands of his gratified constituent, and, after
greeting him with the most enthusiastic warmth, darts into the
lobby with an extraordinary display of ardour in the public cause,
leaving an immense impression in his favour on the mind of his
'fellow-townsman.'

The arrivals increase in number, and the heat and noise increase in
very unpleasant proportion. The livery servants form a complete
lane on either side of the passage, and you reduce yourself into
the smallest possible space to avoid being turned out. You see
that stout man with the hoarse voice, in the blue coat, queer-
crowned, broad-brimmed hat, white corduroy breeches, and great
boots, who has been talking incessantly for half an hour past, and
whose importance has occasioned no small quantity of mirth among
the strangers. That is the great conservator of the peace of
Westminster. You cannot fail to have remarked the grace with which
he saluted the noble Lord who passed just now, or the excessive
dignity of his air, as he expostulates with the crowd. He is
rather out of temper now, in consequence of the very irreverent
behaviour of those two young fellows behind him, who have done
nothing but laugh all the time they have been here.

'Will they divide to-night, do you think, Mr. -' timidly inquires a
little thin man in the crowd, hoping to conciliate the man of
office.

'How CAN you ask such questions, sir?' replies the functionary, in
an incredibly loud key, and pettishly grasping the thick stick he
carries in his right hand. 'Pray do not, sir. I beg of you; pray
do not, sir.' The little man looks remarkably out of his element,
and the uninitiated part of the throng are in positive convulsions
of laughter.

Just at this moment some unfortunate individual appears, with a
very smirking air, at the bottom of the long passage. He has
managed to elude the vigilance of the special constable downstairs,
and is evidently congratulating himself on having made his way so
far.

'Go back, sir - you must NOT come here,' shouts the hoarse one,
with tremendous emphasis of voice and gesture, the moment the
offender catches his eye.

The stranger pauses.

'Do you hear, sir - will you go back?' continues the official
dignitary, gently pushing the intruder some half-dozen yards.

'Come, don't push me,' replies the stranger, turning angrily round.

'I will, sir.'

'You won't, sir.'

'Go out, sir.'

'Take your hands off me, sir.'

'Go out of the passage, sir.'

'You're a Jack-in-office, sir.'

'A what?' ejaculates he of the boots.

'A Jack-in-office, sir, and a very insolent fellow,' reiterates the
stranger, now completely in a passion.

'Pray do not force me to put you out, sir,' retorts the other -
'pray do not - my instructions are to keep this passage clear -
it's the Speaker's orders, sir.'

'D-n the Speaker, sir!' shouts the intruder.

'Here, Wilson! - Collins!' gasps the officer, actually paralysed at
this insulting expression, which in his mind is all but high
treason; 'take this man out - take him out, I say! How dare you,
sir?' and down goes the unfortunate man five stairs at a time,
turning round at every stoppage, to come back again, and denouncing
bitter vengeance against the commander-in-chief, and all his
supernumeraries.

'Make way, gentlemen, - pray make way for the Members, I beg of
you!' shouts the zealous officer, turning back, and preceding a
whole string of the liberal and independent.

You see this ferocious-looking gentleman, with a complexion almost
as sallow as his linen, and whose large black moustache would give
him the appearance of a figure in a hairdresser's window, if his
countenance possessed the thought which is communicated to those
waxen caricatures of the human face divine. He is a militia-
officer, and the most amusing person in the House. Can anything be
more exquisitely absurd than the burlesque grandeur of his air, as
he strides up to the lobby, his eyes rolling like those of a Turk's
head in a cheap Dutch clock? He never appears without that bundle
of dirty papers which he carries under his left arm, and which are
generally supposed to be the miscellaneous estimates for 1804, or
some equally important documents. He is very punctual in his
attendance at the House, and his self-satisfied 'He-ar-He-ar,' is
not unfrequently the signal for a general titter.

This is the gentleman who once actually sent a messenger up to the
Strangers' gallery in the old House of Commons, to inquire the name
of an individual who was using an eye-glass, in order that he might
complain to the Speaker that the person in question was quizzing
him! On another occasion, he is reported to have repaired to
Bellamy's kitchen - a refreshment-room, where persons who are not
Members are admitted on sufferance, as it were - and perceiving two
or three gentlemen at supper, who, he was aware, were not Members,
and could not, in that place, very well resent his behaviour, he
indulged in the pleasantry of sitting with his booted leg on the
table at which they were supping! He is generally harmless,
though, and always amusing.

By dint of patience, and some little interest with our friend the
constable, we have contrived to make our way to the Lobby, and you
can just manage to catch an occasional glimpse of the House, as the
door is opened for the admission of Members. It is tolerably full
already, and little groups of Members are congregated together
here, discussing the interesting topics of the day.

That smart-looking fellow in the black coat with velvet facings and
cuffs, who wears his D'ORSAY hat so rakishly, is 'Honest Tom,' a
metropolitan representative; and the large man in the cloak with
the white lining - not the man by the pillar; the other with the
light hair hanging over his coat collar behind - is his colleague.
The quiet gentlemanly-looking man in the blue surtout, gray
trousers, white neckerchief and gloves, whose closely-buttoned coat
displays his manly figure and broad chest to great advantage, is a
very well-known character. He has fought a great many battles in
his time, and conquered like the heroes of old, with no other arms
than those the gods gave him. The old hard-featured man who is
standing near him, is really a good specimen of a class of men, now
nearly extinct. He is a county Member, and has been from time
whereof the memory of man is not to the contrary. Look at his
loose, wide, brown coat, with capacious pockets on each side; the
knee-breeches and boots, the immensely long waistcoat, and silver
watch-chain dangling below it, the wide-brimmed brown hat, and the
white handkerchief tied in a great bow, with straggling ends
sticking out beyond his shirt-frill. It is a costume one seldom
sees nowadays, and when the few who wear it have died off, it will
be quite extinct. He can tell you long stories of Fox, Pitt,
Sheridan, and Canning, and how much better the House was managed in
those times, when they used to get up at eight or nine o'clock,
except on regular field-days, of which everybody was apprised
beforehand. He has a great contempt for all young Members of
Parliament, and thinks it quite impossible that a man can say
anything worth hearing, unless he has sat in the House for fifteen
years at least, without saying anything at all. He is of opinion
that 'that young Macaulay' was a regular impostor; he allows, that
Lord Stanley may do something one of these days, but 'he's too
young, sir - too young.' He is an excellent authority on points of
precedent, and when he grows talkative, after his wine, will tell
you how Sir Somebody Something, when he was whipper-in for the
Government, brought four men out of their beds to vote in the
majority, three of whom died on their way home again; how the House
once divided on the question, that fresh candles be now brought in;
how the Speaker was once upon a time left in the chair by accident,
at the conclusion of business, and was obliged to sit in the House
by himself for three hours, till some Member could be knocked up
and brought back again, to move the adjournment; and a great many
other anecdotes of a similar description.

There he stands, leaning on his stick; looking at the throng of
Exquisites around him with most profound contempt; and conjuring
up, before his mind's eye, the scenes he beheld in the old House,
in days gone by, when his own feelings were fresher and brighter,
and when, as he imagines, wit, talent, and patriotism flourished
more brightly too.

You are curious to know who that young man in the rough great-coat
is, who has accosted every Member who has entered the House since
we have been standing here. He is not a Member; he is only an
'hereditary bondsman,' or, in other words, an Irish correspondent
of an Irish newspaper, who has just procured his forty-second frank
from a Member whom he never saw in his life before. There he goes
again - another! Bless the man, he has his hat and pockets full
already.

We will try our fortune at the Strangers' gallery, though the
nature of the debate encourages very little hope of success. What
on earth are you about? Holding up your order as if it were a
talisman at whose command the wicket would fly open? Nonsense.
Just preserve the order for an autograph, if it be worth keeping at
all, and make your appearance at the door with your thumb and
forefinger expressively inserted in your waistcoat-pocket. This
tall stout man in black is the door-keeper. 'Any room?' 'Not an
inch - two or three dozen gentlemen waiting down-stairs on the
chance of somebody's going out.' Pull out your purse - 'Are you
QUITE sure there's no room?' - 'I'll go and look,' replies the
door-keeper, with a wistful glance at your purse, 'but I'm afraid
there's not.' He returns, and with real feeling assures you that
it is morally impossible to get near the gallery. It is of no use
waiting. When you are refused admission into the Strangers'
gallery at the House of Commons, under such circumstances, you may
return home thoroughly satisfied that the place must be remarkably
full indeed. (1)

Retracing our steps through the long passage, descending the
stairs, and crossing Palace-yard, we halt at a small temporary
doorway adjoining the King's entrance to the House of Lords. The
order of the serjeant-at-arms will admit you into the Reporters'
gallery, from whence you can obtain a tolerably good view of the
House. Take care of the stairs, they are none of the best; through
this little wicket - there. As soon as your eyes become a little
used to the mist of the place, and the glare of the chandeliers
below you, you will see that some unimportant personage on the
Ministerial side of the House (to your right hand) is speaking,
amidst a hum of voices and confusion which would rival Babel, but
for the circumstance of its being all in one language.

The 'hear, hear,' which occasioned that laugh, proceeded from our
warlike friend with the moustache; he is sitting on the back seat
against the wall, behind the Member who is speaking, looking as
ferocious and intellectual as usual. Take one look around you, and
retire! The body of the House and the side galleries are full of
Members; some, with their legs on the back of the opposite seat;
some, with theirs stretched out to their utmost length on the
floor; some going out, others coming in; all talking, laughing,
lounging, coughing, oh-ing, questioning, or groaning; presenting a
conglomeration of noise and confusion, to be met with in no other
place in existence, not even excepting Smithfield on a market-day,
or a cock-pit in its glory.

But let us not omit to notice Bellamy's kitchen, or, in other
words, the refreshment-room, common to both Houses of Parliament,
where Ministerialists and Oppositionists, Whigs and Tories,
Radicals, Peers, and Destructives, strangers from the gallery, and
the more favoured strangers from below the bar, are alike at
liberty to resort; where divers honourable members prove their
perfect independence by remaining during the whole of a heavy
debate, solacing themselves with the creature comforts; and whence
they are summoned by whippers-in, when the House is on the point of
dividing; either to give their 'conscientious votes' on questions
of which they are conscientiously innocent of knowing anything
whatever, or to find a vent for the playful exuberance of their
wine-inspired fancies, in boisterous shouts of 'Divide,'
occasionally varied with a little howling, barking, crowing, or
other ebullitions of senatorial pleasantry.

When you have ascended the narrow staircase which, in the present
temporary House of Commons, leads to the place we are describing,
you will probably observe a couple of rooms on your right hand,
with tables spread for dining. Neither of these is the kitchen,
although they are both devoted to the same purpose; the kitchen is
further on to our left, up these half-dozen stairs. Before we
ascend the staircase, however, we must request you to pause in
front of this little bar-place with the sash-windows; and beg your
particular attention to the steady, honest-looking old fellow in
black, who is its sole occupant. Nicholas (we do not mind
mentioning the old fellow's name, for if Nicholas be not a public
man, who is? - and public men's names are public property) -
Nicholas is the butler of Bellamy's, and has held the same place,
dressed exactly in the same manner, and said precisely the same
things, ever since the oldest of its present visitors can remember.
An excellent servant Nicholas is - an unrivalled compounder of
salad-dressing - an admirable preparer of soda-water and lemon - a
special mixer of cold grog and punch - and, above all, an
unequalled judge of cheese. If the old man have such a thing as
vanity in his composition, this is certainly his pride; and if it
be possible to imagine that anything in this world could disturb
his impenetrable calmness, we should say it would be the doubting
his judgment on this important point.

We needn't tell you all this, however, for if you have an atom of
observation, one glance at his sleek, knowing-looking head and face
- his prim white neckerchief, with the wooden tie into which it has
been regularly folded for twenty years past, merging by
imperceptible degrees into a small-plaited shirt-frill - and his
comfortable-looking form encased in a well-brushed suit of black -
would give you a better idea of his real character than a column of
our poor description could convey.

Nicholas is rather out of his element now; he cannot see the
kitchen as he used to in the old House; there, one window of his
glass-case opened into the room, and then, for the edification and
behoof of more juvenile questioners, he would stand for an hour
together, answering deferential questions about Sheridan, and
Percival, and Castlereagh, and Heaven knows who beside, with
manifest delight, always inserting a 'Mister' before every
commoner's name.

Nicholas, like all men of his age and standing, has a great idea of
the degeneracy of the times. He seldom expresses any political
opinions, but we managed to ascertain, just before the passing of
the Reform Bill, that Nicholas was a thorough Reformer. What was
our astonishment to discover shortly after the meeting of the first
reformed Parliament, that he was a most inveterate and decided
Tory! It was very odd: some men change their opinions from
necessity, others from expediency, others from inspiration; but
that Nicholas should undergo any change in any respect, was an
event we had never contemplated, and should have considered
impossible. His strong opinion against the clause which empowered
the metropolitan districts to return Members to Parliament, too,
was perfectly unaccountable.

We discovered the secret at last; the metropolitan Members always
dined at home. The rascals! As for giving additional Members to
Ireland, it was even worse - decidedly unconstitutional. Why, sir,
an Irish Member would go up there, and eat more dinner than three
English Members put together. He took no wine; drank table-beer by
the half-gallon; and went home to Manchester-buildings, or
Millbank-street, for his whiskey-and-water. And what was the
consequence? Why, the concern lost - actually lost, sir - by his
patronage. A queer old fellow is Nicholas, and as completely a
part of the building as the house itself. We wonder he ever left
the old place, and fully expected to see in the papers, the morning
after the fire, a pathetic account of an old gentleman in black, of
decent appearance, who was seen at one of the upper windows when
the flames were at their height, and declared his resolute
intention of falling with the floor. He must have been got out by
force. However, he was got out - here he is again, looking as he
always does, as if he had been in a bandbox ever since the last
session. There he is, at his old post every night, just as we have
described him: and, as characters are scarce, and faithful
servants scarcer, long may he be there, say we!

Now, when you have taken your seat in the kitchen, and duly noticed
the large fire and roasting-jack at one end of the room - the
little table for washing glasses and draining jugs at the other -
the clock over the window opposite St. Margaret's Church - the deal
tables and wax candles - the damask table-cloths and bare floor -
the plate and china on the tables, and the gridiron on the fire;
and a few other anomalies peculiar to the place - we will point out
to your notice two or three of the people present, whose station or
absurdities render them the most worthy of remark.

It is half-past twelve o'clock, and as the division is not expected
for an hour or two, a few Members are lounging away the time here
in preference to standing at the bar of the House, or sleeping in
one of the side galleries. That singularly awkward and ungainly-
looking man, in the brownish-white hat, with the straggling black
trousers which reach about half-way down the leg of his boots, who
is leaning against the meat-screen, apparently deluding himself
into the belief that he is thinking about something, is a splendid
sample of a Member of the House of Commons concentrating in his own
person the wisdom of a constituency. Observe the wig, of a dark
hue but indescribable colour, for if it be naturally brown, it has
acquired a black tint by long service, and if it be naturally
black, the same cause has imparted to it a tinge of rusty brown;
and remark how very materially the great blinker-like spectacles
assist the expression of that most intelligent face. Seriously
speaking, did you ever see a countenance so expressive of the most
hopeless extreme of heavy dulness, or behold a form so strangely
put together? He is no great speaker: but when he DOES address
the House, the effect is absolutely irresistible.

The small gentleman with the sharp nose, who has just saluted him,
is a Member of Parliament, an ex-Alderman, and a sort of amateur
fireman. He, and the celebrated fireman's dog, were observed to be
remarkably active at the conflagration of the two Houses of
Parliament - they both ran up and down, and in and out, getting
under people's feet, and into everybody's way, fully impressed with
the belief that they were doing a great deal of good, and barking
tremendously. The dog went quietly back to his kennel with the
engine, but the gentleman kept up such an incessant noise for some
weeks after the occurrence, that he became a positive nuisance. As
no more parliamentary fires have occurred, however, and as he has
consequently had no more opportunities of writing to the newspapers
to relate how, by way of preserving pictures he cut them out of
their frames, and performed other great national services, he has
gradually relapsed into his old state of calmness.

That female in black - not the one whom the Lord's-Day-Bill Baronet
has just chucked under the chin; the shorter of the two - is
'Jane:' the Hebe of Bellamy's. Jane is as great a character as
Nicholas, in her way. Her leading features are a thorough contempt
for the great majority of her visitors; her predominant quality,
love of admiration, as you cannot fail to observe, if you mark the
glee with which she listens to something the young Member near her
mutters somewhat unintelligibly in her ear (for his speech is
rather thick from some cause or other), and how playfully she digs
the handle of a fork into the arm with which he detains her, by way
of reply.

Jane is no bad hand at repartees, and showers them about, with a
degree of liberality and total absence of reserve or constraint,
which occasionally excites no small amazement in the minds of
strangers. She cuts jokes with Nicholas, too, but looks up to him
with a great deal of respect - the immovable stolidity with which
Nicholas receives the aforesaid jokes, and looks on, at certain
pastoral friskings and rompings (Jane's only recreations, and they
are very innocent too) which occasionally take place in the
passage, is not the least amusing part of his character.

The two persons who are seated at the table in the corner, at the
farther end of the room, have been constant guests here, for many
years past; and one of them has feasted within these walls, many a
time, with the most brilliant characters of a brilliant period. He
has gone up to the other House since then; the greater part of his
boon companions have shared Yorick's fate, and his visits to
Bellamy's are comparatively few.

If he really be eating his supper now, at what hour can he possibly
have dined! A second solid mass of rump-steak has disappeared, and
he eat the first in four minutes and three quarters, by the clock
over the window. Was there ever such a personification of
Falstaff! Mark the air with which he gloats over that Stilton, as
he removes the napkin which has been placed beneath his chin to
catch the superfluous gravy of the steak, and with what gusto he
imbibes the porter which has been fetched, expressly for him, in
the pewter pot. Listen to the hoarse sound of that voice, kept
down as it is by layers of solids, and deep draughts of rich wine,
and tell us if you ever saw such a perfect picture of a regular
GOURMAND; and whether he is not exactly the man whom you would
pitch upon as having been the partner of Sheridan's parliamentary
carouses, the volunteer driver of the hackney-coach that took him
home, and the involuntary upsetter of the whole party?

What an amusing contrast between his voice and appearance, and that
of the spare, squeaking old man, who sits at the same table, and
who, elevating a little cracked bantam sort of voice to its highest
pitch, invokes damnation upon his own eyes or somebody else's at
the commencement of every sentence he utters. 'The Captain,' as
they call him, is a very old frequenter of Bellamy's; much addicted
to stopping 'after the House is up' (an inexpiable crime in Jane's
eyes), and a complete walking reservoir of spirits and water.

The old Peer - or rather, the old man - for his peerage is of
comparatively recent date - has a huge tumbler of hot punch brought
him; and the other damns and drinks, and drinks and damns, and
smokes. Members arrive every moment in a great bustle to report
that 'The Chancellor of the Exchequer's up,' and to get glasses of
brandy-and-water to sustain them during the division; people who
have ordered supper, countermand it, and prepare to go down-stairs,
when suddenly a bell is heard to ring with tremendous violence, and
a cry of 'Di-vi-sion!' is heard in the passage. This is enough;
away rush the members pell-mell. The room is cleared in an
instant; the noise rapidly dies away; you hear the creaking of the
last boot on the last stair, and are left alone with the leviathan
of rump-steaks.

CHAPTER XIX - PUBLIC DINNERS

All public dinners in London, from the Lord Mayor's annual banquet
at Guildhall, to the Chimney-sweepers' anniversary at White Conduit
House; from the Goldsmiths' to the Butchers', from the Sheriffs' to
the Licensed Victuallers'; are amusing scenes. Of all
entertainments of this description, however, we think the annual
dinner of some public charity is the most amusing. At a Company's
dinner, the people are nearly all alike - regular old stagers, who
make it a matter of business, and a thing not to be laughed at. At
a political dinner, everybody is disagreeable, and inclined to
speechify - much the same thing, by-the-bye; but at a charity
dinner you see people of all sorts, kinds, and descriptions. The
wine may not be remarkably special, to be sure, and we have heard
some hardhearted monsters grumble at the collection; but we really
think the amusement to be derived from the occasion, sufficient to
counterbalance even these disadvantages.

Let us suppose you are induced to attend a dinner of this
description - 'Indigent Orphans' Friends' Benevolent Institution,'
we think it is. The name of the charity is a line or two longer,
but never mind the rest. You have a distinct recollection,
however, that you purchased a ticket at the solicitation of some
charitable friend: and you deposit yourself in a hackney-coach,
the driver of which - no doubt that you may do the thing in style -
turns a deaf ear to your earnest entreaties to be set down at the
corner of Great Queen-street, and persists in carrying you to the
very door of the Freemasons', round which a crowd of people are
assembled to witness the entrance of the indigent orphans' friends.
You hear great speculations as you pay the fare, on the possibility
of your being the noble Lord who is announced to fill the chair on
the occasion, and are highly gratified to hear it eventually
decided that you are only a 'wocalist.'

The first thing that strikes you, on your entrance, is the
astonishing importance of the committee. You observe a door on the
first landing, carefully guarded by two waiters, in and out of
which stout gentlemen with very red faces keep running, with a
degree of speed highly unbecoming the gravity of persons of their
years and corpulency. You pause, quite alarmed at the bustle, and
thinking, in your innocence, that two or three people must have
been carried out of the dining-room in fits, at least. You are
immediately undeceived by the waiter - 'Up-stairs, if you please,
sir; this is the committee-room.' Up-stairs you go, accordingly;
wondering, as you mount, what the duties of the committee can be,
and whether they ever do anything beyond confusing each other, and
running over the waiters.

Having deposited your hat and cloak, and received a remarkably
small scrap of pasteboard in exchange (which, as a matter of
course, you lose, before you require it again), you enter the hall,
down which there are three long tables for the less distinguished
guests, with a cross table on a raised platform at the upper end
for the reception of the very particular friends of the indigent
orphans. Being fortunate enough to find a plate without anybody's
card in it, you wisely seat yourself at once, and have a little
leisure to look about you. Waiters, with wine-baskets in their
hands, are placing decanters of sherry down the tables, at very
respectable distances; melancholy-looking salt-cellars, and decayed
vinegar-cruets, which might have belonged to the parents of the
indigent orphans in their time, are scattered at distant intervals
on the cloth; and the knives and forks look as if they had done
duty at every public dinner in London since the accession of George
the First. The musicians are scraping and grating and screwing
tremendously - playing no notes but notes of preparation; and
several gentlemen are gliding along the sides of the tables,
looking into plate after plate with frantic eagerness, the
expression of their countenances growing more and more dismal as
they meet with everybody's card but their own.

You turn round to take a look at the table behind you, and - not
being in the habit of attending public dinners - are somewhat
struck by the appearance of the party on which your eyes rest. One
of its principal members appears to be a little man, with a long
and rather inflamed face, and gray hair brushed bolt upright in
front; he wears a wisp of black silk round his neck, without any
stiffener, as an apology for a neckerchief, and is addressed by his
companions by the familiar appellation of 'Fitz,' or some such
monosyllable. Near him is a stout man in a white neckerchief and
buff waistcoat, with shining dark hair, cut very short in front,
and a great, round, healthy-looking face, on which he studiously
preserves a half sentimental simper. Next him, again, is a large-
headed man, with black hair and bushy whiskers; and opposite them
are two or three others, one of whom is a little round-faced
person, in a dress-stock and blue under-waistcoat. There is
something peculiar in their air and manner, though you could hardly
describe what it is; you cannot divest yourself of the idea that
they have come for some other purpose than mere eating and
drinking. You have no time to debate the matter, however, for the
waiters (who have been arranged in lines down the room, placing the
dishes on table) retire to the lower end; the dark man in the blue
coat and bright buttons, who has the direction of the music, looks
up to the gallery, and calls out 'band' in a very loud voice; out
burst the orchestra, up rise the visitors, in march fourteen
stewards, each with a long wand in his hand, like the evil genius
in a pantomime; then the chairman, then the titled visitors; they
all make their way up the room, as fast as they can, bowing, and
smiling, and smirking, and looking remarkably amiable. The
applause ceases, grace is said, the clatter of plates and dishes
begins; and every one appears highly gratified, either with the
presence of the distinguished visitors, or the commencement of the
anxiously-expected dinner.

As to the dinner itself - the mere dinner - it goes off much the
same everywhere. Tureens of soup are emptied with awful rapidity -
waiters take plates of turbot away, to get lobster-sauce, and bring
back plates of lobster-sauce without turbot; people who can carve
poultry, are great fools if they own it, and people who can't have
no wish to learn. The knives and forks form a pleasing
accompaniment to Auber's music, and Auber's music would form a
pleasing accompaniment to the dinner, if you could hear anything
besides the cymbals. The substantials disappear - moulds of jelly
vanish like lightning - hearty eaters wipe their foreheads, and
appear rather overcome by their recent exertions - people who have
looked very cross hitherto, become remarkably bland, and ask you to
take wine in the most friendly manner possible - old gentlemen
direct your attention to the ladies' gallery, and take great pains
to impress you with the fact that the charity is always peculiarly
favoured in this respect - every one appears disposed to become
talkative - and the hum of conversation is loud and general.

'Pray, silence, gentlemen, if you please, for NON NOBIS!' shouts
the toast-master with stentorian lungs - a toast-master's shirt-
front, waistcoat, and neckerchief, by-the-bye, always exhibit three
distinct shades of cloudy-white. - 'Pray, silence, gentlemen, for
NON NOBIS!' The singers, whom you discover to be no other than the
very party that excited your curiosity at first, after 'pitching'
their voices immediately begin TOO-TOOing most dismally, on which
the regular old stagers burst into occasional cries of - 'Sh - Sh -
waiters! - Silence, waiters - stand still, waiters - keep back,
waiters,' and other exorcisms, delivered in a tone of indignant
remonstrance. The grace is soon concluded, and the company resume
their seats. The uninitiated portion of the guests applaud NON
NOBIS as vehemently as if it were a capital comic song, greatly to
the scandal and indignation of the regular diners, who immediately
attempt to quell this sacrilegious approbation, by cries of 'Hush,
hush!' whereupon the others, mistaking these sounds for hisses,
applaud more tumultuously than before, and, by way of placing their
approval beyond the possibility of doubt, shout 'ENCORE!' most
vociferously.

The moment the noise ceases, up starts the toast-master:-
'Gentlemen, charge your glasses, if you please!' Decanters having
been handed about, and glasses filled, the toast-master proceeds,
in a regular ascending scale:- 'Gentlemen - AIR - you - all
charged? Pray - silence - gentlemen - for - the cha-i-r!' The
chairman rises, and, after stating that he feels it quite
unnecessary to preface the toast he is about to propose, with any
observations whatever, wanders into a maze of sentences, and
flounders about in the most extraordinary manner, presenting a
lamentable spectacle of mystified humanity, until he arrives at the
words, 'constitutional sovereign of these realms,' at which elderly
gentlemen exclaim 'Bravo!' and hammer the table tremendously with
their knife-handles. 'Under any circumstances, it would give him
the greatest pride, it would give him the greatest pleasure - he
might almost say, it would afford him satisfaction [cheers] to
propose that toast. What must be his feelings, then, when he has
the gratification of announcing, that he has received her Majesty's
commands to apply to the Treasurer of her Majesty's Household, for
her Majesty's annual donation of 25L. in aid of the funds of this
charity!' This announcement (which has been regularly made by
every chairman, since the first foundation of the charity, forty-
two years ago) calls forth the most vociferous applause; the toast
is drunk with a great deal of cheering and knocking; and 'God save
the Queen' is sung by the 'professional gentlemen;' the
unprofessional gentlemen joining in the chorus, and giving the
national anthem an effect which the newspapers, with great justice,
describe as 'perfectly electrical.'

The other 'loyal and patriotic' toasts having been drunk with all
due enthusiasm, a comic song having been well sung by the gentleman
with the small neckerchief, and a sentimental one by the second of
the party, we come to the most important toast of the evening -
'Prosperity to the charity.' Here again we are compelled to adopt
newspaper phraseology, and to express our regret at being
'precluded from giving even the substance of the noble lord's
observations.' Suffice it to say, that the speech, which is
somewhat of the longest, is rapturously received; and the toast
having been drunk, the stewards (looking more important than ever)
leave the room, and presently return, heading a procession of
indigent orphans, boys and girls, who walk round the room,
curtseying, and bowing, and treading on each other's heels, and
looking very much as if they would like a glass of wine apiece, to
the high gratification of the company generally, and especially of
the lady patronesses in the gallery. EXEUNT children, and re-enter
stewards, each with a blue plate in his hand. The band plays a
lively air; the majority of the company put their hands in their
pockets and look rather serious; and the noise of sovereigns,
rattling on crockery, is heard from all parts of the room.

After a short interval, occupied in singing and toasting, the
secretary puts on his spectacles, and proceeds to read the report
and list of subscriptions, the latter being listened to with great
attention. 'Mr. Smith, one guinea - Mr. Tompkins, one guinea - Mr.
Wilson, one guinea - Mr. Hickson, one guinea - Mr. Nixon, one
guinea - Mr. Charles Nixon, one guinea - [hear, hear!] - Mr. James
Nixon, one guinea - Mr. Thomas Nixon, one pound one [tremendous
applause]. Lord Fitz Binkle, the chairman of the day, in addition
to an annual donation of fifteen pounds - thirty guineas [prolonged
knocking: several gentlemen knock the stems off their wine-
glasses, in the vehemence of their approbation]. Lady, Fitz
Binkle, in addition to an annual donation of ten pound - twenty
pound' [protracted knocking and shouts of 'Bravo!'] The list being
at length concluded, the chairman rises, and proposes the health of
the secretary, than whom he knows no more zealous or estimable
individual. The secretary, in returning thanks, observes that HE
knows no more excellent individual than the chairman - except the
senior officer of the charity, whose health HE begs to propose.
The senior officer, in returning thanks, observes that HE knows no
more worthy man than the secretary - except Mr. Walker, the
auditor, whose health HE begs to propose. Mr. Walker, in returning
thanks, discovers some other estimable individual, to whom alone
the senior officer is inferior - and so they go on toasting and
lauding and thanking: the only other toast of importance being
'The Lady Patronesses now present!' on which all the gentlemen turn
their faces towards the ladies' gallery, shouting tremendously; and
little priggish men, who have imbibed more wine than usual, kiss
their hands and exhibit distressing contortions of visage.

We have protracted our dinner to so great a length, that we have
hardly time to add one word by way of grace. We can only entreat
our readers not to imagine, because we have attempted to extract
some amusement from a charity dinner, that we are at all disposed
to underrate, either the excellence of the benevolent institutions
with which London abounds, or the estimable motives of those who
support them.

CHAPTER XX - THE FIRST OF MAY

'Now ladies, up in the sky-parlour: only once a year, if you
please!'
YOUNG LADY WITH BRASS LADLE.

'Sweep - sweep - sw-e-ep!'
ILLEGAL WATCHWORD.

The first of May! There is a merry freshness in the sound, calling
to our minds a thousand thoughts of all that is pleasant in nature
and beautiful in her most delightful form. What man is there, over
whose mind a bright spring morning does not exercise a magic
influence - carrying him back to the days of his childish sports,
and conjuring up before him the old green field with its gently-
waving trees, where the birds sang as he has never heard them since
- where the butterfly fluttered far more gaily than he ever sees
him now, in all his ramblings - where the sky seemed bluer, and the
sun shone more brightly - where the air blew more freshly over
greener grass, and sweeter-smelling flowers - where everything wore
a richer and more brilliant hue than it is ever dressed in now!
Such are the deep feelings of childhood, and such are the
impressions which every lovely object stamps upon its heart! The
hardy traveller wanders through the maze of thick and pathless
woods, where the sun's rays never shone, and heaven's pure air
never played; he stands on the brink of the roaring waterfall, and,
giddy and bewildered, watches the foaming mass as it leaps from
stone to stone, and from crag to crag; he lingers in the fertile
plains of a land of perpetual sunshine, and revels in the luxury of
their balmy breath. But what are the deep forests, or the
thundering waters, or the richest landscapes that bounteous nature
ever spread, to charm the eyes, and captivate the senses of man,
compared with the recollection of the old scenes of his early
youth? Magic scenes indeed; for the fancies of childhood dressed
them in colours brighter than the rainbow, and almost as fleeting!

In former times, spring brought with it not only such associations
as these, connected with the past, but sports and games for the
present - merry dances round rustic pillars, adorned with emblems
of the season, and reared in honour of its coming. Where are they
now! Pillars we have, but they are no longer rustic ones; and as
to dancers, they are used to rooms, and lights, and would not show
well in the open air. Think of the immorality, too! What would
your sabbath enthusiasts say, to an aristocratic ring encircling
the Duke of York's column in Carlton-terrace - a grand POUSSETTE of
the middle classes, round Alderman Waithman's monument in Fleet-
street, - or a general hands-four-round of ten-pound householders,
at the foot of the Obelisk in St. George's-fields? Alas! romance
can make no head against the riot act; and pastoral simplicity is
not understood by the police.

Well; many years ago we began to be a steady and matter-of-fact
sort of people, and dancing in spring being beneath our dignity, we
gave it up, and in course of time it descended to the sweeps - a
fall certainly, because, though sweeps are very good fellows in
their way, and moreover very useful in a civilised community, they
are not exactly the sort of people to give the tone to the little
elegances of society. The sweeps, however, got the dancing to
themselves, and they kept it up, and handed it down. This was a
severe blow to the romance of spring-time, but, it did not entirely
destroy it, either; for a portion of it descended to the sweeps
with the dancing, and rendered them objects of great interest. A
mystery hung over the sweeps in those days. Legends were in
existence of wealthy gentlemen who had lost children, and who,
after many years of sorrow and suffering, had found them in the
character of sweeps. Stories were related of a young boy who,
having been stolen from his parents in his infancy, and devoted to
the occupation of chimney-sweeping, was sent, in the course of his
professional career, to sweep the chimney of his mother's bedroom;
and how, being hot and tired when he came out of the chimney, he
got into the bed he had so often slept in as an infant, and was
discovered and recognised therein by his mother, who once every
year of her life, thereafter, requested the pleasure of the company
of every London sweep, at half-past one o'clock, to roast beef,
plum-pudding, porter, and sixpence.

Such stories as these, and there were many such, threw an air of
mystery round the sweeps, and produced for them some of those good
effects which animals derive from the doctrine of the
transmigration of souls. No one (except the masters) thought of
ill-treating a sweep, because no one knew who he might be, or what
nobleman's or gentleman's son he might turn out. Chimney-sweeping
was, by many believers in the marvellous, considered as a sort of
probationary term, at an earlier or later period of which, divers
young noblemen were to come into possession of their rank and
titles: and the profession was held by them in great respect
accordingly.

We remember, in our young days, a little sweep about our own age,
with curly hair and white teeth, whom we devoutly and sincerely
believed to be the lost son and heir of some illustrious personage
- an impression which was resolved into an unchangeable conviction
on our infant mind, by the subject of our speculations informing
us, one day, in reply to our question, propounded a few moments
before his ascent to the summit of the kitchen chimney, 'that he
believed he'd been born in the vurkis, but he'd never know'd his
father.' We felt certain, from that time forth, that he would one
day be owned by a lord: and we never heard the church-bells ring,
or saw a flag hoisted in the neighbourhood, without thinking that
the happy event had at last occurred, and that his long-lost parent
had arrived in a coach and six, to take him home to Grosvenor-
square. He never came, however; and, at the present moment, the
young gentleman in question is settled down as a master sweep in
the neighbourhood of Battle-bridge, his distinguishing
characteristics being a decided antipathy to washing himself, and
the possession of a pair of legs very inadequate to the support of
his unwieldy and corpulent body.

The romance of spring having gone out before our time, we were fain
to console ourselves as we best could with the uncertainty that
enveloped the birth and parentage of its attendant dancers, the
sweeps; and we DID console ourselves with it, for many years. But,
even this wicked source of comfort received a shock from which it
has never recovered - a shock which has been in reality its death-
blow. We could not disguise from ourselves the fact that whole
families of sweeps were regularly born of sweeps, in the rural
districts of Somers Town and Camden Town - that the eldest son
succeeded to the father's business, that the other branches
assisted him therein, and commenced on their own account; that
their children again, were educated to the profession; and that
about their identity there could be no mistake whatever. We could
not be blind, we say, to this melancholy truth, but we could not
bring ourselves to admit it, nevertheless, and we lived on for some
years in a state of voluntary ignorance. We were roused from our
pleasant slumber by certain dark insinuations thrown out by a
friend of ours, to the effect that children in the lower ranks of
life were beginning to CHOOSE chimney-sweeping as their particular
walk; that applications had been made by various boys to the
constituted authorities, to allow them to pursue the object of
their ambition with the full concurrence and sanction of the law;
that the affair, in short, was becoming one of mere legal contract.
We turned a deaf ear to these rumours at first, but slowly and
surely they stole upon us. Month after month, week after week,
nay, day after day, at last, did we meet with accounts of similar
applications. The veil was removed, all mystery was at an end, and
chimney-sweeping had become a favourite and chosen pursuit. There
is no longer any occasion to steal boys; for boys flock in crowds
to bind themselves. The romance of the trade has fled, and the
chimney-sweeper of the present day, is no more like unto him of
thirty years ago, than is a Fleet-street pickpocket to a Spanish
brigand, or Paul Pry to Caleb Williams.

This gradual decay and disuse of the practice of leading noble
youths into captivity, and compelling them to ascend chimneys, was
a severe blow, if we may so speak, to the romance of chimney-
sweeping, and to the romance of spring at the same time. But even
this was not all, for some few years ago the dancing on May-day
began to decline; small sweeps were observed to congregate in twos
or threes, unsupported by a 'green,' with no 'My Lord' to act as
master of the ceremonies, and no 'My Lady' to preside over the
exchequer. Even in companies where there was a 'green' it was an
absolute nothing - a mere sprout - and the instrumental
accompaniments rarely extended beyond the shovels and a set of
Panpipes, better known to the many, as a 'mouth-organ.'

These were signs of the times, portentous omens of a coming change;
and what was the result which they shadowed forth? Why, the master
sweeps, influenced by a restless spirit of innovation, actually
interposed their authority, in opposition to the dancing, and
substituted a dinner - an anniversary dinner at White Conduit House
- where clean faces appeared in lieu of black ones smeared with
rose pink; and knee cords and tops superseded nankeen drawers and
rosetted shoes.

Gentlemen who were in the habit of riding shy horses; and steady-
going people who have no vagrancy in their souls, lauded this
alteration to the skies, and the conduct of the master sweeps was
described beyond the reach of praise. But how stands the real
fact? Let any man deny, if he can, that when the cloth had been
removed, fresh pots and pipes laid upon the table, and the
customary loyal and patriotic toasts proposed, the celebrated Mr.
Sluffen, of Adam-and-Eve-court, whose authority not the most
malignant of our opponents can call in question, expressed himself
in a manner following: 'That now he'd cotcht the cheerman's hi, he
vished he might be jolly vell blessed, if he worn't a goin' to have
his innings, vich he vould say these here obserwashuns - that how
some mischeevus coves as know'd nuffin about the consarn, had tried
to sit people agin the mas'r swips, and take the shine out o' their
bis'nes, and the bread out o' the traps o' their preshus kids, by a
makin' o' this here remark, as chimblies could be as vell svept by
'sheenery as by boys; and that the makin' use o' boys for that
there purpuss vos barbareous; vereas, he 'ad been a chummy - he
begged the cheerman's parding for usin' such a wulgar hexpression -
more nor thirty year - he might say he'd been born in a chimbley -
and he know'd uncommon vell as 'sheenery vos vus nor o' no use:
and as to kerhewelty to the boys, everybody in the chimbley line
know'd as vell as he did, that they liked the climbin' better nor
nuffin as vos.' From this day, we date the total fall of the last
lingering remnant of May-day dancing, among the ELITE of the
profession: and from this period we commence a new era in that
portion of our spring associations which relates to the first of
May.

We are aware that the unthinking part of the population will meet
us here, with the assertion, that dancing on May-day still
continues - that 'greens' are annually seen to roll along the
streets - that youths in the garb of clowns, precede them, giving
vent to the ebullitions of their sportive fancies; and that lords
and ladies follow in their wake.

Granted. We are ready to acknowledge that in outward show, these
processions have greatly improved: we do not deny the introduction
of solos on the drum; we will even go so far as to admit an
occasional fantasia on the triangle, but here our admissions end.
We positively deny that the sweeps have art or part in these
proceedings. We distinctly charge the dustmen with throwing what
they ought to clear away, into the eyes of the public. We accuse
scavengers, brickmakers, and gentlemen who devote their energies to
the costermongering line, with obtaining money once a-year, under
false pretences. We cling with peculiar fondness to the custom of
days gone by, and have shut out conviction as long as we could, but
it has forced itself upon us; and we now proclaim to a deluded
public, that the May-day dancers are NOT sweeps. The size of them,
alone, is sufficient to repudiate the idea. It is a notorious fact
that the widely-spread taste for register-stoves has materially
increased the demand for small boys; whereas the men, who, under a
fictitious character, dance about the streets on the first of May
nowadays, would be a tight fit in a kitchen flue, to say nothing of
the parlour. This is strong presumptive evidence, but we have
positive proof - the evidence of our own senses. And here is our
testimony.

Upon the morning of the second of the merry month of May, in the
year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and thirty-six, we went
out for a stroll, with a kind of forlorn hope of seeing something
or other which might induce us to believe that it was really
spring, and not Christmas. After wandering as far as Copenhagen
House, without meeting anything calculated to dispel our impression
that there was a mistake in the almanacks, we turned back down
Maidenlane, with the intention of passing through the extensive
colony lying between it and Battle-bridge, which is inhabited by
proprietors of donkey-carts, boilers of horse-flesh, makers of
tiles, and sifters of cinders; through which colony we should have
passed, without stoppage or interruption, if a little crowd
gathered round a shed had not attracted our attention, and induced
us to pause.

When we say a 'shed,' we do not mean the conservatory sort of
building, which, according to the old song, Love tenanted when he
was a young man, but a wooden house with windows stuffed with rags
and paper, and a small yard at the side, with one dust-cart, two
baskets, a few shovels, and little heaps of cinders, and fragments
of china and tiles, scattered about it. Before this inviting spot
we paused; and the longer we looked, the more we wondered what
exciting circumstance it could be, that induced the foremost
members of the crowd to flatten their noses against the parlour
window, in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of what was going on
inside. After staring vacantly about us for some minutes, we
appealed, touching the cause of this assemblage, to a gentleman in
a suit of tarpaulin, who was smoking his pipe on our right hand;
but as the only answer we obtained was a playful inquiry whether
our mother had disposed of her mangle, we determined to await the
issue in silence.

Judge of our virtuous indignation, when the street-door of the shed
opened, and a party emerged therefrom, clad in the costume and
emulating the appearance, of May-day sweeps!

The first person who appeared was 'my lord,' habited in a blue coat
and bright buttons, with gilt paper tacked over the seams, yellow
knee-breeches, pink cotton stockings, and shoes; a cocked hat,
ornamented with shreds of various-coloured paper, on his head, a
BOUQUET the size of a prize cauliflower in his button-hole, a long
Belcher handkerchief in his right hand, and a thin cane in his
left. A murmur of applause ran through the crowd (which was
chiefly composed of his lordship's personal friends), when this
graceful figure made his appearance, which swelled into a burst of
applause as his fair partner in the dance bounded forth to join
him. Her ladyship was attired in pink crape over bed-furniture,
with a low body and short sleeves. The symmetry of her ankles was
partially concealed by a very perceptible pair of frilled trousers;
and the inconvenience which might have resulted from the
circumstance of her white satin shoes being a few sizes too large,
was obviated by their being firmly attached to her legs with strong
tape sandals.

Her head was ornamented with a profusion of artificial flowers; and
in her hand she bore a large brass ladle, wherein to receive what
she figuratively denominated 'the tin.' The other characters were
a young gentleman in girl's clothes and a widow's cap; two clowns
who walked upon their hands in the mud, to the immeasurable delight
of all the spectators; a man with a drum; another man with a
flageolet; a dirty woman in a large shawl, with a box under her arm
for the money, - and last, though not least, the 'green,' animated
by no less a personage than our identical friend in the tarpaulin
suit.

The man hammered away at the drum, the flageolet squeaked, the
shovels rattled, the 'green' rolled about, pitching first on one
side and then on the other; my lady threw her right foot over her
left ankle, and her left foot over her right ankle, alternately; my
lord ran a few paces forward, and butted at the 'green,' and then a
few paces backward upon the toes of the crowd, and then went to the
right, and then to the left, and then dodged my lady round the
'green;' and finally drew her arm through his, and called upon the
boys to shout, which they did lustily - for this was the dancing.

We passed the same group, accidentally, in the evening. We never
saw a 'green' so drunk, a lord so quarrelsome (no: not even in the
house of peers after dinner), a pair of clowns so melancholy, a
lady so muddy, or a party so miserable.

How has May-day decayed!

CHAPTER XXI - BROKERS' AND MARINE-STORE SHOPS

When we affirm that brokers' shops are strange places, and that if
an authentic history of their contents could be procured, it would
furnish many a page of amusement, and many a melancholy tale, it is
necessary to explain the class of shops to which we allude.
Perhaps when we make use of the term 'Brokers' Shop,' the minds of
our readers will at once picture large, handsome warehouses,
exhibiting a long perspective of French-polished dining-tables,
rosewood chiffoniers, and mahogany wash-hand-stands, with an
occasional vista of a four-post bedstead and hangings, and an
appropriate foreground of dining-room chairs. Perhaps they will
imagine that we mean an humble class of second-hand furniture
repositories. Their imagination will then naturally lead them to
that street at the back of Long-acre, which is composed almost
entirely of brokers' shops; where you walk through groves of
deceitful, showy-looking furniture, and where the prospect is
occasionally enlivened by a bright red, blue, and yellow hearth-
rug, embellished with the pleasing device of a mail-coach at full
speed, or a strange animal, supposed to have been originally
intended for a dog, with a mass of worsted-work in his mouth, which
conjecture has likened to a basket of flowers.

This, by-the-bye, is a tempting article to young wives in the
humbler ranks of life, who have a first-floor front to furnish -
they are lost in admiration, and hardly know which to admire most.
The dog is very beautiful, but they have a dog already on the best
tea-tray, and two more on the mantel-piece. Then, there is
something so genteel about that mail-coach; and the passengers
outside (who are all hat) give it such an air of reality!

The goods here are adapted to the taste, or rather to the means, of
cheap purchasers. There are some of the most beautiful LOOKING
Pembroke tables that were ever beheld: the wood as green as the
trees in the Park, and the leaves almost as certain to fall off in
the course of a year. There is also a most extensive assortment of
tent and turn-up bedsteads, made of stained wood, and innumerable
specimens of that base imposition on society - a sofa bedstead.

A turn-up bedstead is a blunt, honest piece of furniture; it may be
slightly disguised with a sham drawer; and sometimes a mad attempt
is even made to pass it off for a book-case; ornament it as you
will, however, the turn-up bedstead seems to defy disguise, and to
insist on having it distinctly understood that he is a turn-up
bedstead, and nothing else - that he is indispensably necessary,
and that being so useful, he disdains to be ornamental.

How different is the demeanour of a sofa bedstead! Ashamed of its
real use, it strives to appear an article of luxury and gentility -
an attempt in which it miserably fails. It has neither the
respectability of a sofa, nor the virtues of a bed; every man who
keeps a sofa bedstead in his house, becomes a party to a wilful and
designing fraud - we question whether you could insult him more,
than by insinuating that you entertain the least suspicion of its
real use.

To return from this digression, we beg to say, that neither of
these classes of brokers' shops, forms the subject of this sketch.
The shops to which we advert, are immeasurably inferior to those on
whose outward appearance we have slightly touched. Our readers
must often have observed in some by-street, in a poor
neighbourhood, a small dirty shop, exposing for sale the most
extraordinary and confused jumble of old, worn-out, wretched
articles, that can well be imagined. Our wonder at their ever
having been bought, is only to be equalled by our astonishment at
the idea of their ever being sold again. On a board, at the side
of the door, are placed about twenty books - all odd volumes; and
as many wine-glasses - all different patterns; several locks, an
old earthenware pan, full of rusty keys; two or three gaudy
chimney-ornaments - cracked, of course; the remains of a lustre,
without any drops; a round frame like a capital O, which has once
held a mirror; a flute, complete with the exception of the middle
joint; a pair of curling-irons; and a tinder-box. In front of the
shop-window, are ranged some half-dozen high-backed chairs, with
spinal complaints and wasted legs; a corner cupboard; two or three
very dark mahogany tables with flaps like mathematical problems;
some pickle-jars, some surgeons' ditto, with gilt labels and
without stoppers; an unframed portrait of some lady who flourished
about the beginning of the thirteenth century, by an artist who
never flourished at all; an incalculable host of miscellanies of
every description, including bottles and cabinets, rags and bones,
fenders and street-door knockers, fire-irons, wearing apparel and
bedding, a hall-lamp, and a room-door. Imagine, in addition to
this incongruous mass, a black doll in a white frock, with two
faces - one looking up the street, and the other looking down,
swinging over the door; a board with the squeezed-up inscription
'Dealer in marine stores,' in lanky white letters, whose height is
strangely out of proportion to their width; and you have before you
precisely the kind of shop to which we wish to direct your
attention.

Although the same heterogeneous mixture of things will be found at
all these places, it is curious to observe how truly and accurately
some of the minor articles which are exposed for sale - articles of
wearing apparel, for instance - mark the character of the
neighbourhood. Take Drury-Lane and Covent-garden for example.

This is essentially a theatrical neighbourhood. There is not a
potboy in the vicinity who is not, to a greater or less extent, a
dramatic character. The errand-boys and chandler's-shop-keepers'
sons, are all stage-struck: they 'gets up' plays in back kitchens
hired for the purpose, and will stand before a shop-window for
hours, contemplating a great staring portrait of Mr. Somebody or
other, of the Royal Coburg Theatre, 'as he appeared in the
character of Tongo the Denounced.' The consequence is, that there
is not a marine-store shop in the neighbourhood, which does not
exhibit for sale some faded articles of dramatic finery, such as
three or four pairs of soiled buff boots with turn-over red tops,
heretofore worn by a 'fourth robber,' or 'fifth mob;' a pair of
rusty broadswords, a few gauntlets, and certain resplendent
ornaments, which, if they were yellow instead of white, might be
taken for insurance plates of the Sun Fire-office. There are
several of these shops in the narrow streets and dirty courts, of
which there are so many near the national theatres, and they all
have tempting goods of this description, with the addition,
perhaps, of a lady's pink dress covered with spangles; white
wreaths, stage shoes, and a tiara like a tin lamp reflector. They
have been purchased of some wretched supernumeraries, or sixth-rate
actors, and are now offered for the benefit of the rising
generation, who, on condition of making certain weekly payments,
amounting in the whole to about ten times their value, may avail
themselves of such desirable bargains.

Let us take a very different quarter, and apply it to the same
test. Look at a marine-store dealer's, in that reservoir of dirt,
drunkenness, and drabs: thieves, oysters, baked potatoes, and
pickled salmon - Ratcliff-highway. Here, the wearing apparel is
all nautical. Rough blue jackets, with mother-of-pearl buttons,
oil-skin hats, coarse checked shirts, and large canvas trousers
that look as if they were made for a pair of bodies instead of a
pair of legs, are the staple commodities. Then, there are large
bunches of cotton pocket-handkerchiefs, in colour and pattern
unlike any one ever saw before, with the exception of those on the
backs of the three young ladies without bonnets who passed just
now. The furniture is much the same as elsewhere, with the
addition of one or two models of ships, and some old prints of
naval engagements in still older frames. In the window, are a few
compasses, a small tray containing silver watches in clumsy thick
cases; and tobacco-boxes, the lid of each ornamented with a ship,
or an anchor, or some such trophy. A sailor generally pawns or
sells all he has before he has been long ashore, and if he does
not, some favoured companion kindly saves him the trouble. In
either case, it is an even chance that he afterwards unconsciously
repurchases the same things at a higher price than he gave for them
at first.

Again: pay a visit with a similar object, to a part of London, as
unlike both of these as they are to each other. Cross over to the
Surrey side, and look at such shops of this description as are to
be found near the King's Bench prison, and in 'the Rules.' How
different, and how strikingly illustrative of the decay of some of
the unfortunate residents in this part of the metropolis!
Imprisonment and neglect have done their work. There is
contamination in the profligate denizens of a debtor's prison; old
friends have fallen off; the recollection of former prosperity has
passed away; and with it all thoughts for the past, all care for
the future. First, watches and rings, then cloaks, coats, and all
the more expensive articles of dress, have found their way to the
pawnbroker's. That miserable resource has failed at last, and the
sale of some trifling article at one of these shops, has been the
only mode left of raising a shilling or two, to meet the urgent
demands of the moment. Dressing-cases and writing-desks, too old
to pawn but too good to keep; guns, fishing-rods, musical
instruments, all in the same condition; have first been sold, and
the sacrifice has been but slightly felt. But hunger must be
allayed, and what has already become a habit, is easily resorted
to, when an emergency arises. Light articles of clothing, first of
the ruined man, then of his wife, at last of their children, even
of the youngest, have been parted with, piecemeal. There they are,
thrown carelessly together until a purchaser presents himself, old,
and patched and repaired, it is true; but the make and materials
tell of better days; and the older they are, the greater the misery
and destitution of those whom they once adorned.

CHAPTER XXII - GIN-SHOPS

It is a remarkable circumstance, that different trades appear to
partake of the disease to which elephants and dogs are especially
liable, and to run stark, staring, raving mad, periodically. The
great distinction between the animals and the trades, is, that the
former run mad with a certain degree of propriety - they are very
regular in their irregularities. We know the period at which the
emergency will arise, and provide against it accordingly. If an
elephant run mad, we are all ready for him - kill or cure - pills
or bullets, calomel in conserve of roses, or lead in a musket-
barrel. If a dog happen to look unpleasantly warm in the summer
months, and to trot about the shady side of the streets with a
quarter of a yard of tongue hanging out of his mouth, a thick
leather muzzle, which has been previously prepared in compliance
with the thoughtful injunctions of the Legislature, is instantly
clapped over his head, by way of making him cooler, and he either
looks remarkably unhappy for the next six weeks, or becomes legally
insane, and goes mad, as it were, by Act of Parliament. But these
trades are as eccentric as comets; nay, worse, for no one can
calculate on the recurrence of the strange appearances which
betoken the disease. Moreover, the contagion is general, and the
quickness with which it diffuses itself, almost incredible.

We will cite two or three cases in illustration of our meaning.
Six or eight years ago, the epidemic began to display itself among
the linen-drapers and haberdashers. The primary symptoms were an
inordinate love of plate-glass, and a passion for gas-lights and
gilding. The disease gradually progressed, and at last attained a
fearful height. Quiet, dusty old shops in different parts of town,
were pulled down; spacious premises with stuccoed fronts and gold
letters, were erected instead; floors were covered with Turkey
carpets; roofs supported by massive pillars; doors knocked into
windows; a dozen squares of glass into one; one shopman into a
dozen; and there is no knowing what would have been done, if it had
not been fortunately discovered, just in time, that the
Commissioners of Bankruptcy were as competent to decide such cases
as the Commissioners of Lunacy, and that a little confinement and
gentle examination did wonders. The disease abated. It died away.
A year or two of comparative tranquillity ensued. Suddenly it
burst out again amongst the chemists; the symptoms were the same,
with the addition of a strong desire to stick the royal arms over
the shop-door, and a great rage for mahogany, varnish, and
expensive floor-cloth. Then, the hosiers were infected, and began
to pull down their shop-fronts with frantic recklessness. The
mania again died away, and the public began to congratulate
themselves on its entire disappearance, when it burst forth with
tenfold violence among the publicans, and keepers of 'wine vaults.'
From that moment it has spread among them with unprecedented
rapidity, exhibiting a concatenation of all the previous symptoms;
onward it has rushed to every part of town, knocking down all the
old public-houses, and depositing splendid mansions, stone
balustrades, rosewood fittings, immense lamps, and illuminated
clocks, at the corner of every street.

The extensive scale on which these places are established, and the
ostentatious manner in which the business of even the smallest
among them is divided into branches, is amusing. A handsome plate
of ground glass in one door directs you 'To the Counting-house;'
another to the 'Bottle Department; a third to the 'Wholesale
Department;' a fourth to 'The Wine Promenade;' and so forth, until
we are in daily expectation of meeting with a 'Brandy Bell,' or a
'Whiskey Entrance.' Then, ingenuity is exhausted in devising
attractive titles for the different descriptions of gin; and the
dram-drinking portion of the community as they gaze upon the
gigantic black and white announcements, which are only to be
equalled in size by the figures beneath them, are left in a state
of pleasing hesitation between 'The Cream of the Valley,' 'The Out
and Out,' 'The No Mistake,' 'The Good for Mixing,' 'The real Knock-
me-down,' 'The celebrated Butter Gin,' 'The regular Flare-up,' and
a dozen other, equally inviting and wholesome LIQUEURS. Although
places of this description are to be met with in every second
street, they are invariably numerous and splendid in precise
proportion to the dirt and poverty of the surrounding
neighbourhood. The gin-shops in and near Drury-Lane, Holborn, St.
Giles's, Covent-garden, and Clare-market, are the handsomest in
London. There is more of filth and squalid misery near those great
thorough-fares than in any part of this mighty city.

We will endeavour to sketch the bar of a large gin-shop, and its
ordinary customers, for the edification of such of our readers as
may not have had opportunities of observing such scenes; and on the
chance of finding one well suited to our purpose, we will make for
Drury-Lane, through the narrow streets and dirty courts which
divide it from Oxford-street, and that classical spot adjoining the
brewery at the bottom of Tottenham-court-road, best known to the
initiated as the 'Rookery.'

The filthy and miserable appearance of this part of London can
hardly be imagined by those (and there are many such) who have not
witnessed it. Wretched houses with broken windows patched with
rags and paper: every room let out to a different family, and in
many instances to two or even three - fruit and 'sweet-stuff'
manufacturers in the cellars, barbers and red-herring vendors in
the front parlours, cobblers in the back; a bird-fancier in the
first floor, three families on the second, starvation in the
attics, Irishmen in the passage, a 'musician' in the front kitchen,
and a charwoman and five hungry children in the back one - filth
everywhere - a gutter before the houses and a drain behind -
clothes drying and slops emptying, from the windows; girls of
fourteen or fifteen, with matted hair, walking about barefoot, and
in white great-coats, almost their only covering; boys of all ages,
in coats of all sizes and no coats at all; men and women, in every
variety of scanty and dirty apparel, lounging, scolding, drinking,
smoking, squabbling, fighting, and swearing.

You turn the corner. What a change! All is light and brilliancy.
The hum of many voices issues from that splendid gin-shop which
forms the commencement of the two streets opposite; and the gay
building with the fantastically ornamented parapet, the illuminated
clock, the plate-glass windows surrounded by stucco rosettes, and
its profusion of gas-lights in richly-gilt burners, is perfectly
dazzling when contrasted with the darkness and dirt we have just
left. The interior is even gayer than the exterior. A bar of
French-polished mahogany, elegantly carved, extends the whole width
of the place; and there are two side-aisles of great casks, painted
green and gold, enclosed within a light brass rail, and bearing
such inscriptions, as 'Old Tom, 549;' 'Young Tom, 360;' 'Samson,
1421' - the figures agreeing, we presume, with 'gallons,'
understood. Beyond the bar is a lofty and spacious saloon, full of
the same enticing vessels, with a gallery running round it, equally
well furnished. On the counter, in addition to the usual spirit
apparatus, are two or three little baskets of cakes and biscuits,
which are carefully secured at top with wicker-work, to prevent
their contents being unlawfully abstracted. Behind it, are two
showily-dressed damsels with large necklaces, dispensing the
spirits and 'compounds.' They are assisted by the ostensible
proprietor of the concern, a stout, coarse fellow in a fur cap, put
on very much on one side to give him a knowing air, and to display
his sandy whiskers to the best advantage.

The two old washerwomen, who are seated on the little bench to the
left of the bar, are rather overcome by the head-dresses and
haughty demeanour of the young ladies who officiate. They receive
their half-quartern of gin and peppermint, with considerable
deference, prefacing a request for 'one of them soft biscuits,'
with a 'Jist be good enough, ma'am.' They are quite astonished at
the impudent air of the young fellow in a brown coat and bright
buttons, who, ushering in his two companions, and walking up to the
bar in as careless a manner as if he had been used to green and
gold ornaments all his life, winks at one of the young ladies with
singular coolness, and calls for a 'kervorten and a three-out-
glass,' just as if the place were his own. 'Gin for you, sir?'
says the young lady when she has drawn it: carefully looking every
way but the right one, to show that the wink had no effect upon
her. 'For me, Mary, my dear,' replies the gentleman in brown. 'My
name an't Mary as it happens,' says the young girl, rather relaxing
as she delivers the change. 'Well, if it an't, it ought to be,'
responds the irresistible one; 'all the Marys as ever I see, was
handsome gals.' Here the young lady, not precisely remembering how
blushes are managed in such cases, abruptly ends the flirtation by
addressing the female in the faded feathers who has just entered,
and who, after stating explicitly, to prevent any subsequent
misunderstanding, that 'this gentleman pays,' calls for 'a glass of
port wine and a bit of sugar.'

Those two old men who came in 'just to have a drain,' finished
their third quartern a few seconds ago; they have made themselves
crying drunk; and the fat comfortable-looking elderly women, who
had 'a glass of rum-srub' each, having chimed in with their
complaints on the hardness of the times, one of the women has
agreed to stand a glass round, jocularly observing that 'grief
never mended no broken bones, and as good people's wery scarce,
what I says is, make the most on 'em, and that's all about it!' a
sentiment which appears to afford unlimited satisfaction to those
who have nothing to pay.

It is growing late, and the throng of men, women, and children, who
have been constantly going in and out, dwindles down to two or
three occasional stragglers - cold, wretched-looking creatures, in
the last stage of emaciation and disease. The knot of Irish
labourers at the lower end of the place, who have been alternately
shaking hands with, and threatening the life of each other, for the
last hour, become furious in their disputes, and finding it
impossible to silence one man, who is particularly anxious to
adjust the difference, they resort to the expedient of knocking him
down and jumping on him afterwards. The man in the fur cap, and
the potboy rush out; a scene of riot and confusion ensues; half the
Irishmen get shut out, and the other half get shut in; the potboy
is knocked among the tubs in no time; the landlord hits everybody,
and everybody hits the landlord; the barmaids scream; the police
come in; the rest is a confused mixture of arms, legs, staves, torn
coats, shouting, and struggling. Some of the party are borne off
to the station-house, and the remainder slink home to beat their
wives for complaining, and kick the children for daring to be
hungry.

We have sketched this subject very slightly, not only because our
limits compel us to do so, but because, if it were pursued farther,
it would be painful and repulsive. Well-disposed gentlemen, and
charitable ladies, would alike turn with coldness and disgust from
a description of the drunken besotted men, and wretched broken-down
miserable women, who form no inconsiderable portion of the
frequenters of these haunts; forgetting, in the pleasant
consciousness of their own rectitude, the poverty of the one, and
the temptation of the other. Gin-drinking is a great vice in
England, but wretchedness and dirt are a greater; and until you
improve the homes of the poor, or persuade a half-famished wretch
not to seek relief in the temporary oblivion of his own misery,
with the pittance which, divided among his family, would furnish a
morsel of bread for each, gin-shops will increase in number and
splendour. If Temperance Societies would suggest an antidote
against hunger, filth, and foul air, or could establish
dispensaries for the gratuitous distribution of bottles of Lethe-
water, gin-palaces would be numbered among the things that were.

CHAPTER XXIII - THE PAWNBROKER'S SHOP

Of the numerous receptacles for misery and distress with which the
streets of London unhappily abound, there are, perhaps, none which
present such striking scenes as the pawnbrokers' shops. The very
nature and description of these places occasions their being but
little known, except to the unfortunate beings whose profligacy or
misfortune drives them to seek the temporary relief they offer.
The subject may appear, at first sight, to be anything but an
inviting one, but we venture on it nevertheless, in the hope that,
as far as the limits of our present paper are concerned, it will
present nothing to disgust even the most fastidious reader.

There are some pawnbrokers' shops of a very superior description.
There are grades in pawning as in everything else, and distinctions
must be observed even in poverty. The aristocratic Spanish cloak
and the plebeian calico shirt, the silver fork and the flat iron,
the muslin cravat and the Belcher neckerchief, would but ill assort
together; so, the better sort of pawnbroker calls himself a silver-
smith, and decorates his shop with handsome trinkets and expensive
jewellery, while the more humble money-lender boldly advertises his
calling, and invites observation. It is with pawnbrokers' shops of
the latter class, that we have to do. We have selected one for our
purpose, and will endeavour to describe it.

The pawnbroker's shop is situated near Drury-Lane, at the corner of
a court, which affords a side entrance for the accommodation of
such customers as may be desirous of avoiding the observation of
the passers-by, or the chance of recognition in the public street.
It is a low, dirty-looking, dusty shop, the door of which stands
always doubtfully, a little way open: half inviting, half
repelling the hesitating visitor, who, if he be as yet uninitiated,
examines one of the old garnet brooches in the window for a minute
or two with affected eagerness, as if he contemplated making a
purchase; and then looking cautiously round to ascertain that no
one watches him, hastily slinks in: the door closing of itself
after him, to just its former width. The shop front and the
window-frames bear evident marks of having been once painted; but,
what the colour was originally, or at what date it was probably
laid on, are at this remote period questions which may be asked,
but cannot be answered. Tradition states that the transparency in
the front door, which displays at night three red balls on a blue
ground, once bore also, inscribed in graceful waves, the words
'Money advanced on plate, jewels, wearing apparel, and every
description of property,' but a few illegible hieroglyphics are all
that now remain to attest the fact. The plate and jewels would
seem to have disappeared, together with the announcement, for the
articles of stock, which are displayed in some profusion in the
window, do not include any very valuable luxuries of either kind.
A few old china cups; some modern vases, adorned with paltry
paintings of three Spanish cavaliers playing three Spanish guitars;
or a party of boors carousing: each boor with one leg painfully
elevated in the air, by way of expressing his perfect freedom and
gaiety; several sets of chessmen, two or three flutes, a few
fiddles, a round-eyed portrait staring in astonishment from a very
dark ground; some gaudily-bound prayer-books and testaments, two
rows of silver watches quite as clumsy and almost as large as
Ferguson's first; numerous old-fashioned table and tea spoons,
displayed, fan-like, in half-dozens; strings of coral with great
broad gilt snaps; cards of rings and brooches, fastened and
labelled separately, like the insects in the British Museum; cheap
silver penholders and snuff-boxes, with a masonic star, complete
the jewellery department; while five or six beds in smeary clouded
ticks, strings of blankets and sheets, silk and cotton
handkerchiefs, and wearing apparel of every description, form the
more useful, though even less ornamental, part, of the articles
exposed for sale. An extensive collection of planes, chisels,
saws, and other carpenters' tools, which have been pledged, and
never redeemed, form the foreground of the picture; while the large
frames full of ticketed bundles, which are dimly seen through the
dirty casement up-stairs - the squalid neighbourhood - the
adjoining houses, straggling, shrunken, and rotten, with one or two
filthy, unwholesome-looking heads thrust out of every window, and
old red pans and stunted plants exposed on the tottering parapets,
to the manifest hazard of the heads of the passers-by - the noisy
men loitering under the archway at the corner of the court, or
about the gin-shop next door - and their wives patiently standing
on the curb-stone, with large baskets of cheap vegetables slung
round them for sale, are its immediate auxiliaries.

If the outside of the pawnbroker's shop be calculated to attract
the attention, or excite the interest, of the speculative
pedestrian, its interior cannot fail to produce the same effect in
an increased degree. The front door, which we have before noticed,
opens into the common shop, which is the resort of all those
customers whose habitual acquaintance with such scenes renders them
indifferent to the observation of their companions in poverty. The
side door opens into a small passage from which some half-dozen
doors (which may be secured on the inside by bolts) open into a
corresponding number of little dens, or closets, which face the
counter. Here, the more timid or respectable portion of the crowd
shroud themselves from the notice of the remainder, and patiently
wait until the gentleman behind the counter, with the curly black
hair, diamond ring, and double silver watch-guard, shall feel
disposed to favour them with his notice - a consummation which
depends considerably on the temper of the aforesaid gentleman for
the time being.

At the present moment, this elegantly-attired individual is in the
act of entering the duplicate he has just made out, in a thick
book: a process from which he is diverted occasionally, by a
conversation he is carrying on with another young man similarly
employed at a little distance from him, whose allusions to 'that
last bottle of soda-water last night,' and 'how regularly round my
hat he felt himself when the young 'ooman gave 'em in charge,'
would appear to refer to the consequences of some stolen joviality
of the preceding evening. The customers generally, however, seem
unable to participate in the amusement derivable from this source,
for an old sallow-looking woman, who has been leaning with both
arms on the counter with a small bundle before her, for half an
hour previously, suddenly interrupts the conversation by addressing
the jewelled shopman - 'Now, Mr. Henry, do make haste, there's a
good soul, for my two grandchildren's locked up at home, and I'm
afeer'd of the fire.' The shopman slightly raises his head, with
an air of deep abstraction, and resumes his entry with as much
deliberation as if he were engraving. 'You're in a hurry, Mrs.
Tatham, this ev'nin', an't you?' is the only notice he deigns to
take, after the lapse of five minutes or so. 'Yes, I am indeed,
Mr. Henry; now, do serve me next, there's a good creetur. I
wouldn't worry you, only it's all along o' them botherin'
children.' 'What have you got here?' inquires the shopman,
unpinning the bundle - 'old concern, I suppose - pair o' stays and
a petticut. You must look up somethin' else, old 'ooman; I can't
lend you anything more upon them; they're completely worn out by
this time, if it's only by putting in, and taking out again, three
times a week.' 'Oh! you're a rum un, you are,' replies the old
woman, laughing extremely, as in duty bound; 'I wish I'd got the
gift of the gab like you; see if I'd be up the spout so often then!
No, no; it an't the petticut; it's a child's frock and a beautiful
silk ankecher, as belongs to my husband. He gave four shillin' for
it, the werry same blessed day as he broke his arm.' - 'What do you
want upon these?' inquires Mr. Henry, slightly glancing at the
articles, which in all probability are old acquaintances. 'What do
you want upon these?' - 'Eighteenpence.' - 'Lend you ninepence.' -
'Oh, make it a shillin'; there's a dear - do now?' - 'Not another
farden.' - 'Well, I suppose I must take it.' The duplicate is made
out, one ticket pinned on the parcel, the other given to the old
woman; the parcel is flung carelessly down into a corner, and some
other customer prefers his claim to be served without further
delay.

The choice falls on an unshaven, dirty, sottish-looking fellow,
whose tarnished paper-cap, stuck negligently over one eye,
communicates an additionally repulsive expression to his very
uninviting countenance. He was enjoying a little relaxation from
his sedentary pursuits a quarter of an hour ago, in kicking his
wife up the court. He has come to redeem some tools:- probably to
complete a job with, on account of which he has already received
some money, if his inflamed countenance and drunken staggers may be
taken as evidence of the fact. Having waited some little time, he
makes his presence known by venting his ill-humour on a ragged
urchin, who, being unable to bring his face on a level with the
counter by any other process, has employed himself in climbing up,
and then hooking himself on with his elbows - an uneasy perch, from
which he has fallen at intervals, generally alighting on the toes
of the person in his immediate vicinity. In the present case, the
unfortunate little wretch has received a cuff which sends him
reeling to this door; and the donor of the blow is immediately the
object of general indignation.

'What do you strike the boy for, you brute?' exclaims a slipshod
woman, with two flat irons in a little basket. 'Do you think he's
your wife, you willin?' 'Go and hang yourself!' replies the
gentleman addressed, with a drunken look of savage stupidity,
aiming at the same time a blow at the woman which fortunately
misses its object. 'Go and hang yourself; and wait till I come and
cut you down.' - 'Cut you down,' rejoins the woman, 'I wish I had
the cutting of you up, you wagabond! (loud.) Oh! you precious
wagabond! (rather louder.) Where's your wife, you willin? (louder
still; women of this class are always sympathetic, and work
themselves into a tremendous passion on the shortest notice.) Your
poor dear wife as you uses worser nor a dog - strike a woman - you
a man! (very shrill;) I wish I had you - I'd murder you, I would,
if I died for it!' - 'Now be civil,' retorts the man fiercely. 'Be
civil, you wiper!' ejaculates the woman contemptuously. 'An't it
shocking?' she continues, turning round, and appealing to an old
woman who is peeping out of one of the little closets we have
before described, and who has not the slightest objection to join
in the attack, possessing, as she does, the comfortable conviction
that she is bolted in. 'Ain't it shocking, ma'am? (Dreadful! says
the old woman in a parenthesis, not exactly knowing what the
question refers to.) He's got a wife, ma'am, as takes in mangling,
and is as 'dustrious and hard-working a young 'ooman as can be,
(very fast) as lives in the back parlour of our 'ous, which my
husband and me lives in the front one (with great rapidity) - and
we hears him a beaten' on her sometimes when he comes home drunk,
the whole night through, and not only a beaten' her, but beaten'
his own child too, to make her more miserable - ugh, you beast! and
she, poor creater, won't swear the peace agin him, nor do nothin',
because she likes the wretch arter all - worse luck!' Here, as the
woman has completely run herself out of breath, the pawnbroker
himself, who has just appeared behind the counter in a gray
dressing-gown, embraces the favourable opportunity of putting in a
word:- 'Now I won't have none of this sort of thing on my
premises!' he interposes with an air of authority. 'Mrs. Mackin,
keep yourself to yourself, or you don't get fourpence for a flat
iron here; and Jinkins, you leave your ticket here till you're
sober, and send your wife for them two planes, for I won't have you
in my shop at no price; so make yourself scarce, before I make you
scarcer.'

This eloquent address produces anything but the effect desired; the
women rail in concert; the man hits about him in all directions,
and is in the act of establishing an indisputable claim to
gratuitous lodgings for the night, when the entrance of his wife, a
wretched, worn-out woman, apparently in the last stage of
consumption, whose face bears evident marks of recent ill-usage,
and whose strength seems hardly equal to the burden - light enough,
God knows! - of the thin, sickly child she carries in her arms,
turns his cowardly rage in a safer direction. 'Come home, dear,'
cries the miserable creature, in an imploring tone; 'DO come home,
there's a good fellow, and go to bed.' - 'Go home yourself,'
rejoins the furious ruffian. 'Do come home quietly,' repeats the
wife, bursting into tears. 'Go home yourself,' retorts the husband
again, enforcing his argument by a blow which sends the poor
creature flying out of the shop. Her 'natural protector' follows
her up the court, alternately venting his rage in accelerating her
progress, and in knocking the little scanty blue bonnet of the
unfortunate child over its still more scanty and faded-looking
face.

In the last box, which is situated in the darkest and most obscure
corner of the shop, considerably removed from either of the gas-
lights, are a young delicate girl of about twenty, and an elderly
female, evidently her mother from the resemblance between them, who
stand at some distance back, as if to avoid the observation even of
the shopman. It is not their first visit to a pawnbroker's shop,
for they answer without a moment's hesitation the usual questions,
put in a rather respectful manner, and in a much lower tone than
usual, of 'What name shall I say? - Your own property, of course? -
Where do you live? - Housekeeper or lodger?' They bargain, too,
for a higher loan than the shopman is at first inclined to offer,
which a perfect stranger would be little disposed to do; and the
elder female urges her daughter on, in scarcely audible whispers,
to exert her utmost powers of persuasion to obtain an advance of
the sum, and expatiate on the value of the articles they have
brought to raise a present supply upon. They are a small gold
chain and a 'Forget me not' ring: the girl's property, for they
are both too small for the mother; given her in better times;
prized, perhaps, once, for the giver's sake, but parted with now
without a struggle; for want has hardened the mother, and her
example has hardened the girl, and the prospect of receiving money,
coupled with a recollection of the misery they have both endured
from the want of it - the coldness of old friends - the stern
refusal of some, and the still more galling compassion of others -
appears to have obliterated the consciousness of self-humiliation,
which the idea of their present situation would once have aroused.

In the next box, is a young female, whose attire, miserably poor,
but extremely gaudy, wretchedly cold, but extravagantly fine, too
plainly bespeaks her station. The rich satin gown with its faded
trimmings, the worn-out thin shoes, and pink silk stockings, the
summer bonnet in winter, and the sunken face, where a daub of rouge
only serves as an index to the ravages of squandered health never
to be regained, and lost happiness never to be restored, and where
the practised smile is a wretched mockery of the misery of the
heart, cannot be mistaken. There is something in the glimpse she
has just caught of her young neighbour, and in the sight of the
little trinkets she has offered in pawn, that seems to have
awakened in this woman's mind some slumbering recollection, and to
have changed, for an instant, her whole demeanour. Her first hasty
impulse was to bend forward as if to scan more minutely the
appearance of her half-concealed companions; her next, on seeing
them involuntarily shrink from her, to retreat to the back of the
box, cover her face with her hands, and burst into tears.

There are strange chords in the human heart, which will lie dormant
through years of depravity and wickedness, but which will vibrate
at last to some slight circumstance apparently trivial in itself,
but connected by some undefined and indistinct association, with
past days that can never be recalled, and with bitter recollections
from which the most degraded creature in existence cannot escape.

There has been another spectator, in the person of a woman in the
common shop; the lowest of the low; dirty, unbonneted, flaunting,
and slovenly. Her curiosity was at first attracted by the little
she could see of the group; then her attention. The half-
intoxicated leer changed to an expression of something like
interest, and a feeling similar to that we have described, appeared
for a moment, and only a moment, to extend itself even to her
bosom.

Who shall say how soon these women may change places? The last has
but two more stages - the hospital and the grave. How many females
situated as her two companions are, and as she may have been once,
have terminated the same wretched course, in the same wretched
manner! One is already tracing her footsteps with frightful
rapidity. How soon may the other follow her example! How many
have done the same!

CHAPTER XXIV - CRIMINAL COURTS

We shall never forget the mingled feelings of awe and respect with
which we used to gaze on the exterior of Newgate in our schoolboy
days. How dreadful its rough heavy walls, and low massive doors,
appeared to us - the latter looking as if they were made for the
express purpose of letting people in, and never letting them out
again. Then the fetters over the debtors' door, which we used to
think were a BONA FIDE set of irons, just hung up there, for
convenience' sake, ready to be taken down at a moment's notice, and
riveted on the limbs of some refractory felon! We were never tired
of wondering how the hackney-coachmen on the opposite stand could
cut jokes in the presence of such horrors, and drink pots of half-
and-half so near the last drop.

Often have we strayed here, in sessions time, to catch a glimpse of
the whipping-place, and that dark building on one side of the yard,
in which is kept the gibbet with all its dreadful apparatus, and on
the door of which we half expected to see a brass plate, with the
inscription 'Mr. Ketch;' for we never imagined that the
distinguished functionary could by possibility live anywhere else!
The days of these childish dreams have passed away, and with them
many other boyish ideas of a gayer nature. But we still retain so
much of our original feeling, that to this hour we never pass the
building without something like a shudder.

What London pedestrian is there who has not, at some time or other,
cast a hurried glance through the wicket at which prisoners are
admitted into this gloomy mansion, and surveyed the few objects he
could discern, with an indescribable feeling of curiosity? The
thick door, plated with iron and mounted with spikes, just low
enough to enable you to see, leaning over them, an ill-looking
fellow, in a broad-brimmed hat, Belcher handkerchief and top-boots:
with a brown coat, something between a great-coat and a 'sporting'
jacket, on his back, and an immense key in his left hand. Perhaps
you are lucky enough to pass, just as the gate is being opened;
then, you see on the other side of the lodge, another gate, the
image of its predecessor, and two or three more turnkeys, who look
like multiplications of the first one, seated round a fire which
just lights up the whitewashed apartment sufficiently to enable you
to catch a hasty glimpse of these different objects. We have a
great respect for Mrs. Fry, but she certainly ought to have written
more romances than Mrs. Radcliffe.

We were walking leisurely down the Old Bailey, some time ago, when,
as we passed this identical gate, it was opened by the officiating
turnkey. We turned quickly round, as a matter of course, and saw
two persons descending the steps. We could not help stopping and
observing them.

They were an elderly woman, of decent appearance, though evidently
poor, and a boy of about fourteen or fifteen. The woman was crying
bitterly; she carried a small bundle in her hand, and the boy
followed at a short distance behind her. Their little history was
obvious. The boy was her son, to whose early comfort she had
perhaps sacrificed her own - for whose sake she had borne misery
without repining, and poverty without a murmur - looking steadily
forward to the time, when he who had so long witnessed her
struggles for himself, might be enabled to make some exertions for
their joint support. He had formed dissolute connexions; idleness
had led to crime; and he had been committed to take his trial for
some petty theft. He had been long in prison, and, after receiving
some trifling additional punishment, had been ordered to be
discharged that morning. It was his first offence, and his poor
old mother, still hoping to reclaim him, had been waiting at the
gate to implore him to return home.

We cannot forget the boy; he descended the steps with a dogged
look, shaking his head with an air of bravado and obstinate
determination. They walked a few paces, and paused. The woman put
her hand upon his shoulder in an agony of entreaty, and the boy
sullenly raised his head as if in refusal. It was a brilliant
morning, and every object looked fresh and happy in the broad, gay
sunlight; he gazed round him for a few moments, bewildered with the
brightness of the scene, for it was long since he had beheld
anything save the gloomy walls of a prison. Perhaps the
wretchedness of his mother made some impression on the boy's heart;
perhaps some undefined recollection of the time when he was a happy
child, and she his only friend, and best companion, crowded on him
- he burst into tears; and covering his face with one hand, and
hurriedly placing the other in his mother's, walked away with her.

Curiosity has occasionally led us into both Courts at the Old
Bailey. Nothing is so likely to strike the person who enters them
for the first time, as the calm indifference with which the
proceedings are conducted; every trial seems a mere matter of
business. There is a great deal of form, but no compassion;
considerable interest, but no sympathy. Take the Old Court for
example. There sit the judges, with whose great dignity everybody
is acquainted, and of whom therefore we need say no more. Then,
there is the Lord Mayor in the centre, looking as cool as a Lord
Mayor CAN look, with an immense BOUQUET before him, and habited in
all the splendour of his office. Then, there are the Sheriffs, who
are almost as dignified as the Lord Mayor himself; and the
Barristers, who are quite dignified enough in their own opinion;
and the spectators, who having paid for their admission, look upon
the whole scene as if it were got up especially for their
amusement. Look upon the whole group in the body of the Court -
some wholly engrossed in the morning papers, others carelessly
conversing in low whispers, and others, again, quietly dozing away
an hour - and you can scarcely believe that the result of the trial
is a matter of life or death to one wretched being present. But
turn your eyes to the dock; watch the prisoner attentively for a
few moments; and the fact is before you, in all its painful
reality. Mark how restlessly he has been engaged for the last ten
minutes, in forming all sorts of fantastic figures with the herbs
which are strewed upon the ledge before him; observe the ashy
paleness of his face when a particular witness appears, and how he
changes his position and wipes his clammy forehead, and feverish
hands, when the case for the prosecution is closed, as if it were a
relief to him to feel that the jury knew the worst.

The defence is concluded; the judge proceeds to sum up the
evidence; and the prisoner watches the countenances of the jury, as
a dying man, clinging to life to the very last, vainly looks in the
face of his physician for a slight ray of hope. They turn round to
consult; you can almost hear the man's heart beat, as he bites the
stalk of rosemary, with a desperate effort to appear composed.
They resume their places - a dead silence prevails as the foreman
delivers in the verdict - 'Guilty!' A shriek bursts from a female
in the gallery; the prisoner casts one look at the quarter from
whence the noise proceeded; and is immediately hurried from the
dock by the gaoler. The clerk directs one of the officers of the
Court to 'take the woman out,' and fresh business is proceeded
with, as if nothing had occurred.

No imaginary contrast to a case like this, could be as complete as
that which is constantly presented in the New Court, the gravity of
which is frequently disturbed in no small degree, by the cunning
and pertinacity of juvenile offenders. A boy of thirteen is tried,
say for picking the pocket of some subject of her Majesty, and the
offence is about as clearly proved as an offence can be. He is
called upon for his defence, and contents himself with a little
declamation about the jurymen and his country - asserts that all
the witnesses have committed perjury, and hints that the police
force generally have entered into a conspiracy 'again' him.
However probable this statement may be, it fails to convince the
Court, and some such scene as the following then takes place:

COURT: Have you any witnesses to speak to your character, boy?

BOY: Yes, my Lord; fifteen gen'lm'n is a vaten outside, and vos a
vaten all day yesterday, vich they told me the night afore my trial
vos a comin' on.

COURT. Inquire for these witnesses.

Here, a stout beadle runs out, and vociferates for the witnesses at
the very top of his voice; for you hear his cry grow fainter and
fainter as he descends the steps into the court-yard below. After
an absence of five minutes, he returns, very warm and hoarse, and
informs the Court of what it knew perfectly well before - namely,
that there are no such witnesses in attendance. Hereupon, the boy
sets up a most awful howling; screws the lower part of the palms of
his hands into the corners of his eyes; and endeavours to look the
picture of injured innocence. The jury at once find him 'guilty,'
and his endeavours to squeeze out a tear or two are redoubled. The
governor of the gaol then states, in reply to an inquiry from the
bench, that the prisoner has been under his care twice before.
This the urchin resolutely denies in some such terms as - 'S'elp
me, gen'lm'n, I never vos in trouble afore - indeed, my Lord, I
never vos. It's all a howen to my having a twin brother, vich has
wrongfully got into trouble, and vich is so exactly like me, that
no vun ever knows the difference atween us.'

This representation, like the defence, fails in producing the
desired effect, and the boy is sentenced, perhaps, to seven years'
transportation. Finding it impossible to excite compassion, he
gives vent to his feelings in an imprecation bearing reference to
the eyes of 'old big vig!' and as he declines to take the trouble
of walking from the dock, is forthwith carried out, congratulating
himself on having succeeded in giving everybody as much trouble as
possible.

CHAPTER XXV - A VISIT TO NEWGATE

'The force of habit' is a trite phrase in everybody's mouth; and it
is not a little remarkable that those who use it most as applied to
others, unconsciously afford in their own persons singular examples
of the power which habit and custom exercise over the minds of men,
and of the little reflection they are apt to bestow on subjects
with which every day's experience has rendered them familiar. If
Bedlam could be suddenly removed like another Aladdin's palace, and
set down on the space now occupied by Newgate, scarcely one man out
of a hundred, whose road to business every morning lies through
Newgate-street, or the Old Bailey, would pass the building without
bestowing a hasty glance on its small, grated windows, and a
transient thought upon the condition of the unhappy beings immured
in its dismal cells; and yet these same men, day by day, and hour
by hour, pass and repass this gloomy depository of the guilt and
misery of London, in one perpetual stream of life and bustle,
utterly unmindful of the throng of wretched creatures pent up
within it - nay, not even knowing, or if they do, not heeding, the
fact, that as they pass one particular angle of the massive wall
with a light laugh or a merry whistle, they stand within one yard
of a fellow-creature, bound and helpless, whose hours are numbered,
from whom the last feeble ray of hope has fled for ever, and whose
miserable career will shortly terminate in a violent and shameful
death. Contact with death even in its least terrible shape, is
solemn and appalling. How much more awful is it to reflect on this
near vicinity to the dying - to men in full health and vigour, in
the flower of youth or the prime of life, with all their faculties
and perceptions as acute and perfect as your own; but dying,
nevertheless - dying as surely - with the hand of death imprinted
upon them as indelibly - as if mortal disease had wasted their
frames to shadows, and corruption had already begun!

It was with some such thoughts as these that we determined, not
many weeks since, to visit the interior of Newgate - in an amateur
capacity, of course; and, having carried our intention into effect,
we proceed to lay its results before our readers, in the hope -
founded more upon the nature of the subject, than on any
presumptuous confidence in our own descriptive powers - that this
paper may not be found wholly devoid of interest. We have only to
premise, that we do not intend to fatigue the reader with any
statistical accounts of the prison; they will be found at length in
numerous reports of numerous committees, and a variety of
authorities of equal weight. We took no notes, made no memoranda,
measured none of the yards, ascertained the exact number of inches
in no particular room: are unable even to report of how many
apartments the gaol is composed.

We saw the prison, and saw the prisoners; and what we did see, and
what we thought, we will tell at once in our own way.

Having delivered our credentials to the servant who answered our
knock at the door of the governor's house, we were ushered into the
'office;' a little room, on the right-hand side as you enter, with
two windows looking into the Old Bailey: fitted up like an
ordinary attorney's office, or merchant's counting-house, with the
usual fixtures - a wainscoted partition, a shelf or two, a desk, a
couple of stools, a pair of clerks, an almanack, a clock, and a few
maps. After a little delay, occasioned by sending into the
interior of the prison for the officer whose duty it was to conduct
us, that functionary arrived; a respectable-looking man of about
two or three and fifty, in a broad-brimmed hat, and full suit of
black, who, but for his keys, would have looked quite as much like
a clergyman as a turnkey. We were disappointed; he had not even
top-boots on. Following our conductor by a door opposite to that
at which we had entered, we arrived at a small room, without any
other furniture than a little desk, with a book for visitors'
autographs, and a shelf, on which were a few boxes for papers, and
casts of the heads and faces of the two notorious murderers, Bishop
and Williams; the former, in particular, exhibiting a style of head
and set of features, which might have afforded sufficient moral
grounds for his instant execution at any time, even had there been
no other evidence against him. Leaving this room also, by an
opposite door, we found ourself in the lodge which opens on the Old
Bailey; one side of which is plentifully garnished with a choice
collection of heavy sets of irons, including those worn by the
redoubtable Jack Sheppard - genuine; and those SAID to have been
graced by the sturdy limbs of the no less celebrated Dick Turpin -
doubtful. From this lodge, a heavy oaken gate, bound with iron,
studded with nails of the same material, and guarded by another
turnkey, opens on a few steps, if we remember right, which
terminate in a narrow and dismal stone passage, running parallel
with the Old Bailey, and leading to the different yards, through a
number of tortuous and intricate windings, guarded in their turn by
huge gates and gratings, whose appearance is sufficient to dispel
at once the slightest hope of escape that any new-comer may have
entertained; and the very recollection of which, on eventually
traversing the place again, involves one in a maze of confusion.

It is necessary to explain here, that the buildings in the prison,
or in other words the different wards - form a square, of which the
four sides abut respectively on the Old Bailey, the old College of
Physicians (now forming a part of Newgate-market), the Sessions-
house, and Newgate-street. The intermediate space is divided into
several paved yards, in which the prisoners take such air and
exercise as can be had in such a place. These yards, with the
exception of that in which prisoners under sentence of death are
confined (of which we shall presently give a more detailed
description), run parallel with Newgate-street, and consequently
from the Old Bailey, as it were, to Newgate-market. The women's
side is in the right wing of the prison nearest the Sessions-house.
As we were introduced into this part of the building first, we will
adopt the same order, and introduce our readers to it also.

Turning to the right, then, down the passage to which we just now
adverted, omitting any mention of intervening gates - for if we
noticed every gate that was unlocked for us to pass through, and
locked again as soon as we had passed, we should require a gate at
every comma - we came to a door composed of thick bars of wood,
through which were discernible, passing to and fro in a narrow
yard, some twenty women: the majority of whom, however, as soon as
they were aware of the presence of strangers, retreated to their
wards. One side of this yard is railed off at a considerable
distance, and formed into a kind of iron cage, about five feet ten
inches in height, roofed at the top, and defended in front by iron
bars, from which the friends of the female prisoners communicate
with them. In one corner of this singular-looking den, was a
yellow, haggard, decrepit old woman, in a tattered gown that had
once been black, and the remains of an old straw bonnet, with faded
ribbon of the same hue, in earnest conversation with a young girl -
a prisoner, of course - of about two-and-twenty. It is impossible
to imagine a more poverty-stricken object, or a creature so borne
down in soul and body, by excess of misery and destitution, as the
old woman. The girl was a good-looking, robust female, with a
profusion of hair streaming about in the wind - for she had no
bonnet on - and a man's silk pocket-handkerchief loosely thrown
over a most ample pair of shoulders. The old woman was talking in
that low, stifled tone of voice which tells so forcibly of mental
anguish; and every now and then burst into an irrepressible sharp,
abrupt cry of grief, the most distressing sound that ears can hear.
The girl was perfectly unmoved. Hardened beyond all hope of
redemption, she listened doggedly to her mother's entreaties,
whatever they were: and, beyond inquiring after 'Jem,' and eagerly
catching at the few halfpence her miserable parent had brought her,
took no more apparent interest in the conversation than the most
unconcerned spectators. Heaven knows there were enough of them, in
the persons of the other prisoners in the yard, who were no more
concerned by what was passing before their eyes, and within their
hearing, than if they were blind and deaf. Why should they be?
Inside the prison, and out, such scenes were too familiar to them,
to excite even a passing thought, unless of ridicule or contempt
for feelings which they had long since forgotten.

A little farther on, a squalid-looking woman in a slovenly, thick-
bordered cap, with her arms muffled in a large red shawl, the
fringed ends of which straggled nearly to the bottom of a dirty
white apron, was communicating some instructions to HER visitor -
her daughter evidently. The girl was thinly clad, and shaking with
the cold. Some ordinary word of recognition passed between her and
her mother when she appeared at the grating, but neither hope,
condolence, regret, nor affection was expressed on either side.
The mother whispered her instructions, and the girl received them
with her pinched-up, half-starved features twisted into an
expression of careful cunning. It was some scheme for the woman's
defence that she was disclosing, perhaps; and a sullen smile came
over the girl's face for an instant, as if she were pleased: not
so much at the probability of her mother's liberation, as at the
chance of her 'getting off' in spite of her prosecutors. The
dialogue was soon concluded; and with the same careless
indifference with which they had approached each other, the mother
turned towards the inner end of the yard, and the girl to the gate
at which she had entered.

The girl belonged to a class - unhappily but too extensive - the
very existence of which, should make men's hearts bleed. Barely
past her childhood, it required but a glance to discover that she
was one of those children, born and bred in neglect and vice, who
have never known what childhood is: who have never been taught to
love and court a parent's smile, or to dread a parent's frown. The
thousand nameless endearments of childhood, its gaiety and its
innocence, are alike unknown to them. They have entered at once
upon the stern realities and miseries of life, and to their better
nature it is almost hopeless to appeal in after-times, by any of
the references which will awaken, if it be only for a moment, some
good feeling in ordinary bosoms, however corrupt they may have
become. Talk to THEM of parental solicitude, the happy days of
childhood, and the merry games of infancy! Tell them of hunger and
the streets, beggary and stripes, the gin-shop, the station-house,
and the pawnbroker's, and they will understand you.

Two or three women were standing at different parts of the grating,
conversing with their friends, but a very large proportion of the
prisoners appeared to have no friends at all, beyond such of their
old companions as might happen to be within the walls. So, passing
hastily down the yard, and pausing only for an instant to notice
the little incidents we have just recorded, we were conducted up a
clean and well-lighted flight of stone stairs to one of the wards.
There are several in this part of the building, but a description
of one is a description of the whole.

It was a spacious, bare, whitewashed apartment, lighted, of course,
by windows looking into the interior of the prison, but far more
light and airy than one could reasonably expect to find in such a
situation. There was a large fire with a deal table before it,
round which ten or a dozen women were seated on wooden forms at
dinner. Along both sides of the room ran a shelf; below it, at
regular intervals, a row of large hooks were fixed in the wall, on
each of which was hung the sleeping mat of a prisoner: her rug and
blanket being folded up, and placed on the shelf above. At night,
these mats are placed on the floor, each beneath the hook on which
it hangs during the day; and the ward is thus made to answer the
purposes both of a day-room and sleeping apartment. Over the
fireplace, was a large sheet of pasteboard, on which were displayed
a variety of texts from Scripture, which were also scattered about
the room in scraps about the size and shape of the copy-slips which
are used in schools. On the table was a sufficient provision of a
kind of stewed beef and brown bread, in pewter dishes, which are
kept perfectly bright, and displayed on shelves in great order and
regularity when they are not in use.

The women rose hastily, on our entrance, and retired in a hurried
manner to either side of the fireplace. They were all cleanly -
many of them decently - attired, and there was nothing peculiar,
either in their appearance or demeanour. One or two resumed the
needlework which they had probably laid aside at the commencement
of their meal; others gazed at the visitors with listless
curiosity; and a few retired behind their companions to the very
end of the room, as if desirous to avoid even the casual
observation of the strangers. Some old Irish women, both in this
and other wards, to whom the thing was no novelty, appeared
perfectly indifferent to our presence, and remained standing close
to the seats from which they had just risen; but the general
feeling among the females seemed to be one of uneasiness during the
period of our stay among them: which was very brief. Not a word
was uttered during the time of our remaining, unless, indeed, by
the wardswoman in reply to some question which we put to the
turnkey who accompanied us. In every ward on the female side, a
wardswoman is appointed to preserve order, and a similar regulation
is adopted among the males. The wardsmen and wardswomen are all
prisoners, selected for good conduct. They alone are allowed the
privilege of sleeping on bedsteads; a small stump bedstead being
placed in every ward for that purpose. On both sides of the gaol,
is a small receiving-room, to which prisoners are conducted on
their first reception, and whence they cannot be removed until they
have been examined by the surgeon of the prison. (2)

Retracing our steps to the dismal passage in which we found
ourselves at first (and which, by-the-bye, contains three or four
dark cells for the accommodation of refractory prisoners), we were
led through a narrow yard to the 'school' - a portion of the prison
set apart for boys under fourteen years of age. In a tolerable-
sized room, in which were writing-materials and some copy-books,
was the schoolmaster, with a couple of his pupils; the remainder
having been fetched from an adjoining apartment, the whole were
drawn up in line for our inspection. There were fourteen of them
in all, some with shoes, some without; some in pinafores without
jackets, others in jackets without pinafores, and one in scarce
anything at all. The whole number, without an exception we
believe, had been committed for trial on charges of pocket-picking;
and fourteen such terrible little faces we never beheld. - There
was not one redeeming feature among them - not a glance of honesty
- not a wink expressive of anything but the gallows and the hulks,
in the whole collection. As to anything like shame or contrition,
that was entirely out of the question. They were evidently quite
gratified at being thought worth the trouble of looking at; their
idea appeared to be, that we had come to see Newgate as a grand
affair, and that they were an indispensable part of the show; and
every boy as he 'fell in' to the line, actually seemed as pleased
and important as if he had done something excessively meritorious
in getting there at all. We never looked upon a more disagreeable
sight, because we never saw fourteen such hopeless creatures of
neglect, before.

On either side of the school-yard is a yard for men, in one of
which - that towards Newgate-street - prisoners of the more
respectable class are confined. Of the other, we have little
description to offer, as the different wards necessarily partake of
the same character. They are provided, like the wards on the
women's side, with mats and rugs, which are disposed of in the same
manner during the day; the only very striking difference between
their appearance and that of the wards inhabited by the females, is
the utter absence of any employment. Huddled together on two
opposite forms, by the fireside, sit twenty men perhaps; here, a
boy in livery; there, a man in a rough great-coat and top-boots;
farther on, a desperate-looking fellow in his shirt-sleeves, with
an old Scotch cap upon his shaggy head; near him again, a tall
ruffian, in a smock-frock; next to him, a miserable being of
distressed appearance, with his head resting on his hand; - all
alike in one respect, all idle and listless. When they do leave
the fire, sauntering moodily about, lounging in the window, or
leaning against the wall, vacantly swinging their bodies to and
fro. With the exception of a man reading an old newspaper, in two
or three instances, this was the case in every ward we entered.

The only communication these men have with their friends, is
through two close iron gratings, with an intermediate space of
about a yard in width between the two, so that nothing can be
handed across, nor can the prisoner have any communication by touch
with the person who visits him. The married men have a separate
grating, at which to see their wives, but its construction is the
same.

The prison chapel is situated at the back of the governor's house:
the latter having no windows looking into the interior of the
prison. Whether the associations connected with the place - the
knowledge that here a portion of the burial service is, on some
dreadful occasions, performed over the quick and not upon the dead
- cast over it a still more gloomy and sombre air than art has
imparted to it, we know not, but its appearance is very striking.
There is something in a silent and deserted place of worship,
solemn and impressive at any time; and the very dissimilarity of
this one from any we have been accustomed to, only enhances the
impression. The meanness of its appointments - the bare and scanty
pulpit, with the paltry painted pillars on either side - the
women's gallery with its great heavy curtain - the men's with its
unpainted benches and dingy front - the tottering little table at
the altar, with the commandments on the wall above it, scarcely
legible through lack of paint, and dust and damp - so unlike the
velvet and gilding, the marble and wood, of a modern church - are
strange and striking. There is one object, too, which rivets the
attention and fascinates the gaze, and from which we may turn
horror-stricken in vain, for the recollection of it will haunt us,
waking and sleeping, for a long time afterwards. Immediately below
the reading-desk, on the floor of the chapel, and forming the most
conspicuous object in its little area, is THE CONDEMNED PEW; a huge
black pen, in which the wretched people, who are singled out for
death, are placed on the Sunday preceding their execution, in sight
of all their fellow-prisoners, from many of whom they may have been
separated but a week before, to hear prayers for their own souls,
to join in the responses of their own burial service, and to listen
to an address, warning their recent companions to take example by
their fate, and urging themselves, while there is yet time - nearly
four-and-twenty hours - to 'turn, and flee from the wrath to come!'
Imagine what have been the feelings of the men whom that fearful
pew has enclosed, and of whom, between the gallows and the knife,
no mortal remnant may now remain! Think of the hopeless clinging
to life to the last, and the wild despair, far exceeding in anguish
the felon's death itself, by which they have heard the certainty of
their speedy transmission to another world, with all their crimes
upon their heads, rung into their ears by the officiating
clergyman!

At one time - and at no distant period either - the coffins of the
men about to be executed, were placed in that pew, upon the seat by
their side, during the whole service. It may seem incredible, but
it is true. Let us hope that the increased spirit of civilisation
and humanity which abolished this frightful and degrading custom,
may extend itself to other usages equally barbarous; usages which
have not even the plea of utility in their defence, as every year's
experience has shown them to be more and more inefficacious.

Leaving the chapel, descending to the passage so frequently alluded
to, and crossing the yard before noticed as being allotted to
prisoners of a more respectable description than the generality of
men confined here, the visitor arrives at a thick iron gate of
great size and strength. Having been admitted through it by the
turnkey on duty, he turns sharp round to the left, and pauses
before another gate; and, having passed this last barrier, he
stands in the most terrible part of this gloomy building - the
condemned ward.

The press-yard, well known by name to newspaper readers, from its
frequent mention in accounts of executions, is at the corner of the
building, and next to the ordinary's house, in Newgate-street:
running from Newgate-street, towards the centre of the prison,
parallel with Newgate-market. It is a long, narrow court, of which
a portion of the wall in Newgate-street forms one end, and the gate
the other. At the upper end, on the left hand - that is, adjoining
the wall in Newgate-street - is a cistern of water, and at the
bottom a double grating (of which the gate itself forms a part)
similar to that before described. Through these grates the
prisoners are allowed to see their friends; a turnkey always
remaining in the vacant space between, during the whole interview.
Immediately on the right as you enter, is a building containing the
press-room, day-room, and cells; the yard is on every side
surrounded by lofty walls guarded by CHEVAUX DE FRISE; and the
whole is under the constant inspection of vigilant and experienced
turnkeys.

In the first apartment into which we were conducted - which was at
the top of a staircase, and immediately over the press-room - were
five-and-twenty or thirty prisoners, all under sentence of death,
awaiting the result of the recorder's report - men of all ages and
appearances, from a hardened old offender with swarthy face and
grizzly beard of three days' growth, to a handsome boy, not
fourteen years old, and of singularly youthful appearance even for
that age, who had been condemned for burglary. There was nothing
remarkable in the appearance of these prisoners. One or two
decently-dressed men were brooding with a dejected air over the
fire; several little groups of two or three had been engaged in
conversation at the upper end of the room, or in the windows; and
the remainder were crowded round a young man seated at a table, who
appeared to be engaged in teaching the younger ones to write. The
room was large, airy, and clean. There was very little anxiety or
mental suffering depicted in the countenance of any of the men; -
they had all been sentenced to death, it is true, and the
recorder's report had not yet been made; but, we question whether
there was a man among them, notwithstanding, who did not KNOW that
although he had undergone the ceremony, it never was intended that
his life should be sacrificed. On the table lay a Testament, but
there were no tokens of its having been in recent use.

In the press-room below, were three men, the nature of whose
offence rendered it necessary to separate them, even from their
companions in guilt. It is a long, sombre room, with two windows
sunk into the stone wall, and here the wretched men are pinioned on
the morning of their execution, before moving towards the scaffold.
The fate of one of these prisoners was uncertain; some mitigatory
circumstances having come to light since his trial, which had been
humanely represented in the proper quarter. The other two had
nothing to expect from the mercy of the crown; their doom was
sealed; no plea could be urged in extenuation of their crime, and
they well knew that for them there was no hope in this world. 'The
two short ones,' the turnkey whispered, 'were dead men.'

The man to whom we have alluded as entertaining some hopes of
escape, was lounging, at the greatest distance he could place
between himself and his companions, in the window nearest to the
door. He was probably aware of our approach, and had assumed an
air of courageous indifference; his face was purposely averted
towards the window, and he stirred not an inch while we were
present. The other two men were at the upper end of the room. One
of them, who was imperfectly seen in the dim light, had his back
towards us, and was stooping over the fire, with his right arm on
the mantel-piece, and his head sunk upon it. The other was leaning
on the sill of the farthest window. The light fell full upon him,
and communicated to his pale, haggard face, and disordered hair, an
appearance which, at that distance, was ghastly. His cheek rested
upon his hand; and, with his face a little raised, and his eyes
wildly staring before him, he seemed to be unconsciously intent on
counting the chinks in the opposite wall. We passed this room
again afterwards. The first man was pacing up and down the court
with a firm military step - he had been a soldier in the foot-
guards - and a cloth cap jauntily thrown on one side of his head.
He bowed respectfully to our conductor, and the salute was
returned. The other two still remained in the positions we have
described, and were as motionless as statues. (3)

A few paces up the yard, and forming a continuation of the
building, in which are the two rooms we have just quitted, lie the
condemned cells. The entrance is by a narrow and obscure stair-
case leading to a dark passage, in which a charcoal stove casts a
lurid tint over the objects in its immediate vicinity, and diffuses
something like warmth around. From the left-hand side of this
passage, the massive door of every cell on the story opens; and
from it alone can they be approached. There are three of these
passages, and three of these ranges of cells, one above the other;
but in size, furniture and appearance, they are all precisely
alike. Prior to the recorder's report being made, all the
prisoners under sentence of death are removed from the day-room at
five o'clock in the afternoon, and locked up in these cells, where
they are allowed a candle until ten o'clock; and here they remain
until seven next morning. When the warrant for a prisoner's
execution arrives, he is removed to the cells and confined in one
of them until he leaves it for the scaffold. He is at liberty to
walk in the yard; but, both in his walks and in his cell, he is
constantly attended by a turnkey who never leaves him on any
pretence.

We entered the first cell. It was a stone dungeon, eight feet long
by six wide, with a bench at the upper end, under which were a
common rug, a bible, and prayer-book. An iron candlestick was
fixed into the wall at the side; and a small high window in the
back admitted as much air and light as could struggle in between a
double row of heavy, crossed iron bars. It contained no other
furniture of any description.

Conceive the situation of a man, spending his last night on earth
in this cell. Buoyed up with some vague and undefined hope of
reprieve, he knew not why - indulging in some wild and visionary
idea of escaping, he knew not how - hour after hour of the three
preceding days allowed him for preparation, has fled with a speed
which no man living would deem possible, for none but this dying
man can know. He has wearied his friends with entreaties,
exhausted the attendants with importunities, neglected in his
feverish restlessness the timely warnings of his spiritual
consoler; and, now that the illusion is at last dispelled, now that
eternity is before him and guilt behind, now that his fears of
death amount almost to madne