Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2014 https://archive.org/details/sketchesbybozill00boz1 SKETCHES BY BOZ. SKETCHES BY BOZ. EVERY-DAY LIFE AND EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK. LONDON : CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 1873. ILLUSTRATIVE OF LONDON PRINTED BY VIRTUE AND CO., CITY ROAD. THE GETTY CENTER • PKEFACE. fpHE whole of these Sketches were written and published, one by one, when I was a very young man. They were collected and re-published while I was still a very young man ; and sent into the world with all their imperfections (a good many) on their heads. They comprise my first attempts at authorship — with the exception of certain tragedies achieved at the mature age of eight or ten, and represented with great applause to overflowing nurseries. I am conscious of their often being extremely crude and ill-considered, and bearing obvious marks of haste and inex- perience ; particularly in that section of the present volume which is comprised under the general head of Tales. But as this collection is not originated now, and was very leniently and favourably received when it was first made, I have not felt it right either to remodel or expunge, beyond a few words and phrases here and there. October, 1850. CONTENTS. SEVEN SKETCHES FROM OUR PARISH. CHAPTER I. PAGE The Beadle. The Parish Engine. The Schoolmaster 1 CHAPTER II. The Curate. The Old Lady. The Half -pay Captain 7 CHAPTER III. The Four Sisters 14 CHAPTER IV. The Election for Beadle 20 CHAPTER V . The Broker's Man 28 CHAPTER VI. The Ladies' Societies . 39 CHAPTER VII. Our Next-door Neighbour : . .46 Vlii CONTENTS. SCENES. CHAPTER I. PAGE The Streets— Morning 54 CHAPTER II. The Streets— Night ,61 CHAPTER III. Shops and their Tenants 68 CHAPTER IV. Scotland Yard 73 CHAPTER V. Seven Dials 79 CHAPTER VI. Meditations in Monmouth Street 85 CHAPTER VII. Hackney-coach Stands 93 CHAPTER VIII. Doctors' Commons ..... i 98 CHAPTER IX. London Recreations 105 CHAPTER X. The River. . Ill CONTENTS. ix CHAPTER XL PAGE Astley's 119 CHAPTER XII. Greenwich Fair ... 127 CHAPTER XIII. Private Theatres . . ; . 137 CHAPTER XIV. Vauxhall Gardens by Day 14, 5 CHAPTER XV. Early Coaches 152 CHAPTER XVI. Omnibuses 159 CHAPTER XVII. The Last Cab-driver, and the First Omnibus Cad 164 CHAPTER XVIII. A Parliamentary Sketch 175 CHAPTER XIX. Public Dinners . . . 188 CHAPTER XX. The First of May . 195 CHAPTER XXL Brokers' and Marine-store Shops 204 CHAPTER XXII. Gin-shops . . . . 210 X CONTENTS. CHAPTER XXIII. PAGE The Pawnbroker's Shop 217 CHAPTER XXIV. Criminal Courts . 226 CHAPTER XXV. A Visit to Newgate 232 CHARACTERS. CHAPTER I. Thoughts about People 248 CHAPTER II. A Christinas Dinner 254 CHAPTER III. The New Year 260 CHAPTER IV. Miss Evans and the Eagle 266 CHAPTER V. The Parlour Orator 271 CHAPTER VI. The Hospital Patient 277 CHAPTER VII. The Misplaced Attachment of Mr. John Dounce 282 CONTENTS. Xi CHAPTER VIII. PAGE The Mistaken Milliner. A Tale of Ambition • .289 CHAPTER IX. The Dancing Academy \ , 296 CHAPTER X. Shabby-genteel People 305 CHAPTER XI. Making a Night of it 308 CHAPTER XII. The Prisoners' Van 315 TALES. CHAPTER I. The Boarding-house » .319 CHAPTER H. Mr. Minns and his Cousin 362 CHAPTER III. Sentiment 375 CHAPTER IV. The Tuggs's at Ramsgate 389 CHAPTER V. Horatio Sparkins 413 Xli CONTENTS. CHAPTER VI. The Black Veil CHAPTER VII. The Steam Excursion . .*.*.*.* 444 CHAPTER VIII. The Great Winglebury Duel . . 469 CHAPTER IX Mrs. Joseph Porter 489 CHAPTER X. A Passage in the Life of Mr. Watkins Tottle 501 CHAPTER XI. The Bloomsbury Christening 544 CHAPTER XII. The Drunkard's Death 564 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. The Election for Beadle. Frontispiece. The Parish Engine . PA °J The Broker's Man . . 28 Our Next-door Neighbours ,, 46 The Streets — Morning . 54 Scotland Yard 73 Seven Dials 79 Monmouth Street g5 Hackney-coach Stands 93 London Recreations 105 Greenwich Fair t 127 Private Theatres 137 Vauxhall Gardens by Day 145 Early Coaches 152 The Last Cab-driver 164 Public Dinners 188 The First of May 195 The Gin-shop ,210 The Pawnbroker's Shop ,217 Thoughts about People 248 Jemima Evans 266 A Pickpocket in Custody 278 Mr. John Dounce 282 The Dancing Academy 296 xiv LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE Making a Night of it 308 The Boarding-house. Chapter 1 319 The Boarding-house. Chapter II. 337 Mr. Minns and his Cousin 362 Sentiment 375 The Tuggs's at Ramsgate 389 Horatio Sparkins . . . 413 Steam Excursion — Plate 1 444 Ditto Plate II 467 The Winglebury Duel 482 Mrs. Joseph Porter 489 "Watkins Tottle ' . .513 The Lock-up House 522 Mr. Watkins Tottle and Miss Lillerton . . . . . . .536 Bloomsbury Christening 544 SKETCHES BY BOZ. OUR PARISH. CHAPTER I. THE BEADLE. THE PARISH ENGINE. THE SCHOOLMASTER. TTOW much is conveyed in those two short words — " The W- 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 asso- ciated ! 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 B 2 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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, not- withstanding ; 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 board- room, 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 hus- band 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, THE BEADLE. 3 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 coeked-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 church- wardens 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 commence- ment 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 4 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 turncock having turned on the water, the engine turns off amidst the shouts of the boys ; it pulls up once more at the workhouse, 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, THE SCHOOLMASTER. 5 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 been 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 satis- faction 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 £10,000 in his will, and revoked the bequest in a codicil. Thus unex- pectedly reduced to the necessity of providing for himself, he procured a situation in a public office. The young clerks below 6 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 ; mis- fortune 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 i 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. THE CURATE. 7 CHAPTER II. THE CURATE. THE OLD LADY. THE HALF-PAY CAPTAIN. TT7E 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 prepos- sessing 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 fore- head 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 innu- merable 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 s SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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-baptize 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 popu- larity. 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 CURATE. 9 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 what- ever 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 anti- podes 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 ! 10 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 knick-knacks are always arranged in pre- cisely 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 Eoyal 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 THE OLD LADY. i i 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 Satur- day, 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 sub- scriptions, 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 curtsy until the pew-opener has ushered the old lady into her accustomed seat, dropped a respect- ful curtsy, and shut the door : and the same ceremony is repeated on her leaving church, when she walks home with the 12 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 circum- stance — 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 Eobinson 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 pro- cess 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 THE CAPTAIN. 13 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 pro- fligacy 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 tur- bulent 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. 14 SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER III. THE FOUR SISTERS. rpHE 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 con- ceal the fact, that even thirteen years ago, the Miss Willises were far from juvenile. Our duty as faithful parochial chroni- clers, 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 THE FOUR SISTERS. *5 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 com- mencing ; 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 feel- ings the poor man could have been actuated, or by what process i6 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 jDroperty of his own, beside) were received — that the four Miss Willises were courted in due form by the said Mr. Eobinson — 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 identi- fied, 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 THE FOUR SISTERS. 1 7 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 invari- ably restricted the somewhat excursive taste 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 glass-coach, and up came the second. The street-door opened again ; the excitement of the whole row increased — Mr. Eobinson 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. Eobinson 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 per- plexity 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 ~ ailings ! C i8 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 with- out the other three, we are not quite clear that the neighbours ever would have discovered the real Mrs. Eobinson, 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 morn- ing?" And the answer always was, "Mrs. Robinson's compli- ments, 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 par- ticularly 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 propor- tion 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 Mr. Dawson, the surgeon, &c, who dis- plays 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 THE FOUR SISTERS. 1 9 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 nightcap, 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. c 2 20 SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER IV. THE ELECTION FOR BEADLE. GREAT event has recently occurred in our parish. A con- test of paramount interest has just terminated ; a paro- chial 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 con- tentions, slumbering for awhile, 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, sewers' -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-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 THE ELECTION FOR BEADLE. 21 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 22 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 pro- ceeding. 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 workhouse. 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 encouragemen for the propagation of the human species. " Bung for Beadle Five small children!" — " Hopkins for Beadle. Seven small children I!" — " Timkins for Beadle. Nine small children!!!" THE ELECTION FOR BEADLE. 23 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 con- sidered 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. " Sprug- gins 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 pro- duction of nature, and the still more touching allusion to Mrs. Spruggins, must insure 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 per- severance 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, 24 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 des- potism 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 com- menced with due solemnity. The appearance of the church- wardens 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 ap- peared 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 vigi- lance for months. (A parishioner here suggested that this might be termed " taking a double sight," but the observation THE ELECTION FOR BEADLE. 25 was drowned in loud cries of "Order!") He w r ould 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 gentle- man ; 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 26 SKETCHES BY BOZ. ("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 ten 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 apply- ing 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 qualifi- cation 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 mis- take. Bung was thirty-five years of age. Spruggins — of whom he wished to speak with all possible respect — was fifty. 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 THE ELECTION FOR BEADLE. 27 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 sixpenn'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 turn- ing 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 nightcaps 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. 28 SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER V. THE BROKER'S MAN". fTIHE 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 fluctua- tions 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 1 THE BROKER'S MAN. 29 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 ascertain- ing 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 pre- possessing 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 con- versing 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 them- selves 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 30 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 punish- ment 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 your- self in one room for five days, without so much as an old news- paper 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 winter- time, 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 J 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 as 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 washhouse 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 peopl THE BROKER'S MAN. 31 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 always — 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 cow- cumber. 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), with- out 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 32 SKETCHES BY BOZ. fifty pound,' said Fixem, ' besides cost of levy, sheriff's pound- age, and all other incidental expenses.' — ' Urn,' says the gentle- man, ' 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 ? ' — c I was just going to send him for a coach for me,' says the other gentleman. ' And I was just 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 pos- S THE BROKER'S MAN. 33 session 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. D 34 SKETCHES BY BOZ. There was two or three chairs, that might have been worth, in their best days, from eightpence to a shilling apiece ; 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 fire-place, 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 Tind 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 con- stantly 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 THE BROKER'S MAN. 35 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 P 2 36 SKETCHES BY BOZ. door opened, and in came 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?' — c 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 I 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 THE BROKER'S MAN. 37 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. 4 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 fer- vently. Take it away, sir,' she says, 'it's a face that never turned from me in sickness or 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 com- plained, 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 33 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 the 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." THE LADIES' SOCIETIES. 39 CHAPTER VI. THE LADIES' SOCIETIES. AUR Parish is very prolific in ladies' charitable institutions. V 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 circula- tion 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, 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 40 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 ex- pressing 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 depth 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 THE LADIES' SOCIETIES. 41 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 dis- tribution society was instantly formed ; president, Mrs. Johnson Parker ; treasurers, auditors, and secretary, the Misses J ohnson 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 42 SKETCHES BY BOZ. enthusiasm. He repeated a dialogue lie had heard between two negroes, behind a hedge, on the subject of distribution societies ; the approbation was tumultuous. He gave an imi- tation 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 popu- lous 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 pro- ceedings 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 THE LADIES' SOCIETIES. 43 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 circum- stance 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 " caudle," 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 caudle 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 schoolroom 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 superin- tendence 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 44 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 alto- gether 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 distribu- tionists 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 that the deputation should also wait on two or THE LADIES' SOCIETIES. 45 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. 46 SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER VII. OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR. E 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 inevit- ably 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 \ OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR. 47 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 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 thousand 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 4 8 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 becom- ing 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 floor-cloth 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 mantel-piece, 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- OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR. 49 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 after- wards 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 content- ment 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 neigh- bours, 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 com- pany did go away, instead of walking quietly down the street, as anybody else's company would have done, they amused them- selves by making alarming and frightful noises, and counter- feiting 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. E 50 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR. 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 qiiiet 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 tea-spoon, 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 inti- mated 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. E 2 52 SKETCHES BY BOZ. They had removed from some country place and settled in London ; partly because it afforded better chances of employ- ment 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 them- selves. Night after night, two, three, four hours after mid- night, 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 curioaity, 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 needlework 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 OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR. 53 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, dear ; 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. 54 SKETCHES BY BOZ. SCENES. CHAPTER I. THE STREETS — MORNING. rjIHE 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 sun-light, 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 corner, 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 THE STREETS— MORNING. 55 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 sly- ness — 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 cham- ber 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, some- thing between hostlers 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 suc- cession, 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 school-boys on a stolen bathing expedition rattle merrily over the pavement, their 56 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 haybands, 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 " ring- ing 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 prin- ciple 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 THE STREETS — MORNING. 57 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, how- ever, 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 hap- pened 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 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 six-pennyworth 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 cheer- fully down the still half-empty streets, and shines with sufficient 5* SKETCHES BY BOZ. force to rouse the dismal laziness of the apprentice, wno 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 school-boy asso- ciations. 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 cari- wans 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 THE STREETS — MORNING. 5^ 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 (Sundays 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 pastrycook's doors ; but a consciousness of their own impor- tance and the receipt of seven shillings a week, with the pros- pect 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 staymakers' apprentices they meet — poor girls ! — the hardest worked, the worst paid, and too often, the worst used class of the com- munity. Eleven o'clock, and a new set of people fill the streets. The goods in the shop-windows are invitingly arranged ; the shop- men in their white neckerchiefs and spruce coats, look as if 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, 6o SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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. THE STREETS — NIGHT. 6i CHAPTER II. THE STREETS — NIGHT. ~DUT 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 them- selves as snug and comfortable as possible ; and the passengers in the streets have excellent reason to envy the fortunate indi- viduals 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. 62 SKETCHES BY BOZ. Walker, just to save the boy trouble, and to say a few neigh- bourly 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 just 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 THE STREETS — NIGHT. 63 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 trans- parent 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 illumi- nation 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 the cheesemonger's, where great flaring gas-lights, unshaded by any glass, display huge piles of bright red, and pale yellow cheeses, mingled with little five- penny 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 dis- persed. 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 incle- mency of the night ; and the policeman, with his oil-skin cape 64 SKETCHES BY BOZ. buttoned closely round him, seems as lie 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 con- gratulating 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 THE STREETS — NIGHT. 65 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, run- ning, knife-clattering, and waiter-chattering, perfectly inde- scribable. 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 F 66 SKETCHES BY BOZ. " Fly, fly from the world, my Bessy, with me," or some such song, with ladylike sweetness, and in the most seductive tones imaginable. " Pray give your orders, genTmen — 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. That 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. " GenTmen," says the little pompous man, accom- panying the word with a knock of the president's hammer on » the table — " genTmen, 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 reci- tation, and failed dismally therein, the little pompous man gives another knock, and says, "GenTmen, we will attempt a glee, if you please." This announcement calls forth tumul- tuous 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. THE STREETS — NIGHT. 67 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. F 2 68 SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER III. SHOPS AND THEIR TENANTS. "HAT inexhaustible food for speculation do the streets of T T 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 Church- yard, and back into the bargain, without deriving some amusement — we had almost said instruction — from his peram- bulation. 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 police- man 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 SHOPS AND THEIR TENANTS. 69 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 satis- faction 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 com- 70 SKETCHES BY BOZ. pletion, 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 flannels, 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 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. SHOPS AND THEIR TENANTS. 71 "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 pro- cured 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 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 sepa- rated 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 hairdresser, 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 imper- ceptible 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. SCOTLAND YARD. 73 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 regu- larly 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 door-post 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 appre- ciate ; and the fruit-pie maker displayed on his well-scrubbed window-board large white compositions of flour and dripping, 74 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 SCOTLAND YARD. 75 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 Scot- land 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 indig- nation, 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 expecta- tion 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 7 6 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 some- thing 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 Kepresentatives 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 fire-place, 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 SCOTLAND YARD. 77 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 innova- tion 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 dressmaker 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 dressmaker 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 down- fall 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 78 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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. / SEVEN DIALS. 79 CHAPTER V. SEVEN DIALS. TT7E 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 8o SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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. " Yy don't you ? If my 'usband had treate*d 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 fit 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 SEVEN DIALS. 81 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 'append 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 through- out to get up a branch fight on her own account (" Hooroar," ejaculates a potboy 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 resem- G 82 SKETCHES BY BOZ. blance each one bears to its neighbour, by no means tend 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 unex- pected 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. SEVEN DIALS. 83 The man in the shop, perhaps, is in the baked "jemmy " line, or the firewood and hearthstone 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 " abear 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 fire-place, over which is an inscrip- tion, 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 ; G 2 8 4 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 its 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. MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH STREET. *5 CHAPTER YI. MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH STREET. TX7E 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. Holy- well Street we despise ; the red-headed and red- whiskered J ews 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 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 habita- tions 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 * 86 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 specu- lating 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 plea- sant 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 policeman at the opposite street corner. We were occupied in this manner the other day, endeavour- ing 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 MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH STREET. 87 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, 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 88 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH STREET. 89 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 metro- politan 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, com- pleted 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 go SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 were 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 Co vent 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. MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH STREET. 9 1 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 astonish- ment, 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 92 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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." HACKNEY-COACH STANDS* 93 CHAPTER VII. HACKNEY-COACH STANDS. TT7E 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 inno- vations, 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 94 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 stand- ing. 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 HACKNEY-COACH STANDS. 95 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 1 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 forth- with 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 coach- man, 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 oppo- site 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- 9 6 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 stand-still. 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 dispatched 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 Koad. 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 appro- priate costume ; and the bridegroom and his chosen friend, in blue coats, yellow waistcoats, 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, HACKNEY-COACH STANDS. 97 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 school-boy'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 tem- porary home or your long one. But, beside 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 }^esterday, and that he never was anything better. A hackney cab has always been a hackney cab, from his first entry into public 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 I H 9 8 SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER VIII. doctors' commons. ♦ 'ALKING 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-licences to love-sick couples, and divorces to unfaithful ones ; register the wills of people who have any pro- perty 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 courtyard, 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 DOCTORS' COMMONS. 99 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 per- sonages, 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 there- abouts, 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 conver- sation 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 100 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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, imparted 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 counte- nance, 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 astonish- ing 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 judg- ment, and a few minutes having been allowed to elapse, to afford time for the buzz in the Court to subside, the registrar called on the next cause, which was " the office of the Judge promoted by Bumple against Shadberry." 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 infor- mation, 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 vestiy-meeting, in a certain parish particularly set DOCTORS' COMMONS. IOI 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 bio wed;" 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 ," and at the same time making use of other heinous and sinful expressions, all of which, Bumple subr mitted, came within the intent and meaning of the Act ; and therefore he, for the soul's health and chastening of Slud- berry, 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 excommuni- cation 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 102 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 recol- lected 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 distin- guished 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 stoop- ing 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 DOCTORS' COMMONS. 103 face with the air of a man who had made up his mind to recol- lect 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 hope- less case, and the little man, with his mouth open and his eyes fixed upon his face, looked on with an expression of bewilder- ment 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. 104 SKETCHES BY BOZ. We naturally fell into a train of reflection as we walked homewards, upon the curious old records of likings and dis- likings ; 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 ! t / LONDON RECREATIONS. 105 CHAPTER IX. LONDON RECREATIONS. rFHE 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 inclinatiom 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-sub- scribing 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 matri- mony 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 languish- ing 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 io6 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 else- where, 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 of! — 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 throw- ing 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 LONDON RECREATIONS. 107 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 mantel-piece 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 some- thing 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 begin- ning 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 care- fully 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 io8 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 summer-house, 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 popula- tion, 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 !") LONDON RECREATIONS. I Og — 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 them- selves 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 pij)es, 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 I 10 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 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 inces- santly for the last six hours, think they feel a little tired, as they count their glasses and their gains. THE RIVER. Ill CHAPTER X. THE RIVER. RE 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 reasonably be 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 I 12 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 Kichmond and Twickenham, and other distant havens, often sought though seldom reached ; but from the " Red-us " back to Blackfrrar's 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 senti- mentality, 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 Kichmond 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 THE RIVER. 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' 1' men 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 por- trait, 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 I ii4 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 immi- nent risk of breaking a blood-vessel, pulls and pulls, until the head of the boat fairly lies in the direction of Yauxhall Bridge. "That's right — now pull all on you!" shouts Dando again, adding, in an under-tone, to somebody by him, " Bio wed 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 water- men 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 the noise of distant hurrahing 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 THE RIVER. 115 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 splash- ing 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 laugh- able 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?" 1 2 n6 SKETCHES BY BOZ. " 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 con- curs 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 Com- pany (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 dispatch on board the Gravesend boat, which they reach just in time to discover that THE RIVER. their luggage is there, and that their comfortable seats are not. Then the bell, which is the signal for the Gravesend boat start- ing, 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 break- fast ; 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 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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." u 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 acquaint- ance between half-a-dozen gentlemen, who, having their families at Gravesend, take season-tickets for the boat, and dine on board regularly every afternoon. ASTLEY'S. II 9 CHAPTER XI. astley's. "ITTE never see any very large, staring, black Roman capitals, " in a book, or shop-window, or placarded on a wall, with- out 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 appre- ciated. 120 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 pas 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, open to their utmost width, was lifted over the seats — a process which occasioned a considerable dis- play 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 gover- ness 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 satis- faction, 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 ASTLEY'S. 121 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 pro- found 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 unsuc- cessfully 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 122 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 per- severance 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 con- venience of the half-price on their ejectment from the ring, the orange-peel cleared away, and the sawdust shaken, with mathe- matical 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 ASTLEY'S. 123 idea ? Everybody knows the man, and everybody remembers his polished boots, his graceful demeanour, stiff, as some mis- judging 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 him- self 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 observ- 124. SKETCHES BY BOZ. ing after the performance of the latter ceremony — " He, he, ho ! 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 day- time ? You will rarely pass one of these entrances without seeing a group of three or four men conversing on the pave- ment, 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 ? ASTLEY'S. Next to him, perhaps, you will see a thin pale man, with a very long face, in a suit of shining black, thoughtfully knock- ing 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 persons 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 dis- cover, 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 atti- tudinising, 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 necker- chiefs, 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 126 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 thread- bare attire, or descend to the comparatively unwadded costume of every-day life ? Impossible ! We cannot — we will not — believe it. \ GREENWICH FAIR. 127 CHAPTER XII. GREENWICH PAIR. TF the Parks be "the lungs of London," we wonder what Greenwich Fair is — a perioc ,al 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 Green- wich Fair, for years. We have proceeded to, and returned from it, in almost every description of vehicle. We cannot ponscien- tiously 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 128 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 ginger- bread 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 grey 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 GREENWICH FAIR. X2 g 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 thimble 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 : never 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 exu- berant 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 per- suaded 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 K 130 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 par- ticular 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 dis- cover. Here and there, where some three or four couple are sitting on the grass together, you will see a sunburnt 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. GREENWICH FAIR. Five minutes walking brings you to the fair ; a scene cal- culated 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 1 unbonneted young ladies, in their zeal for the interest of their employer, 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 play- ing 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 K 2 132 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 platforms 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 the wrongful heir who loves her too, and GREENWICH FAIR. 133 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 de- spondingly 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 dis- playing 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 svith the bad assassin, by the wrongful heir, to kill the , rightful heir ; and he's killed a good many men 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 inter- 134 SKETCHES BY BOZ. ference, 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-eaters' 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 twelve- month, 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 GREENWICH FAIR. 135 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 bed-chambers. 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 dimen- sions, 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 every-day 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 dis- played 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. 136 SKETCHES BY BOZ. The noise of these various intruments, the orchestra, the shouting, the " scratchers," and the dancing, is perfectly be- wildering. 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 loath, 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 them- selves next morning with aching heads, empty pockets, damaged hats, and a very imperfect recollection of how it was they did not get home. \ PRIVATE THEATRES. 137 CHAPTER XIII. PRIVATE THEATRES. "T>ICHARD THE THIRD. — Duke of Glo'ster, 21; Earl of Richmond, 11. ; Duke of Buckingham, 15 s. ; 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 Anne, 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 011 138 SKETCHES BY BOZ. the "tick;" 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 con- fessedly 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 master's money for their own ; and a choice miscellany of idle vagabonds. The pro- prietor of a private theatre may be an ex-scene-painter, a low coffee-house-keeper, a disappointed eighth-rate actor, a retired smuggler, or an 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 PRIVATE THEATRES. 1 39 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 contribution 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 coats 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 — ■ of 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 140 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 con- verses 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 excel- lent 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 trouble- some 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 absurdi- ties ; 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 PRIVATE THEATRES. 141 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 0. P. side, is Mr. Horatio St. Julian, 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 con- fidentially 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, how- ever, 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." Panto- 142 SKETCHES BY BOZ. mime 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. Julian, whose white face is so deeply seared with the small-pox, and whose dirty shirt-front is inlaid with open-work, and em- bossed with coral studs like lady-birds, 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 pro- minent 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 per- vades 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 PRIVATE THEATRES. 143 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 "gentle- woman." 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." 144 SKETCHES BY BOZ. " 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 whole audience can see them. The bell rings, and the orchestra, in acknowledg- ment of the call, play three distinct chords. The bell rings — the tragedy (!) opens — and our description closes. / VAUXHALL GARDENS BY DAY 145 CHAPTER XIV. VAUXHALL GARDENS BY DAY. fpHERE was a time when if a man ventured to wonder how Yauxhall Gardens would look by day, he was hailed with a shout of derision at the absurdity of the idea. Yauxhall by daylight ! A porter-pot without porter, the House of Commons without the Speaker, a gas-lamp without the gas — pooh, non- sense, the thing was not to be thought of. It was rumoured too, in those times, that Yauxhall 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. Yague rumours of this kind, together with many others of a similar nature, cast over Yauxhall 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 L 146 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 cos- moramas 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 reeking punch bewildered our brains ; and we were happy. In an evil hour, the proprietors of Yauxhall Gardens took to opening them by day. We regretted this, as rudely and harshly disturbing that veil of mystery which had hung about the pro- perty 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 ever 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 astonish- ment. 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 baheld 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 VAUXHALL GARDENS BY DAY. 147 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 litho- graphed 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 L 2 148 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 1 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. VAUXHALL GARDENS BY DAY. 149 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-handker- chiefs, 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 i50 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 mys- terious 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 S" 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 VAUXHALL GARDENS BY DAY. 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. 152 SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER XV. EARLY COACHES. E have often wondered how many months' incessant travel- ling 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 mis- creant, 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, chamber- maids, 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 EARLY COACHES. 153 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 unim- portance 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 trem- blingly 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 154 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 candle-light. If you ever doubted the fact, you are pain- fully 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 astonish- ing rapidity, to every figure on the dial-plate. At last, com- pletely 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 al] the skill and smartness of an experienced whip — the next you are exhibiting, d la Ducrow, on the off leader ; anon you are closely mufiled 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 EARLY COACHES. 155 up in bed. The vision is at once dispelled ; the trunk-maker's shop is your own bedroom, and the other apprentice your shiver- ing 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 care- fully 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 housetops 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 care- SKETCHES BY BOZ. fully 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 wist- fully up the yard for the Birmingham High-flier, which, for aught you can see, may have flown away altogether, for no pre- parations 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 com- fortable by contrast — that is to say, if any place can look comfortable at l;alf-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 EARLY COACHES. 157 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 pas- sengers 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 appear- ance 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 way-bill 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 158 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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. OMNIBUSES. 159 CHAPTER XVI. OMNIBUSES. TT 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 the 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 i6o SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 pro- fession with unabated ardour. His principal distinction is his OMNIBUSES. 161 activity. His great boast is, " that lie 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 impres- sion 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 very 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." Ketreat 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 dis- regard 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. l62 SKETCHES BY BOZ. "Now, what are you stopping for?" says the little old man every morning, the moment there is the slightest indication of " pulling up " at the corner of Eegent 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 busi- ness to do so. Why are you stopping ?" " Vy, sir, that's a difficult question. I think it is because we prefer stopping here to going on." " Now mind," exclaims the little old man, with great vehe- mence, " 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 ; — " wery 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 opposi- tion 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 OMNIBUSES. rattle off, the other omnibus rattles after us, and every time we stop to take up a passenger, they stop to take him too ; some- times 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, wo 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 new-comers 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 Farringdoh Street, the little old gentleman grumbles, and sug- gests to the latter, that if he had got out at Shoe Lane too, he would have saved them the delay of another stoppage ; where- upon 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. M 2 164 SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER XVII. THE LAST CAB-DRIVER, AND THE FIRST OMNIBUS CAD. ,F all the cabriolet-drivers whom we 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 dimen- sions 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 con- templative 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. THE LAST CAB-DRIVER. I6 5 Our fondness for that red cab was unbounded. How we should have liked to see 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 imme- diately 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 1 66 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 prin- cipal 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 ray ther sweet, an't he V — ' He just is,' ses the other gen'lm'n, ven bump they comes 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 astonish- ing. 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 THE LAST CAB-DRIVER. 1 67 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 waist- coat 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 loquaciaus little gentle- man in a green coat. Poor fellow ! there were great excuses to be made for him : he had not received above eighteen-pence 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, i68 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 than 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, lodgm, and wash in', 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 THE LAST CAB-DRIVER. 1 69 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 stand- ing 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 sup- pose?" — "Veil, sir," rejoined the waterman, with a smile of immovable complacency, "that's worth twopence." This 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 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 parlia- mentary course ? Impossible. We at once avow a similar inability to record at what precise period, or by what particular process, this gentleman's patro- nymic 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 nattering 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 THE FIRST OMNIBUS CAD. 171 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. JBarker 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 men- tioned, 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 curb-stone, 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 172 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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. Eumours 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 com- promised 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 ex- traordinary 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 THE FIRST OMNIBUS CAD. 173 might make an attempt to get into it ; a humorous ana 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 igno- miniously 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 174 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 1 ' 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 occasion- ally 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 pro- fession 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 are fast dis- appearing. 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. .A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH. 175 CHAPTER XYIII. A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH. TI7E 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 own personal peace and com- fort — we have determined to attempt the description. Dis- missing 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 176 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 con- servator 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 expos- tulates 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 ca^i you ask such questions, sir?" replies the func- tionary, 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. A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH. 177 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 down-stairs, 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 para- lysed 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 N i 7 8 SKETCHES BY BOZ. beg of you!" shouts the zealous officer, turning back and pre- ceding 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 com- municated 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 bur- lesque 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 unfre- quently 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 con- A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH. 179 gregated 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' Or say 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, grey 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 neckerchief tied in a great bow, with strag- gling 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 impos- sible that a man can say anything worth hearing, unless he has sat in the House for fifteen years at least, without saying any- thing 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, N 2 i8o SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH. 181 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 cir- cumstances, you may return home thoroughly satisfied that the place must be remarkably full indeed.*" Ketracing 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 unim- portant 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, o-ing, questioning, or groaning ; presenting a conglomeration of noise and confusion, to be met with in no other place in existence, * This paper was written before the practice of exhibiting Members of Parliament, like other curiosities, for the small charge of half-a-crown, was abolished. l82 SKETCHES BY BOZ. not even excepting Smithfield on a market-day, or a cockpit 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 com- forts ; 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 con- scientiously 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 A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH. 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 Perceval, 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 Eeform 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. 184 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 uncon- stitutional. 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 Milbank 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 band- box ever since the last session. There he is, at his old post every night, just as we have described him : and, as cha- racters 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. A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH. 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 con- sequently had no more opportunities of writing to the news- papers to relate how, by way of preserving pictures, he cut SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 some- thing the young Member near her mutters somewhat unin- telligibly 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 con- straint, 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 PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH. I8 7 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 appear- ance, 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 com- plete 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. i88 SKETCHES BY BOZ, 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, every- body 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 remark- ably special, to be sure, and we have heard some hard-hearted monsters grumble at the collection ; but we really think the amusement to be derived from the occasion, sufficient to counter- balance even these disadvantages. Let us suppose you are induced to attend a dinner of this description — " Indigent Orphans' Friends' Benevolent Institu- tion," we think it is. The name of the charity is a line or two longer, but never mind the rest. You have a distinct recollec- tion, 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 ///'///> _ /y//{ //r /,j PUBLIC DINNERS. 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 remark- ably 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 dis- tinguished 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 with- out 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 j tables, at very respectable distances ; melancholy-looking salt- I 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 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 some- what 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 grey 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, PUBLIC DINNERS. I 9 I 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 substantiate disappear — moulds of jelly vanish like lightning — hearty eaters wipe their foreheads, and appear rather overcome with 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-too- ing 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 192 SKETCHES BY BOZ. uninitiated portion of the guests applaud Non nobis as vehe- mently 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 £25, 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 PUBLIC DINNERS. 193 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, curtsying, 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 vehe- mence of their approbation]. Lady Fitz Binkle, in addition to o 194 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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. THE FIRST OF MAY. 195 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. fjlHE first of May ! There is a merry freshness in the sound, calling to our minds a thousand thoughts of all that is pleasant and beautiful in nature, 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 o 2 196 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 asso- ciations 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 Kiot Act ; and pastoral simplicity is not under- stood 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 certainty, because, though sweeps are very good fellows in their way, and moreover very useful in a civil- ised community, they are not exactly the sort of people to give the tone to the little elegances of society. The sweeps, how- ever, 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. THE FIRST OF MAY. 197 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 com- pany 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 mar- vellous, 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 unchange- able 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 198 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 sup- port 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 wretched 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 THE FIRST OF MAY. 1 99 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 Pan-pipes, 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 inno- vation, 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 as 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. Slulfen, of Adam and Eve Court, 200 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 veil 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 bisness, and the bread out o' the traps o' their preshus kids, by a' makin' o' this here remark, as chimblies could be as veil svept by 'sheenery as by boys ; and that the makin' use o' boys for that there purpuss vos babareous ; 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 veil as 'sheenery vos vus nor o' no use : and as to kerhewelty to the boys, everybody in the chimbley line know'd as veil 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 dust- men with throwing what they ought to clear away, into the eyes of the public. We accuse scavengers, brickmakers, and gentle- THE FIRST OF MAY. 201 men 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 Maiden Lane, with the inten- tion of passing through the extensive colony lying between it and Battle Bridge, which is inhabited by proprietors of donkey- carts, boilers of horseflesh, 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 202 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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, touch- ing 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 THE FIRST OF MAY. 203 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 per- sonage 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 partv so miserable. How has May-day decayed ! 204 SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER XXI brokers' and marine-store shops. "^YTHEN 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, embel- lished 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 con- jecture 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, BROKERS' AND MARINE-STORE SHOPS. 20$ 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 bookcase ; 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 gen- tility — 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 form 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 206 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 dif- ferent 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 0, which has once held a mirror ; a flute, complete with the exception of the middle joint ; a pair of curl- ing irons ; and a tinder-box. In front of the shop-window are ranged some half-dozen high-backed chairs, with spinal com- plaints 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 with- out 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 inscrip- tion " 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, brokers' and marine-store shops. 207 a dramatic character. The errand-boys and chandlers-shop- keepers' sons are all stage-struck : they " get 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 con- sequence is, that there is not a marine-store shop in the neigh- bourhood, 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 super- numeraries, 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 to it 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 208 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 Eules." How different, and how strikingly illustrative of the decay of some of the unfortunate residents in this part of the metropolis I Imprisonment and neglect have done their work. There is contamination in the profligate denizens of a debtors' j)rison ; 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 con- dition ; 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 BROKERS' AND MARINE-STORE SHOPS. 209 are, thrown carelessly together until a purchaser presents him- self, 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. p 2 10 SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER XXII. GIN-SHOPS. TT is a remarkable circumstance, that different trades appear A to partake of the disease to which elephants and dogs are especially liable, and to run stark, staring, raving mad, periodi- cally. 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 1 GIN-SHOPS. 211 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 fortu- nately discovered, just in time, that the Commissioners of Bank- ruptcy were as competent to decide such cases as the Commis- sioners 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 among 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 conca- tenation 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 tho ''Bottle Department ;" a third to the "Wholesale Department;" a fourth to "The Wine Promenade ;" and so forth, until we are in daily expecta- p 2 212 SKETCHES BY BOZ. tion 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, Co vent Garden, and Clare Market, are the handsomest in London. There is more of filth and squalid misery near those great thoroughfares 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" GIN-SHOPS. 213 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 orna- mented 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 a little bench 214 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 com- panions, 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 ain't Mary, as it happens," says the young girl, rather relaxing as she delivers the change. " Well, if it ain't, it ought to be," responds the irresistible one ; "all the Marys as ever / see, was handsome gals." Here the young lady, not precisely remem- bering 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. GIN-SHOPS. 215 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 after- wards. 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 ; for- getting, 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 2l6 SKETCHES BY BOZ. splendour. If Temperance Societies would suggest an anti- dote 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. THE PAWNBROKER'S SHOP. 217 CHAPTER XXIII. THE PAWNBROKER'S SHOP. (XF 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 pawn- brokers' 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 aris- tocratic 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 silversmith, 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 accom- modation of such customers as may be desirous of avoiding the 2l8 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 con- templated 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 astonish- ment 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 THE PAWNBROKER'S SHOP. 2IQ snuff-boxes, with a masonic star, complete the jewellery depart- ment ; 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 car- penters' 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. 220 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 afeerd 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 wery same blessed day as he broke his arm." " What THE PAWNBROKER'S SHOP. 221 do you want upon these ?" inquires Mr. Henry, slightly glancing at the articles, which in all probability are old acquaint- ances. "What do you want upon these?" — " Eighteen- pence." — " 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, com- municates 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 stagger 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 the 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 your- self!" 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 ; 222 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 con- temptuously. " 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. " An'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 yo*ung '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 no thin', because she likes the wretch after 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 grey 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 THE PAWNBROKER'S SHOP. 22J 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 crea- ture %ing 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 ; 224 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 mis- taken. 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. THE PAWNBROKER'S SHOP. 225 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 ! Q 226' SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER XXIV. CRIMINAL COURTS. TTrE shall never forget the mingled feelings of awe and respect " * with which we used to gaze on the exterior of Newgate in our school-boy 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 bond 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 dread- ful 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 CRIMINAL COURTS. 227 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 hand- kerchief 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 prede- cessor, and two or three more turnkeys, who look like multipli- cations 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. Badcliffe. 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 with- out 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 connections ; 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 q 2 228 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 sun-light ; 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 CRIMINAL COURTS. 2 29 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 fore- head, 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 ease like this, could be as com- plete 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 230 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 wit- nesses at the very top of his voice ; for you hear his cry grow fainter and fainter as he descends the steps into the courtyard 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 ho wen 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 CRIMINAL COURTS. 23 1 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, con- gratulating himself on having succeeded in giving everybody as much trouble as possible. SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER XXY. A VISIT TO NEWGATE. " rpHE force of habit " is a trite phrase in everybody's mouth ; - L 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 parti- cular 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. Con- tact with death even in its least terrible shape, is solemn and appalling. How much more awful is it to reflect on this near A VISIT TO NEWGATE. 233 vicinity to the (lying — 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, never- theless — 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 commit- tees, 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 234 SKETCHES BY BOZ. suit of black, who, but for bis 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 par- ticular, 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 A VISIT TO NEWGATE. 235 yards, with the exception of that in which prisoners under sen- tence 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 talk- ing in that low, stifled tone of voice which tells so forcibly of mental anguish ; and every now and then burst into an irre- pressible sharp, abrupt cry of grief, the most distressing sound 236 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 miser- able 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. A VISIT TO NEWGATE. 237 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 child- hood, 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, how- ever 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 pro- portion 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 238 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 fire-place 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 fire-place. 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 com- panions 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 con- ducted on their first reception, and whence they cannot be A VISIT TO NEWGATE^ 239 removed until they have been examined by the surgeon of the prison.'' 5 " Ketracing 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 any- thing 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 dis- agreeable 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 * The regulations of the prison relative to the confinement of prisoners during the day, their sleeping at night, their taking their meals, and other matters of gaol economy, have been all altered — greatly for the better — since this sketch was first published. 240 ^ SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 sec their wives, but its con- struction 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 pl ace — 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 A VISIT TO NEWGATE. 241 been accustomed to, only enhances the impression. The mean- ness 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 atten- tion 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 ofliciating 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 R SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 sur- rounded by lofty walls guarded by chevaux de frise ; and the whole is under the constant inspection of vigilant and expe- rienced 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 sen- A VISIT TO NEWGATE. 243 tence 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 youth- ful 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 brood- ing 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 R 2 244 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 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 com- municated 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 widely 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. * 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 staircase 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 * These two men were executed shortly afterwards, during her Majesty's pleasure. The other was respited A VISIT TO NEWGATE. 245 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 madness, and an overwhelming sense of his helpless, hopeless state rushes upon him, he is lost and stupefied, and has neither thoughts to turn to, nor power to call upon, the Almighty Being, from whom alone he can seek mercy and forgiveness, and before whom his repentance can alone avail. Hours have glided by, and still he sits upon the same stone bench with folded arms, heedless alike of the fast-decreasing 246 SKETCHES BY BOZ. time before him, and the urgent entreaties of the good man at his side. The feeble light is wasting gradually, and the death- like stillness of the street without, broken only by the rumbling of some passing vehicle which echoes mournfully through the empty yards, warns him that the night is waning fast away. The deep bell of St. Paul's strikes — one ! He heard it ; it has roused him. Seven hours left ! He paces the narrow limits of his cell with rapid strides, cold drops of terror starting on his forehead, and every muscle of his frame quiver- ing with agony. Seven hours ! He suffers himself to be led to his seat, mechanically takes the Bible which is placed in his hand, and tries to read and listen. No : his thoughts will wander. The book is torn and soiled by use — and like the book he read his lessons in, at school, just forty years ago ! He has never bestowed a thought upon it, perhaps, since he left it as a child : and yet the place, the time, the room — nay, the very boys he played with, crowd as vividly before him as if they were scenes of yesterday ; and some forgotten phrase, some childish word, rings in his ears like the echo of one uttered but a minute since. The voice of the clergyman recalls him to himself. He is reading from the sacred book its solemn promises of pardon for repentance, and its awful denunciation of obdurate men. He falls upon his knees and clasps his hands to pray. Hush ! what sound was that ? He starts upon his feet. It cannot be two yet. Hark ! Two quarters have struck ; — the third — 'the fourth. It is ! Six hours left. Tell him not of repentance ! Six hours' repentance for eight times six years of guilt and sin ! He buries his face in his hands, and throws himself on the bench. Worn with watching and excitement, he sleeps, and the same unsettled state of mind pursues him in his dreams. An insup- portable load is taken from his breast ; he is walking with his wife in a pleasant field, with the bright sky above them, and a fresh and boundless prospect on every side — how different from the stone walls of Newgate I She is looking — not as she A VISIT TO NEWGATE. 247 did when he saw her for the last time in that dreadful place, but as she used when he loved her — long, long ago, before misery and ill-treatment had altered her looks, and vice had changed his nature, and she is leaning upon his arm, and looking up into his face with tenderness and affection — and he does not strike her now, nor rudely shake her from him And oh ! how glad he is to tell her all he had forgotten in that last hurried interview, and to fall on his knees before her and fervently beseech her pardon for all the unkindness and cruelty that wasted her form and broke her heart ! The scene sud- denly changes. He is on his trial again : there are the judge and jury, and prosecutors, and witnesses, just as they were before. How full the court is — what a sea of heads — with a gallows, too, and a scaffold — and how all those people stare at him I Verdict, " Guilty." No matter ; he will escape. The night is dark and cold, the gates have been left open, and in an instant he is in the street, flying from the scene of his imprisonment like the wind. The streets are cleared, the open fields are gained, and the broad wide country lies before him. Onward he dashes in the midst of darkness, over hedge and ditch, through mud and pool, bounding from spot to spot with a speed and lightness astonishing even to himself. At length he pauses ; he must be safe from pursuit now ; he will stretch himself on that bank and sleep till sunrise. A period of unconsciousness succeeds. He wakes, cold and wretched. The dull grey light of morning is stealing into the cell, and falls upon the form of the attendant turnkey. Con- fused by his dreams, he starts from his uneasy bed in moment- ary uncertainty. It is but momentary. Every object in the narrow cell is too frightfully real to admit of doubt or mistake. He is the condemned felon again, guilty and despairing ; and in two hours more will be dead. 248 SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHARACTERS, CHAPTER I. THOUGHTS ABOUT PEOPLE. TT is strange with how little notice, good, bad, or indifferent, a man may live and die in London. He awakens no sympathy in the breast of any single person ; his existence is a matter of interest to no one save himself ; he cannot be said to be forgotten when he dies, for no one remembered him when he was alive. There is a numerous class of people in this great metropolis who seem not to possess a single friend, and whom nobody appears to care for. Urged by imperative necessity in the first instance, they have resorted to London in search of employment, and the means of subsistence. It is hard, we know, to break the ties which bind us to our homes and friends, and harder still to efface the thousand recollections of happy days and old times, which have been slumbering in our bosoms for years, and only rush upon the mind, to bring before it associations connected with the friends we have left, the scenes we have beheld too probably for the last time, and the hopes we once cherished, but may entertain no more. These men, however, happily for themselves, have long forgotten such thoughts. Old country friends have died or emigrated ; former correspondents have become lost, like themselves, in the crowd and turmoil of some busy city ; and they have gradually settled down into mere passive creatures of habit arid endurance. THOUGHTS ABOUT PEOPLE. 249 Wo were seated in the enclosure of St. James's Park the other day, when our attention was attracted by a man whom we immediately put down in our own mind as one of this class. He was a tall, thin, pale person, in a black coat, scanty grey trousers, little pinched-up gaiters, and brown beaver gloves. He had an umbrella in his hand — not for use, for the day was fine — but, evidently, because he always carried one to the office in the morning. He walked up and down before the little patch of grass on which the chairs are placed for hire, not as if he were doing it for pleasure or recreation, but as if it were a matter of compulsion, just as he would walk to the office every morning from the back settlements of Islington. It was Monday ; he had escaped for four-and-twenty hours from the thraldom of the desk ; and was walking here for exercise and amusement — perhaps for the first time in his life. We were inclined to think he had never had a holiday before, and that he did not know what to do with himself. Children were playing on the grass ; groups of people were loitering about, chatting and laughing ; but the man walked steadily up and down, unheeding and unheeded, his spare pale face looking as if it were incapable of bearing the expression of curiosity or interest. There was something in the man's manner and appearance which told us, we fancied, his whole life, or rather his whole day, for a man of this sort has no variety of days. We thought we almost saw the dingy little back-office into which he walks every morning, hanging his hat on the same peg, and placing his legs beneath the same desk : first, taking off that black coat which lasts the year through, and putting on the one which did duty last year, and which he keeps in his desk to save the other. There he sits till five o'clock, working on, all day, as regularly as the dial over the mantel-piece, whose loud ticking is as monotonous as his whole existence : only raising his head when some one enters the counting-house, or when, in the midst of some difficult calculation, he looks up to the ceiling 250 SKETCHES BY BOZ. as if there were inspiration in the dusty skylight with a green knot in the centre of every pane of glass. About five, or half- past, he slowly dismounts from his accustomed stool, and again changing his coat, proceeds to his usual dining-place, some- where near Bucklersbury. The waiter recites the bill of fare in a rather confidential manner — for he is a regular customer — and after inquiring " What's in the best cut ?" and " What was up last ?" he orders a small plate of roast beef, with greens, and half a pint of porter. He has a small plate to-day, because greens are a penny more than potatoes, and he had "two breads " yesterday, with the additional enormity of " a cheese " the day before. This important point settled, he hangs up his hat — he took it off the moment he sat down — and bespeaks the paper after the next gentleman. If he can get it while he is at dinner, he eats with much greater zest ; balancing it against the water-bottle, and eating a bit of beef, and reading a line or two, alternately. Exactly at five minutes before the hour is up, he produces a shilling, pays the reckoning, carefully deposits the change in his waistcoat pocket (first deducting a penny for the waiter), and returns to the office, from which, if it is not foreign post night, he again sallies forth in about half an hour. He then walks home, at his usual pace, to his little back-room at Islington, where he has his tea ; perhaps solacing himself during the meal with the conversation of his landlady's little boy, whom he occasionally rewards with a penny, for solving problems in simple addition. Sometimes, there is a letter or two to take up to his employer's in Russell Square ; and then, the wealthy man of business, hearing his voice, calls out from the dining-parlour, — " Come in, Mr. Smith ;" and Mr. Smith, putting his hat at the feet of one of the hall chairs, walks timidly in, and being condescendingly desired to sit down, carefully tucks his legs under his chair, and sits at a consider- able distance from the table while he drinks the glass of sherry which is poured out for him by the eldest boy, and after drinking which, he backs and slides out of the room, in a state THOUGHTS ABOUT PEOPLE. of nervous agitation from which he does not perfectly recover, until he finds himself once more in the Islington Road. Poor, harmless creatures such men are ; contented but not happy ; broken-spirited and humbled, they may feel no pain, but they never know pleasure. Compare these men with another class of beings who, like them, have neither friend nor companion, but whose position in society is the result of their own choice. These are generally old fellows with white heads and red faces, addicted to port wine and Hessian boots, who from some cause, real or imaginary — generally the former, the excellent reason being that they are rich, and their relations poor — grow suspicious of everybody, and do the misanthropical in chambers, taking great delight in , thinking themselves unhappy, and making everybody they come 1 near, miserable. You may see such men as these, anywhere ; you will know them at coffee-houses by their discontented ex- clamations and the luxury of their dinners ; at theatres, by their always sitting in the same place and looking with a jaundiced eye on all the young people near them ; at church, by the pomposity with which they enter, and the loud tone in which they repeat the responses ; at parties, by their getting cross at whist and hating music. An old fellow of this kind will have his chambers splendidly furnished, and collect books, plate, and pictures about him in profusion ; not so much for his own gratification, as to be superior to those who have the desire, but not the means, to compete with him. He belongs to two or three clubs, and is envied, and flattered, and hated by the members of them all. Sometimes he will be appealed to by a poor relation — a married nephew perhaps — for some little assistance : and then he will declaim with honest indignation on the improvidence of young married people, the worthlessness of a wife, the insolence of having a family, the atrocity of getting into debt with a hundred and twenty-five pounds a year, and other unpardonable crimes ; winding up his exhorta- tions with a complacent review of his own conduct, and a SKETCHES BY BOZ. delicate allusion to parochial relief. He dies, some day after dinner, of apoplexy, having bequeathed his property to a Public Society, and the Institution erects a tablet to his memory, expressive of their admiration of his Christian conduct in this world, and their comfortable conviction of his happiness in the next. But, next to our very particular friends, hackney coachmen, cabmen, and cads, whom we admire in proportion to the extent of their cool impudence and perfect self-possession, there is no class of people who amuse us more than London apprentices. They are no longer an organised body, bound down by solemn compact to terrify his Majesty's subjects whenever it pleases them to take offence in their heads and staves in their hands. They are only bound, now, by indentures ; and, as to their valour, it is easily restrained by the wholesome dread of the New Police, and a perspective view of the damp station-house, terminating in a police-office and a reprimand. They are still, however, a peculiar class, and not the less pleasant for being inoffensive. Can any one fail to have noticed them in the streets on Sunday ? And were there ever such harmless efforts at the grand and magnificent as the young fellows display ? We walked down the Strand, a Sunday or two ago, behind a little group ; and they furnished food for our amusement the whole way. They had come out of some part of the City ; it was between three and four o'clock in the afternoon ; and they were on their way to the Park. There were four of them, all arm-in-arm, with white kid gloves like so many bridegrooms, light trousers of unprecedented patterns, and coats for which the English language has yet no name — a kind of cross between a great- coat and a surtout, with the collar of the one, the skirts of the other, and pockets peculiar to themselves. Each of the gentlemen carried a thick stick, with a large tassel at the top, which he occasionally twirled gracefully round ; and the whole four, by way of looking easy and unconcerned, were walking with a paralytic swagger irresistibly ludicrous. THOUGHTS ABOUT PEOPLE. 253 One of the party had a watch about the size and shape of a reasonable Bibstone pippin, jammed into his waistcoat pocket, which he carefully compared with the clocks at St. Clement's and the New Church, the illuminated clock at Exeter 'Change, the clock of St. Martin's Church, and the clock of the Horse Guards. When they at last arrived in St. James's Park, the member of the party who had the best made boots on, hired a second chair expressly for his feet, and flung himself on this twopennyworth of sylvan luxury with an air which levelled all distinctions between Brookes's and Snooks's, Crockford's and Bagnigge Wells. We may smile at such people, but they can never excite our anger. They are usually on the best terms with themselves, and it follows almost as a matter of course, in good-humour with every one about them. Besides, they are always the faint reflection of higher lights ; and, if they do display a little occasional foolery in their own proper persons, it is surely more tolerable than precocious puppyism in the Quadrant, whiskered dandyism in Regent Street and Pall Mall, or gallantry in its dotage anywhere. *54 SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER II. A CHRISTMAS DINNER. /CHRISTMAS time ! That man must be a misanthrope indeed, ^ in whose breast something like a jovial feeling is not roused — in whose mind some pleasant associations are not awakened — by the recurrence of Christmas. There are people who will tell you that Christmas is not to them what it used to be ; that each succeeding Christmas has found some cherished hope, or happy prospect, of the year before, dimmed or passed away ; that the present only serves to remind them of reduced cir- cumstances and straitened incomes — of the feasts they once bestowed on hollow friends, and of the cold looks that meet them now, in adversity and misfortune. Never heed such dismal reminiscences. There are few men who have lived long enough in the world, who cannot call up such thoughts any day in the year. Then do not select the merriest of the three hundred and sixty-five for your doleful recollections, but draw your chair nearer the blazing fire — fill the glass and send round the song — and if your room be smaller than it was a dozen years ago, or if your glasses be filled with reeking punch, instead of sparkling wine, put a good face on the matter, and empty it off-hand, and fill another, and troll off the old ditty you used to sing, and thank God it's no worse. Look on the merry faces of your children (if you have any) as they sit round the fire. One little seat may be empty ; one slight form that gladdened the father's heart, and roused the mother's pride to look upon, may not be there. Dwell not upon the past ; think not that one short year ago, the fair child now resolving into A CHRISTMAS DINNER. 255 dust, sat before you, with the bloom of health upon its cheek, and the gaiety of infancy in its joyous eye. Reflect upon your present blessings — of which every man has many — not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some. Fill your glass again, with a merry face and contented heart. Our life on it, but your Christmas shall be merry, and your new year a happy one ! Who can be insensible to the outpourings of good feeling, and the honest interchange of affectionate attachment, which abound at this season of the year ? A Christmas family-party ! We know nothing in nature more delightful ! There seems a magic in the very name of Christmas. Petty jealousies and discords are forgotten ; social feelings are awakened, in bosoms to which they have long been strangers ; father and son, or brother and sister, who have met and passed with averted gaze, or a look of cold recognition, for months before, proffer and return the cordial embrace, and bury their past animosities in their present happiness. Kindly hearts that have yearned towards each other, but have been withheld by false notions of pride and self-dignity, are again reunited, and all is kind- ness and benevolence ! Would that Christmas lasted the whole year through (as it ought), and that the prejudices and passions which deform our better nature, were never called into action among those to whom they should ever be strangers ! The Christmas family-party that we mean is not a mere assemblage of relations, got up at a week or two's notice, originating this year, having no family precedent in the last, and not likely to be repeated in the next. No. It is an annual gathering of all the accessible members of the family, young or old, rich or poor ; and all the children look forward to it, for two months beforehand, in a fever of anticipation. Formerly it was held at grandpapa's ; but grandpapa getting old, and grandmamma getting old too, and rather infirm, they have given up housekeeping, and domesticated themselves with uncle George ; so, the party always takes place at uncle George's 256 SKETCHES BY BOZ. house, but grandmamma sends in most of the good things, and grandpapa always will toddle down, all the way to Newgate Market, to buy the turkey, which he engages a porter to bring home behind him in triumph, always insisting on the man's being rewarded with a glass of spirits, over and above his hire, to drink " a merry Christmas and a happy new year " to aunt George. As to grandmamma, she is very secret and mysterious for two or three days beforehand, but not sufficiently so to pre- vent rumours getting afloat that she has purchased a beautiful new cap with pink ribbons for each of the servants, together with sundry books, and penknives, and pencil-cases, for the younger branches ; to say nothing of divers secret additions to the order originally given by aunt George at the pastrycook's, such as another dozen of mince-pies for the dinner, and a large plum-cake for the children. On Christmas-eve, grandmamma is always in excellent spirits, and after employing all the children, during the day, in stoning the plums, and all that, insists, regularly every year, on uncle George coming down into the kitchen, taking off his coat, and stirring the pudding for half an hour or so, which uncle George good-humouredly does to the vociferous delight of the children and servants. The evening concludes with a glorious game of blind-man's-buff, in an early stage of which grandpapa takes great care to be caught, in order that he may have an oppor- tunity of displaying his dexterity. On the following morning, the old couple, with as many of the children as the pew will hold, go to church in great state : leaving aunt George at home dusting decanters and filling castors, and uncle George carrying bottles into the dining- parlour, and calling for corkscrews, and getting into every- body's way. When the church-party return to lunch, grandpapa produces a small sprig of mistletoe from his pocket, and tempts the boys to kiss their little cousins under it — a proceeding which affords both the boys and the old gentleman unlimited satisfaction, A CHRISTMAS DINNER. 257 but which rather outrages grandmamma's ideas of decorum, until grandpapa says, that when he was just thirteen years and three months old, he kissed grandmamma under the mistletoe too, on which the children clap their hands, and laugh very heartily, as do aunt George and uncle George ; and grand- mamma looks pleased, and says, with a benevolent smile, that grandpapa was an impudent young dog, on which the children laugh very heartily again, and grandpapa more heartily than any of them. But all these diversions are nothing to the subsequent excite- ment when grandmamma in a high cap, and slate-coloured silk gown ; and grandpapa with a beautifully plaited shirt-frill, and white neckerchief; seat themselves on one side of the drawing- room fire, with uncle George's children and little cousins innu- merable, seated in the front, waiting the arrival of the expected visitors. Suddenly a hackney coach is heard to stop, and uncle George, who has been looking out of the window, exclaims "Here's Jane!" on which the children rush to the door, and helter-skelter down-stairs ; and uncle Eobert and aunt Jane, and the dear little baby, and the nurse, and the whole party, are ushered up-stairs amidst tumultuous shouts of "Oh, my!" from the children, and frequently repeated warnings not to hurt baby from the nurse. And grandpapa takes the child, and grandmamma kisses her daughter, and the confusion of this first entry has scarcely subsided, when some other aunts and uncles with more cousins arrive, and the grown-up cousins flirt with each other, and so do the little cousins too, for that matter, and nothing is to be heard but a confused din of talking, laugh- ing, and merriment. A hesitating double knock at the street-door, heard during a momentary pause in the conversation, excites a general inquiry of "Who's that?" and two or three children, who have been standing at the window, announce in a low voice, that it's " poor aunt Margaret." Upon which aunt George leaves the room to welcome the new-comer ; and grandmamma draws herself up, s SKETCHES BY BOZ. rather stiff and stately ; for Margaret married a poor man with- out her consent, and poverty not being a sufficiently weighty punishment for her offence, has been discarded by her friends, and debarred the society of her dearest relatives. But Christmas has come round, and the unkind feelings that have struggled against better dispositions during the year, have melted away before its genial influence, like half-formed ice beneath the morning sun. It is not difficult in a moment of angry feeling for a parent to denounce a disobedient child ; but, to banish her at a period of general good-will and hilarity, from the hearth, round which she has sat on so many anniversaries of the same day, expanding by slow degrees from infancy to girlhood, and then bursting, almost imperceptibly, into a woman, is widely different. The air of conscious rectitude, and cold forgiveness, which the old lady has assumed, sits ill upon her ; and when the poor girl is led in by her sister, pale in looks and broken in hope — not from poverty, for that she could bear, but from the consciousness of undeserved neglect, and unmerited unkindness — it is easy to see how much of it is assumed. A momentary pause succeeds ; the girl breaks suddenly from her sister and throws herself, sobbing, on her mother's neck. The father steps hastily forward, and takes her husband's hand. Friends crowd round to offer their hearty congratulations, and happiness and harmony again prevail. As to the dinner, it's perfectly delightful — nothing goes wrong, and everybody is in the very best of spirits, and disposed to please and be pleased. Grandpapa relates a circumstantial account of the purchase of the turkey, with a slight digression relative to the purchase of previous turkeys, on former Christ- mas-days, which grandmamma corroborates in the minutest particular. Uncle George tells stories, and carves poultry, and takes wine, and jokes with the children at the side-table, and winks at the cousins that are making love, or being made love to, and exhilarates everybody with his good-humour and hos- pitality ; and when, at last, a stout servant staggers in with a A CHRISTMAS DINNER. 259 gigantic pudding, with a sprig of holly in the top, there is such a laughing, and shouting, and clapping of little chubby hands, and kicking up of fat dumpy legs, as can only be equalled by the applause with which the astonishing feat of pouring lighted brandy into mince-pies is received by the younger visitors. Then the dessert ! — and the wine and the fun ! Such beautiful speeches, and such songs, from aunt Margaret's hus- band, who turns out to be such a nice man, and so attentive to grandmamma ! Even grandpapa not only sings his annual song with unprecedented vigour, but on being honoured with an unanimous encore, according to annual custom, actually comes out with a new one which nobody but grandmamma ever heard before ; and a young scapegrace of a cousin, who has been in some disgrace with the old people, for certain heinous sins of omission and commission — neglecting to call, and persisting in drinking Burton ale — astonishes everybody into convulsions of laughter by volunteering the most extraordinary comic songs that ever were heard. And thus the evening passes, in a strain of rational good- will and cheerfulness, doing more to awaken the sympathies of every member of the party in behalf of his neighbour, and to perpetuate their good feeling during the ensuing year, than half the homilies that have ever been written, by half the Divines that have ever lived. 260 SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER III THE NEW YEAR. "VTEXT to Christmas-day, the most pleasant annual epoch in existence is the advent of the New Year. There are a lachrymose set of people who usher in the New Year with watching and fasting, as if they were bound to attend as chief mourners at the obsequies of the old one. Now, we cannot but think it a great deal more complimentary, both to the old year that has rolled away, and to the New Year that is just begin- ning to dawn upon us, to see the old fellow out, and the new one in, with gaiety and glee. There must have been some few occurrences in the past year to which we can look back with a smile of cheerful recollection, if not with a feeling of heartfelt thankfulness. And we are bound by every rule of justice and equity to give the New Year credit for being a good one, until he proves himself unworthy the confidence we repose in him. This is our view of the matter ; and entertaining it, notwith- standing our respect for the old year, one of the few remaining moments of whose existence passes away with every word we write, here we are, seated by our fireside on this last night of the old year, one thousand eight hundred and thirty-six, penning this article with as jovial a face as if nothing extraordinary had happened, or was about to happen, to disturb our good- humour. Hackney coaches and carriages keep rattling up the street and down the street in rapid succession, conveying, doubtless, smartly-dressed coachfuls to crowded parties ; loud and repeated THE NEW YEAR. 261 double knocks at the house with green blinds, opposite, announce to the whole neighbournood that there's one large party in the street at all events ; and we saw through the window, and through the fog too, till it grew so thick that we rung for candles, and drew our curtains, pastrycooks' men with green boxes on their heads, and rout-furniture-warehouse carts, with cane seats and French lamps, hurrying to the numerous houses where an annual festival is held in honour of the occasion. We can fancy one of these parties, we think, as well as if we were duly dress-coated and pumped, and had just been announced at the drawing-room door. Take the house with the green blinds for instance. We know it is a quadrille party, because we saw some men taking up the front drawing-room carpet while we sat at breakfast this morn- ing, and if further evidence be required, and we must tell the truth, we just now saw one of the young ladies " doing " another of the young ladies' hair, near one of the bedroom windows, in an unusual style of splendour, which nothing else but a quadrille party could possibly justify. The master of the house with the green blinds is in a public office ; we know the fact by the cut of his coat, the tie of his neckcloth, and the self-satisfaction of his gait — the very green blinds themselves have a Somerset-House air about them. Hark ! — a cab ! That's a junior clerk in the same office ; a tidy sort of young man, with a tendency to cold and corns, who comes in a pair of boots with black cloth fronts, and brings his shoes in his coat pocket, which shoes he is at this very moment putting on in the hall. Now, he is announced by the man in the passage to another man in a blue coat, who is a dis- guised messenger from the office. The man on the first landing precedes him to the drawing- room door. " Mr. Tupple !" shouts the messenger. " How are you, Tupple ?" says the master of the house, advancing from the fire, before which he has been talking politics and airing 262 SKETCHES BY BOZ. himself. " My dear, this is Mr. Tupple (a courteous salute from the lady of the house) ; Tupple, my eldest daughter ; Julia, my dear, Mr. Tupple ; Tupple, my other daughters ; my son, sir;" Tupple rubs his hands very hard, and smiles as if it were all capital fun, and keeps constantly bowing and turning himself round, till the whole family have been introduced, when he glides into a chair at the corner of the sofa, and opens a miscel- laneous conversation with the young ladies upon the weather, and the theatres, and the old year, and the last new murder, and the balloon, and the ladies' sleeves, and the festivities of the season, and a great many other topics of small talk. More double knocks ! what an extensive party ; what an incessant hum of conversation and general sipping of coffee ! We see Tupple now, in our mind's eye, in the height of his glory. He has just handed that stout old lady's cup to the servant ; and now, he dives among the crowd of young men by the door, to intercept the other servant, and secure the muffin- plate for the old lady's daughter, before he leaves the room ; and now, as he passes the sofa on his way back, he bestows a glance of recognition and patronage upon the young ladies, as condescending and familiar as if he had known them from infancy. Charming person Mr. Tupple — perfect ladies' man — such a delightful companion, too ! Laugh ! — nobody ever understood papa's jokes half so well as Mr. Tupple, who laughs himself into convulsions at every fresh burst of facetiousness. Most delight- ful partner ! talks through the whole set ! and although he does seem at first rather gay and frivolous, so romantic and with so much feeling ! Quite a love. No great favourite with the young men, certainly, who sneer at, and affect to despise him ; but everybody knows that's only envy, and they needn't give themselves the trouble to depreciate his merits at any rate, for Ma says he shall be asked to every future dinner-party, if it's only to talk to people between the courses, and distract their attention when there's any unexpected delay in the kitchen. THE NEW YEAR. At supper, Mr. Tupple shows to still greater advantage than he has done throughout the evening, and when Pa requests every one to fill their glasses for the purpose of drinking happi- ness throughout the year, Mr. Tupple is so droll : insisting on all the young ladies having their glasses filled, notwithstanding their repeated assurances that they never can, by any possibility, think of emptying them : and subsequently begging permission to say a few words on the sentiment which has just been uttered by Pa — when he makes one of the most brilliant and poetical speeches that can possibly be imagined, about the old year and the new one. After the toast has been drunk, and when the ladies have retired, Mr. Tupple requests that every gentleman will do him the favour of filling his glass, for he has a toast to propose ; on which all the gentlemen cry "Hear! hear!" and pass the decanters accordingly : and Mr. Tupple being informed by the master of the house that they are all charged, and waiting for his toast, rises, and begs to remind the gentlemen present, how much they have been delighted by the dazzling array of elegance and beauty which the drawing-room has exhibited that night, and how their senses have been charmed, and their hearts capti- vated, by the bewitching concentration of female loveliness which that very room has so recently displayed. (Loud cries of "Hear !") Much as he (Tupple) would be disposed to deplore the absence of the ladies, on other grounds, he cannot but derive some consolation from the reflection that the very cir- cumstance of their not being present, enables him to propose a toast, which he would have otherwise been prevented from giving — that toast he begs to say is — "The Ladies!" (Great applause.) The Ladies ! among whom the fascinating daughters of their excellent host are alike conspicuous for their beauty, their accomplishments, and their elegance. He begs them to drain a bumper to " The Ladies, and a happy new year to them!" (Prolonged approbation ; above which the noise of the ladies dancing the Spanish dance among themselves, overhead, is dis- tinctly audible.) 264 SKETCHES BY BOZ. The applause consequent on this toast has scarcely subsided, when a young gentleman in a pink under-waistcoat, sitting towards the bottom of the table, is observed to grow very restless and fidgety, and to evince strong indications of some latent desire to give vent to his feelings in a speech, which the wary Tupple at once perceiving, determines to forestall by speaking himself. He, therefore, rises again, with an air of solemn importance, and trusts he may be permitted to propose another toast (unqualified approbation, and Mr. Tupple proceeds). He is sure they must all be deeply impressed with the hospitality — he may say the splendour — with which they have been that night received by their worthy host and hostess. (Unbounded applause.) Although this is the first occasion on which he has had the pleasure and delight of sitting at that board, he has known his friend Dobble long and intimately ; he has been con- nected with him in business — he wishes everybody present knew Dobble as well as he does. (A cough from the host.) He (Tupple) can lay his hand upon his (Tupple' s) heart, and declare his confident belief that a better man, a better husband, a better father, a better brother, a better son, a better relation in any relation of life, than Dobble, never existed. (Loud cries of " Hear !") They have seen him to-night in the peaceful bosom of his family : they should see him in the morning, in the trying duties of his office. Calm in the perusal of the morning papers, uncompromising in the signature of his name, dignified in his replies to the inquiries of stranger applicants, deferential in his behaviour to his superiors, majestic in his deportment to the messengers. (Cheers.) When he bears this merited testi- mony to the excellent qualities of his friend Dobble, what can he say in approaching such a subject as Mrs. Dobble ? Is it requisite for him to expatiate on the qualities of that amiable woman ? No ; he will spare his friend Dobble's feelings ; he will spare the feelings of his friend — if he will allow him to have the honour of calling him so — Mr. Dobble, junior. (Here Mr. Dobble, junior, who has been previously distending his mouth to THE NEW YEAR. 265 a considerable width, by thrusting a particularly fine orange into that feature, suspends operations, and assumes a proper appearance of intense melancholy.) He will simply say — and he is quite certain it is a sentiment in which all who hear him will readily concur — that his friend Dobble is as superior to any man he ever knew, as Mrs. Dobble is far beyond any woman he ever saw (except her daughters) ; and he will conclude by pro- posing their worthy " Host and Hostess, and may they live to enjoy many more new years I" The toast is drunk with acclamation ; Dobble returns thanks, and the whole party rejoin the ladies in the drawing-room. Young men who were too bashful to dance before supper, find tongues and partners ; the musicians exhibit unequivocal symptoms of having drunk the new year in, while the company were out ; and dancing is kept up until far in the first morning of the new year. We have scarcely written the last word of the previous sen- tence, when the first stroke of twelve peals from the neighbouring churches. There certainly — we must confess it now — is some- thing awful in the sound. Strictly speaking, it may not be more impressive now, than at any other time ; for the hours steal as swiftly on at other periods, and their flight is little heeded. But, we measure man's life by years, and it is a solemn knell that warns us we have passed another of the land- marks which stand between us and the grave. Disguise it as we may, the reflection will force itself on our minds, that when the next bell announces the arrival of a new year, we may be insensible alike of the timely warning we have so often neglected, and of all the warm feelings that glow within us now. 266 SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER IV. MISS EVANS AND THE EAGLE. TITE. SAMUEL WILKINS was a carpenter, a journeyman ^ carpenter of small dimensions, decidedly below the middle size — bordering, perhaps, upon the dwarfish. His face was round and shining, and his hair carefully twisted into the outer corner of each eye, till it formed a variety of that description of semi- curls usually known as " aggerawators." His earnings were all- sufficient for his wants, varying from eighteen shillings to one pound five, weekly — his manner undeniable — -his Sabbath waist- coats dazzling. No wonder that, with these qualifications, Samuel Wilkins found favour in the eyes of the other sex : many women have been captivated by far less substantial quali- fications. But, Samuel was proof against their blandishments, until at length his eyes rested on those of a Being for whom, from that time forth, he felt fate had destined him. He came, and conquered — proposed, and was accepted — loved, and was beloved. Mr. Wilkins "kept company" with Jemima Evans. Miss Evans (or Ivins, to adopt the pronunciation most in vogue with her circle of acquaintance) had adopted in early life the useful pursuit of shoe-binding, to which she had afterwards superadded the occupation of a straw-bonnet maker. Herself, her maternal parent, and two sisters, formed an harmonious quartett in the most secluded portion of Camden Town ; and here it was that Mr. Wilkins presented himself, one Monday afternoon, in his best attire, with his face more shining and his waistcoat more bright than either had ever appeared before. The family were just going to tea, and were so glad to see him. MISS EVANS AND THE EAGLE. 267 It was quite a little feast ; two ounces* of seven-and-sixpenny green, and a quarter of a pound of the best fresh ; and Mr. Wilkins had brought a pint of shrimps, neatly folded up in a clean Belcher, to give a zest to the meal, and propitiate Mrs. Ivins. Jemima was "cleaning herself" up-stairs ; so Mr. Samuel Wilkins sat down and talked domestic economy with Mrs. Ivins, whilst the two youngest Miss Ivinses poked bits of lighted brown paper between the bars under the kettle to make the water boil for tea. " I wos a thinking," said Mr. Samuel Wilkins, during a pause in the conversation — " I wos a thinking of taking J'mima to the Eagle to-night." — " my !" exclaimed Mrs. Ivins. " Lor ! how nice !" said the youngest Miss Ivins. " Well, I declare !" added the youngest Miss Ivins but one. " Tell J'mima to put on her white muslin, Tilly," screamed Mrs. Ivins, with motherly anxiety ; and down came J'mima herself soon afterwards in a white muslin gown carefully hooked and eyed, a little red shawl plentifully pinned, a white straw bonnet trimmed with red ribbons, a small necklace, a large pair of bracelets, Denmark satin shoes, and open-worked stockings ; white cotton gloves on her fingers, and a cambric pocket-handkerchief, carefully folded up, in her hand — all quite genteel and ladylike. And away went Miss J emima Ivins and Mr. Samuel Wilkins, and a dress- cane, with a gilt knob at the top, to the admiration and envy of the street in general, and to the high gratification of Mrs. Ivins , and the two youngest Miss Ivinses in particular. They had no sooner turned into the Pancras Koad, than who should Miss J'mima Ivins stumble upon, by the most fortunate accident in the world, but a young lady as she knew, with her young man ! — And it is so strange how things do turn out sometimes — they were actually going to the Eagle too. So Mr. Samuel Wilkins was introduced to Miss J'mima Ivins' s friend's young man, and they all walked on together, talking, and laughing, and joking away like anything; and when they got as far as Pentonville, Miss Ivins' s friend's young man would have the ladies go into the Crown, to 268 SKETCHES BY BOZ. taste some shrub, which, after a great blushing and giggling, and hiding of faces in elaborate pocket-handkerchiefs, they con- sented to do. Having tasted it once, they were easily prevailed upon to taste it again ; and they sat out in the garden tasting shrub, and looking at the Busses alternately, till it was just the proper time to go to the Eagle ; and then they resumed their journey, and walked very fast, for fear they should lose the beginning of the concert in the Rotunda. " How ev'nly !" said Miss Jemima I vins, and Miss Jemima Ivins's friend, both at once, when they had passed the gate and were fairly inside the gardens. There were the walks, beautifully gravelled and planted — and the refreshment-boxes, painted and ornamented like so many snuff-boxes — and the variegated lamps shedding their rich light upon the company's heads — and the place for dancing ready chalked for the company's feet — and a Moorish band playing at one end of the gardens — and an oppo- sition military band playing away at the other. Then, the waiters were rushing to and fro with glasses of negus, and glasses of brandy-and-water, and bottles of ale, and bottles of stout ; and ginger-beer was going off in one place, and practical jokes were going on in another ; and people were crowding to the door of the Rotunda ; and in short the whole scene, was, as Miss J'mima Ivins, inspired by the novelty, or the shrub, or both, observed — " one of dazzling excitement." As to the concert-room, never was anything half so splendid. There was an orchestra for the singers, all paint, gilding, and plate-glass ; and such an organ ! Miss J'mima Ivins's friend's young man whispered it had cost "four hundred pound," which Mr. Samuel Wilkins said was " not dear neither ; " an opinion in which the ladies perfectly coincided. The audience were seated on elevated benches round the room, and crowded into every part of it ; and everybody was eating and drinking as com- fortably as possible. Just before the concert commenced, Mr. Samuel Wilkins ordered two glasses of rum-and-water " warm with " and two slices of lemon, for himself and the other MISS EVANS AND THE EAGLE. 269 young man, together with "a pint o' sherry wine for the ladies, and some sweet caraway-seed biscuits ; " and they would have been quite comfortable and happy, only a strange gentleman with large whiskers would stare at Miss J'mima Ivins, and another gentleman in a plaid waistcoat would wink at Miss J'mima Ivins' s friend ; on which Miss J'mima Ivins' s friend's young man exhibited symptoms of boiling over, and began to mutter about "people's imperence," and "swells out o' luck;" and to intimate, in oblique terms, a vague intention of knocking somebody's head off ; which he was only prevented from announc- ing more emphatically, by both Miss J'mima Ivins and her friend threatening to faint away on the spot if he said another word. The concert commenced — overture on the organ. " How solemn!" exclaimed Miss J'mima Ivins, glancing, perhaps uncon- sciously, at the gentleman with the whiskers. Mr. Samuel Wilkins, who had been muttering apart for some time past, as if he were holding a confidential conversation with the gilt knob of the dress-cane, breathed hard — breathing vengeance, perhaps, ■ — but said nothing. " The soldier tired," Miss Somebody in white satin. "Ancore!" cried Miss J'mima Ivins's friend. "Ancore!" shouted the gentleman in the plaid waistcoat immediately, hammering the table with a stout bottle. Miss J'mima Ivins's friend's young man eyed the man behind the waistcoat from head to foot, and cast a look of interrogative contempt towards Mr. Samuel Wilkins. Comic song, accom- panied on the organ. Miss J'mima Ivins was convulsed with laughter — so was the man with the whiskers. Everything the ladies did, the plaid waistcoat and whiskers did, by way of expressing unity of sentiment and congeniality of soul ; and Miss J'mima Ivins, and Miss J'mima Ivins's friend, grew lively and talkative, as Mr. Samuel Wilkins, and Miss J'mima Ivins's friend's young man, grew morose and surly in inverse proportion. Now, if the matter had ended here, the little party might soon have recovered their former equanimity ; but Mr. Samuel Wilkins and his friend began to throw looks of defiance upon 270 SKETCHES BY BOZ. the waistcoat and whiskers. And the waistcoat and whiskers, by way of intimating the slight degree in which they were affected by the looks aforesaid, bestowed glances of increased admiration upon Miss J'mima Ivins and friend. The concert and vaudeville concluded, they promenaded the gardens. The waistcoat and whiskers did the same ; and made divers remarks complimentary to the ankles of Miss J'mima Ivins and friend, in an audible tone. At length, not satisfied with these numerous atrocities, they actually came up and asked Miss J'mima Ivins, and Miss J'mima Ivins' s friend to dance, without taking no more notice of Mr. Samuel Wilkins, and Miss J'mima Ivins's friend's young man, than if they was nobody ! ' 'What do you mean by that, scoundrel?" exclaimed Mr. Samuel Wilkins, grasping the gilt-knobbed dress-cane firmly in his right hand. " What's the matter with you, you little humbug?" replied the whiskers. "How dare you insult me and my friend ?" inquired the friend's young man. "You and your friend be hanged!" responded the waistcoat. "Take that," exclaimed Mr. Samuel Wilkins. The ferrule of the gilt- knobbed dress-cane was visible for an instant, and then the light of the variegated lamps shone brightly upon it as it whirled into the air, cane and all. " Give it him," said the waistcoat. " Horficer I" screamed the ladies. Miss J'mima Ivins's beau, and the friend's young man, lay gasping on the gravel, and the waistcoat and whiskers were seen no more. Miss J'mima Ivins and friend being conscious that the affray was in no slight degree attributable to themselves, of course went into hysterics forthwith ; declared themselves the most injured of women ; exclaimed, in incoherent ravings, that they had been suspected — wrongfully suspected — oh ! that they should ever have lived to see the day — and so forth ; suffered a relapse every time they opened their eyes and saw their unfor- tunate little admirers ; and were carried to their respective abodes in a hackney coach, and a state of insensibility, com- pounded of shrub, sherry, and excitement. THE PARLOUR ORATOR. 271 CHAPTER V. THE PARLOUR ORATOR. "TI7E had been lounging one evening, down Oxford Street, Holborn, Cheapside, Coleman Street, Finsbury Square, and so on, with the intention of returning westward, by Penton- ville and the New Road, when we began to feel rather thirsty, and disposed to rest for five or ten minutes. So, we turned back towards an old, quiet, decent public-house, which we remembered to have passed but a moment before (it was not far from the City Road), for the purpose of solacing ourself with a glass of ale. The house was none of your stuccoed, French- polished, illuminated palaces, but a modest public-house of the old school, with a little old bar, and a little old landlord, who, with a wife and daughter of the same pattern, was comfortably seated in the bar aforesaid — a snug little room with a cheerful fire, protected by a large screen : from behind which the young lady emerged on our representing our inclination for a glass of ale. "Won't you walk into the parlour, sir?" said the young lady, in seductive tones. " You had better walk into the parlour, sir," said the little old landlord, throwing his chair back, and looking round one side of the screen, to survey our appearance. " You had much better step into the parlour, sir," said the little old lady, popping out her head, on the other side of the screen. We cast a slight glance around, as if to express our ignorance of the locality so much recommended. The little old landlord 272 SKETCHES BY BOZ. observed it ; bustled out of the small door of the small bar ; and forthwith ushered us into the parlour itself. It was an ancient, dark-looking room, with oaken wainscoting, a sanded floor, and a high mantel-piece. The walls were orna- mented with three or four old coloured prints in black frames, each print representing a naval engagement, with a couple of men-of-war banging away at each other most vigorously, while another vessel or two were blowing up in the distance, and the foreground presented a miscellaneous collection of broken masts and blue legs sticking up out of the water. Depending from the ceiling in the centre of the room, were a gas-light and bell- pull ; on each side were three or four long narrow tables, behind which was a thickly-planted row of those slippery, shiny-looking wooden chairs, peculiar to hostelries of this description. The monotonous appearance of the sanded boards was relieved by an occasional spittoon ; and a triangular pile of those useful articles adorned the two upper corners of the apartment. At the furthest table, nearest the fire, with his face towards the door at the bottom of the room, sat a stoutish man of about forty, whose short, stiff, black hair curled closely round a broad high forehead,' and a face to which something besides water and exercise had communicated a rather inflamed appearance. He was smoking a cigar, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and had that confident oracular air which marked him as the leading politician, general authority, and universal anecdote-relater, of the place. He had evidently just delivered himself of some- thing very weighty ; for the remainder of the company were puffing at their respective pipes and cigars in a kind of solemn abstraction, as if quite overwhelmed with the magnitude of the subject recently under discussion. On his right hand sat an elderly gentleman with a white head, and broad-brimmed brown hat ; on his left, a sharp-nosed light-haired man in a brown surtout reaching nearly to his heels, who took a whiff at his pipe, and an admiring glance at the red-faced man, alternately. THE PARLOUR ORATOR. 273 " Very extraordinary !" said the light-haired man after a pause of five minutes. A murmur of assent ran through the company. " Not at all extraordinary — not at all," said the red-faced man, awakening suddenly from his reverie, and turning upon the light-haired man, the moment he had spoken. " Why should it be extraordinary ? — why is it extraordinary ? — prove it to .be extraordinary !" " Oh, if you come to that " said the light-haired man, meekly. " Come to that!" ejaculated the man with the red face; " but we must come to that. We stand, in these times, upon a calm elevation of intellectual attainment, and not in the dark recess of mental deprivation. Proof is what I require — proof, and not assertions, in these stirring times. Every gen'lem'n that knows me, knows what was the nature and effect of my observations, when it was in the contemplation of the Old Street Suburban Representative Discovery Society to recommend a candidate for that place in Cornwall there — I forget the name of it. 1 Mr. Snobee,' said Mr. Wilson, 4 is a fit and proper per- son to represent the borough in Parliament.' ' Prove it,' says I. 4 He is a friend to Reform,' says Mr. Wilson. ' Prove it,' says I. ' The abolitionist of the national debt, the unflinching opponent of pensions, the uncompromising advocate of the negro, the reducer of sinecures and the duration of Parliaments ; the extender of nothing but the suffrages of the people,' says Mr. Wilson. ' Prove it,' says I. ' His acts prove it," says he. ' Prove them/ says I. " And he could not prove them," said the red-faced man, looking round triumphantly ; " and the borough didn't have him ; and if you carried this principle to. the full extent, you'd have no debt, no pensions, no sinecures, no negroes, no nothing. And then, standing upon an elevation of intellectual attain- ment, and having reached the summit of popular prosperity, you might bid defiance to the nations of the earth, and T 274 SKETCHES BY BOZ. erect yourselves in the proud confidence of wisdom and superiority. This is my argument — this always has been my argument — and if I was a Member of the House of Commons to-morrow, I'd make 'em shake in their shoes with it." And the red-faced man, having struck the table very hard with his clenched fist, to add weight to the declaration, smoked away like a brewery. " Well !" said the sharp-nosed man, in a very slow and soft voice, addressing the company in general, " I always do say, that of all the gentlemen I have the pleasure of meeting in this room, there is not one whose conversation I like to hear so much as Mr. Rogers's, or who is such improving company." " Improving company !" said Mr. Rogers, for that, it seemed, was the name of the red-faced man. "You may say I am improving company, for I've improved you all to some purpose ; though as to my conversation being as my friend Mr. Ellis here describes it, that is not for me to say anything about. You, gentlemen, are the best judges on that point ; but this I will say, when I came into this parish, and first used this room, ten years ago, I don't believe there was one man in it who knew he was a slave — and now you all know it, and writhe under it. Inscribe that upon my tomb, and I am satisfied." " Why, as to inscribing it on your tomb," said a little green- grocer with a chubby face, " of course you can have anything chalked up, as you likes to pay for, so far as it relates to your- self and your affairs ; but, when you come to talk about slaves and that there abuse, you'd better keep it in the family, 'cos I for one don't like to be called them names, night after night." " You are a slave," said the red-faced man, " and the most pitiable of all slaves." "Wery hard if I am," interrupted the greengrocer, "for I got no good out of the twenty million that was paid for 'manci- pation, anyhow." " A willing slave," ejaculated the red-faced man, getting more red with eloquence, and contradiction—" resigning the dearest THE PARLOUR ORATOR. 275 birthright of your children — neglecting the sacred call of Liberty — who, standing imploringly before you, appeals to the warmest feelings of your heart, and points to your helpless infants but in vain." " Prove it," said the greengrocer. " Prove it !" sneered the man with the red face. "What ! bending beneath the yoke of an insolent and factious oligarchy ; bowed down by the domination of cruel laws ; groaning beneath tyranny and oppression on every hand, at every side, and in every corner. Prove it ? " The red-faced man abruptly broke off, sneered melodramatically, and buried his countenance and his indignation together, in a quart pot. " Ah, to be sure, Mr. Rogers," said a stout broker in a large waistcoat, who had kept his eyes fixed on this luminary all the time he was speaking. " Ah, to be sure," said the broker with a sigh, " that's the point." " Of course, of course," said divers members of the company, who understood almost as much about the matter as the broker himself. " You had better let him alone, Tommy," said the broker, by way of advice to the little greengrocer, "he can tell what's o'clock by an eight-day, without looking at the minute hand, he can. Try it on, on some other suit : it won't do with him, Tommy." "What is a man?" continued the red-faced specimen of the species, jerking his hat indignantly from its peg on the wall. " What is an Englishman ? Is he to be trampled upon by every oppressor ? Is he to be knocked down at everybody's bidding ? What's freedom ? Not a standing army. What's a standing army ? Not freedom. What's general happiness ? Not uni- versal misery. Liberty ain't the window-tax, is it ? The Lords ain't the Commons, are they ?" And the red-faced man, gradually bursting into a radiating sentence, in which such adjectives as " dastardly," " oppressive," " violent," and " san- guinary," formed the most conspicuous words, knocked his hat T 2 276 SKETCHES BY BOZ. indignantly over his eyes, left the room, and slammed the door after him. " Wonderful man !" said he of the sharp nose. " Splendid speaker !" added the broker. " Great power !" said everybody but the greengrocer. And as they said it, the whole party shook their heads mysteriously, and one by one retired, leaving us alone in the old parlour. If we had followed the established precedent in all such instances, we should have fallen into a fit of musing, without delay. The ancient appearance of the room — the old panelling of the wall — the chimney blackened with smoke and age — would have carried us back a hundred years at least, and we should have gone dreaming on, until the pewter pot on the table, or the little beer-chiller on the fire, had started into life, and addressed to us a long story of days gone by. But, by some means or other, we were not in a romantic humour ; and although we tried very hard to invest the furniture with vitality, it remained per- fectly unmoved, obstinate, and sullen. Being thus reduced to the unpleasant necessity of musing about ordinary matters, our thoughts reverted to the red-faced man, and his oratorical display. A numerous race are these red-faced men ; there is not a parlour, or club-room, or benefit society, or humble party of any kind, without its red-faced man. Weak-pated dolts they are, and a great deal of mischief they do to their cause, however good. So, just to hold a pattern one up, to know the others by, we took his likeness at once, and put him in here. And that is the reason why we have written this paper. THE HOSPITAL PATIENT. 277 CHAPTER YI. THE HOSPITAL PATIENT. TN our rambles through the streets of London after evening has set in, we often pause beneath the windows of some public hospital, and picture to ourselves the gloomy and mourn- ful scenes that are passing within. The sudden moving of a taper as its feeble ray shoots from window to window, until its light gradually disappears, as if it were carried farther back into the room to the bedside of some suffering patient, is enough to awaken a whole crowd of reflections : the mere glimmering of the low-burning lamps, which, when all other habitations are wrapped in darkness and slumber, denote the chamber where so many forms are writhing with pain, or wasting with disease, is sufficient to check the most boisterous merriment. Who can tell the anguish of those weary hours, when the only sound the sick man hears is the disjointed wanderings of some feverish slumberer near him, the low moan of pain, or perhaps the muttered, long-forgotten prayer of a dying man ? Who, but they who have felt it, can imagine the sense of loneliness and desolation which must be the portion of those who in the hour of dangerous illness are left to be tended by strangers ; for what hands, be they ever so gentle, can wipe the clammy brow, or smooth the restless bed, like those of mother, wife, or child ? Impressed with these thoughts, we have turned away, through the nearly deserted streets ; and the sight of the few miserable creatures still hovering about them, has not tended to lessen the pain which such meditations awaken. The hospital is a 278 SKETCHES BY BOZ. refuge and resting-place for hundreds, who but for such insti- tutions must die in the streets and doorways ; but what can be the feelings of some outcasts when they are stretched on the bed of sickness with scarcely a hope of recovery ? The wretched woman who lingers about the pavement, hours after midnight, and the miserable shadow of a man — the ghastly remnant that want and drunkenness have left — which crouches beneath a window-ledge, to sleep where there is some shelter from the rain, have little to bind them to life, but what have they to look back upon, in death ? What are the unwonted comforts of a roof and a bed, to them, when the recollections of a whole life of debasement stalk before them ; when repentance seems a mockery, and sorrow comes too late ? About a twelvemonth ago, as we were strolling through Covent Garden, (we had been thinking about these things over- night) we were attracted by the very prepossessing appearance of a pickpocket, who having declined to take the trouble of walking to the police-office, on the ground that he hadn't the slightest wish to go there at all, was being conveyed thither in a wheelbarrow, to the huge delight of a crowd. Somehow, we never can resist joining a crowd, so we turned back with the mob, and entered the office, in company with our friend the pickpocket, a couple of policemen, and as many dirty- faced spectators as could squeeze their way in. There was a powerful, ill-looking young fellow at the bar, who was undergoing an examination, on the very common charge of having, on the previous night, ill-treated a woman, with whom he lived in some court hard by. Several witnesses bore testimony to acts of the grossest brutality ; and a certificate was read from the house-surgeon of a neighbouring hospital, describing the nature of the injuries the woman had received, and intimating that her recovery was extremely doubtful. Some question appeared to have been raised about the identity of the prisoner ; for when it was agreed that the two magistrates should visit the hospital at eight o'clock that THE HOSPITAL PATIENT. 2 79 evening, to take her deposition, it was settled that the man should be taken there also. He turned pale at this, and we saw him clench the bar very hard when the order was given. He was removed directly afterwards, and he spoke not a word. We felt an irrepressible curiosity to witness this interview, although it is hard to tell why, at this instant, for we knew it must be a painful one. It was no very difficult matter for us to gain permission, and we obtained it. The prisoner, and the officer who had him in custody, were already at the hospital when we reached it, and waiting the arrival of the magistrates in a small room below-stairs. The man was handcuffed, and his hat was pulled forward over his eyes. It was easy to see, though, by the whiteness of his countenance, and the constant twitching of the muscles of his face, that he dreaded what was to come. After a short interval, the magistrates and clerk were bowed in by the house-surgeon and a couple of young men who smelt very strong of tobacco- smoke — they were introduced as " dressers " — and after one magistrate had complained bitterly of the cold, and the other of the absence of any news in the evening paper, it was announced that the patient was prepared ; and we were conducted to the " casualty ward " in which she was lying. The dim light which burnt in the spacious room, increased rather than diminished the ghastly appearance of the hapless creatures in the beds, which were ranged in two long rows on either side. In one bed lay a child enveloped in bandages, with its body half consumed by fire ; in another, a female, rendered hideous by some dreadful accident, was wildly beating her clenched fists on the coverlet, in pain ; on a third, there lay stretched a young girl, apparently in the heavy stupor often the immediate precursor of death : her face was stained with blood, and her breast and arms were bound up in folds of linen. Two or three of the beds were empty, and their recent occupants were sitting beside them, but with faces so wan, and eyes so bright and glassy, that it was fearful to meet their gaze. On 28o SKETCHES BY BOZ. every face was stamped the expression of anguish and suf- fering. The object of the visit was lying at the upper end of the room. She was a fine young woman of about two or three and twenty. Her long black hair, which had been hastily cut from near the wounds on her head, streamed over the pillow in jagged and matted locks. Her face bore deep marks of the ill-usage she had received ; her hand was pressed upon her side, as if her chief pain were there ; her breathing was short and heavy ; and it was plain to see that she was dying fast. She murmured a few words in reply to the magistrate's inquiry whether she was in great pain; and, having been raised on the pillow by the nurse, looked vacantly upon the strange countenances that surrounded her bed. The magistrate nodded to the officer to bring the man forward. He did so, and stationed him at the bedside. The girl looked on, with a wild and troubled expression of face ; but her sight was dim, and she did not know him. " Take off his hat," said the magistrate. The officer did as he was desired, and the man's features were disclosed. The girl started up, with an energy quite preternatural ; the fire gleamed in her heavy eyes, and the blood rushed to her pale and sunken cheeks. It was a convulsive effort. She fell back upon her pillow, and covering her scarred and bruised face with her hands, burst into tears. The man cast an anxious look towards her, but otherwise appeared wholly unmoved. After a brief pause the nature of their errand was explained, and the oath tendered. " Oh, no, gentlemen," said the girl, raising herself once more, and folding her hands together ; " no, gentlemen, for God's sake! I did it myself — it was nobody's fault — it was an accident. He didn't hurt me ; he wouldn't for all the world. Jack, dear Jack, you know you wouldn't !" Her sight was fast failing her, and her hand groped over the bedclothes in search of his. Brute as the man was, he was THE HOSPITAL PATIENT. 28l not prepared for this. He turned his face from the bed, and sobbed. The girl's colour changed, and her breathing grew more difficult. She was evidently dying. " We respect the feelings which prompt you to this," said the gentleman who had spoken first, " but let me warn you, not to persist in what you know to be untrue, until it is too late. It cannot save him." "Jack," murmured the girl, laying her hand upon his arm, " they shall not persuade me to swear your life away. He didn't do it, gentlemen. He never hurt me." She grasped his arm tightly, and added, in a broken whisper, " I hope God Almighty will forgive me all the wrong I have done, and the life I have led. God bless you, Jack. Some kind gentleman take my love to my poor old father. Five years ago, he said he wished I had died a child. Oh, I wish I had ! I wish I had !" The nurse bent over the girl for a few seconds, and then drew the sheet over her face. It covered a corpse. 282 SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER VII. THE MISPLACED ATTACHMENT OF MR. JOHN DOUNCE. TF we nad to make a classification of society, there are a particular kind of men whom we should immediately set down under the head of " Old Boys;" and a column of most extensive dimensions the old boys would require. ■ To what precise causes the rapid advance of old-boy population is to be traced, we are unable to determine. It would be an interesting and curious speculation, but, as we have not sufficient space to devote to it here, we simply state the fact that the numbers of the old boys have been gradually augmenting within the last few years, and that they are at this moment alarmingly on the increase. Upon a general review of the subject, and without consider- ing it minutely in detail, we should be disposed to subdivide the old boys into two distinct classes — the gay old boys, and the steady old boys. The gay old boys are paunchy old men in the disguise of young ones, who frequent the Quadrant and Regent Street in the daytime : the theatres (especially theatres under lady management) at night ; and who assume all the foppishness and levity of boys, without the excuse of youth or inexperience. The steady old boys are certain stout old gen- tlemen of clean appearance, who are always to be seen in the same taverns, at the same hours every evening, smoking and drinking in the same company. There was once a fine collection of old boys to be seen round the circular table at Offiey's every night, between the hours of half-past eight and half-past eleven. We have lost sight of MISPLACED ATTACHMENT OF MR. JOHN DOUNCE. 283 them for some time. There were, and may be still, for aught we know, two splendid specimens in full blossom at the Rain- bow Tavern in Fleet Street, who always used to sit in the box nearest the fire-place, and smoked long cherry-stick pipes which went under the table, with the bowls resting on the floor. Grand old boys they were — fat, red-faced, white-headed old fellows — always there — one on one side the table, and the other opposite — puffing and drinking away in great state. Everybody knew them, and it was supposed by some people that they were both immortal. Mr. John Dounce was an old boy of the latter class (we don't mean immortal, but steady), a retired glove and braces maker, a widower, resident with three daughters — all grown up, and all unmarried — in Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane. He was a short, round, large-faced, tubbish sort of man, with a broad-brimmed hat, and a square coat ; and had that grave, but confident, kind of roll, peculiar to old boys in general. Regular as clockwork — breakfast at nine — dress and tittivate a little — down to the Sir Somebody's Head — glass of ale and the paper — come back again, and take daughters out for a walk — dinner at three — glass of grog and pipe — nap — tea — little walk — Sir Somebody's Head again — capital house — delightful evenings. There were Mr. Harris, the law-stationer, and Mr. Jennings, the robe-maker (two jolly young fellows like himself), and Jones, the barrister's clerk — rum fellow that Jones — capital company — full of anecdote ! — and there they sat every night till just ten minutes before twelve, drinking their brandy-and-water, and smoking their pipes, and telling stories, and enjoying themselves with a kind of solemn joviality particularly edifying. Sometimes Jones would propose a half-price visit to Drury Lane or Covent Garden, to see two acts of a five-act play, and a new farce, perhaps, or a ballet, on which occasions the whole four of them went together ; none of your hurrying and non- sense, but having their brandy-and-water first, comfortably, and ordering a steak and some oysters for their supper against they 284 SKETCHES BY BOZ. came back, and then walking coolly into the pit, when the "rush" had gone in, as all sensible people do, and did when Mr. Bounce was a young man, except when the celebrated Master Betty was at the height of his popularity, and then, sir, — then — Mr. Dounce perfectly well remembered getting a holi- day from business ; and going to the pit doors at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, and waiting there, till six in the afternoon, with some sandwiches in a pocket-handkerchief and some wine in a phial ; and fainting after all, with the heat and fatigue before the play began ; in which situation he was lifted out of the pit, into one of the dress-boxes, sir, by five of the finest women of that day, sir, who compassionated his situation and administered restoratives, and sent a black servant, six foot high, in blue and silver livery, next morning with their compli- ments, and to know how he found himself, sir — by G — ! Between the acts Mr. Dounce and Mr. Harris, and Mr. Jennings, used to stand up, and look round the house, and Jones — knowing fellow that Jones — knew everybody, pointed out the fashionable and celebrated Lady So-and-so in the boxes, at the mention of whose name Mr. Dounce, after brushing up his hair, and adjusting his neckerchief, would inspect the aforesaid Lady So-and-so through an immense glass, and remark, either, that she was a " fine woman — very fine woman, indeed," or that " there might be a little more of her, — eh, Jones ?" just as the case might happen to be! When the dancing began, John Dounce and the other old boys were particularly anxious to see what was going forward on the stage, and Jones — wicked dog that Jones — whispered little critical remarks into the ears of John Dounce, which John Dounce retailed to Mr. Harris, and Mr. Harris to Mr. Jennings ; and then they all four laughed, until the tears ran down out of their eyes. When the curtain fell, they walked back together, two and two, to the steaks and oysters ; and when they came to the second glass of brandy-and-water, Jones — hoaxing scamp that Jones — used to recount how he had observed a lady in white MISPLACED ATTACHMENT OF MR. JOHN DOUNCE. 285 feathers, in one of the pit boxes, gazing intently on Mr. Dounce all the evening, and how he had caught Mr. Dounce, whenever he thought no one was looking at him, bestowing ardent looks of intense devotion on the lady in return ; on which Mr. Harris and Mr. Jennings used to laugh very heartily, and John Dounce more heartily than either of them, acknowledging, however, that the time had been when he might have done such things ; upon which Mr. Jones used to poke him in the ribs, and tell him he had been a sad dog in his time, which John Dounce with chuckles confessed. And after Mr. Harris and Mr. Jennings had preferred their claims to the character of having been sad dogs too, they separated harmoniously, and trotted home. The decrees of Fate, and the means by which they are brought about, are mysterious and inscrutable. John Dounce had led this life for twenty years and upwards, without wish for change, or care for variety, when his whole social system was suddenly Upset, and turned completely topsy-turvy — not by an earthquake, or some other dreadful convulsion of nature, as the reader would be inclined to suppose, but by the simple agency of an oyster ; and thus it happened. Mr. John Dounce was returning one night from the Sir Some- body's Head, to his residence in Cursitor Street — not tipsy, but rather excited, for it was Mr. Jennings's birthday, and they had had a brace of partridges for supper, and a brace of extra glasses afterwards, and Jones had been more than ordinarily amusing — when his eyes rested on a newly opened oyster-shop, on a magnificent scale, with natives laid, one deep, in circulai" marble basins in the windows, together with little round barrels of oysters directed to Lords and Baronets, and Colonels and Captains, in every part of the habitable globe. Behind the natives were the barrels, and behind the barrels was a young lady of about five-and-twenty, all in blue, and all alone — splendid creature, charming face, and lovely figure ! It is difficult to say whether Mr. John Dounce's red countenance, illuminated as it was by the flickering gas-light in the window 2 86 SKETCHES BY BOZ. before which he paused, excited the lady's risibility, or whether a natural exuberance of animal spirits proved too much for that staidness of demeanour which the forms of society rather dictatorially prescribe. But certain it is, that the lady smiled ; then put her finger upon her lip, with a striking recollection of what was due to herself ; and finally retired, in oyster-like bash- fulness, to the very back of the counter. The sad-dog sort of feeling came strongly upon John Dounce : he lingered — the lady in blue made no sign. He coughed — still she came not. He entered the shop. " Can you open me an oyster, my dear ? " said Mr. John Dounce. " Dare say I can, sir," replied the lady in blue, with playful- ness. And Mr. John Dounce eat one oyster, and then looked at the young lady, and then eat another, and then squeezed the young lady's hand as she was opening the third, and so forth, until he had devoured a dozen of those at eightpence in less than no time. " Can you open me half-a-dozen more, my dear ? " inquired Mr. John Dounce. " I'll see what I can do for you, sir," replied the young lady in blue, even more bewitchingly than before ; and Mr. John Dounce eat half-a-dozen more of those at eightpence. " You couldn't manage to get me a glass of brandy-and- water, my dear, I suppose?" said Mr. John Dounce, when be had finished the oysters ; in a tone which clearly implied his supposition that she could. " I'll see, sir," said the young lady : and away she ran out of the shop, and down the street, her long auburn ringlets shaking in the wind in the most enchanting manner ; and back she came again, tripping over the coal-cellar lids like a whipping- top, with a tumbler of brandy-and- water, which Mr. John Dounce insisted on her taking a share of, as it was regular ladies' grog — hot, strong, sweet, and plenty of it. So, the young lady sat down with Mr. John Dounce, in a MISPLACED ATTACHMENT OF MR. JOHN DOUNCE. 287 little red box with a green curtain, and took a small sip of the brandy-and-water, and a small look at Mr. John Dounce, and then turned her head away, and went through various other serio-pantomimic fascinations which forcibly reminded Mr. John Dounce of the first time he courted his first wife, and which made him feel more affectionate than ever ; in pursuance of which affection, and actuated by which feeling, Mr. John Dounce sounded the young lady on her matrimonial engage- ments, when the young lady denied having formed any such engagements at all — she couldn't abear the men, they were such deceivers ; thereupon Mr. John Dounce inquired whether this sweeping condemnation was meant to include other than very young men ; on which the young lady blushed deeply — at least she turned away her head, and said Mr. John Dounce had made her blush, so of course she did blush — and Mr. John Dounce was a long time drinking the brandy-and-water ; and, at last, J ohn Dounce went home to bed, and dreamed of his first wife, and his second wife, and the young lady, and partridges, and oysters, and brandy-and-water, and disinterested attachments. The next morning, J ohn Dounce was rather feverish with the extra brandy-and-water of the previous night ; and partly in the hope of cooling himself with an oyster, and partly with the view of ascertaining whether he owed the young lady anything, or not, went back to the oyster-shop. If the young lady had appeared beautiful by night, she was perfectly irresistible by day ; and, from this time forward, a change came over the spirit of John Dounce's dream. He bought shirt-pins; wore a ring on his third finger ; read poetry ; bribed a cheap miniature painter to perpetrate a faint resemblance to a youth- ful face, with a curtain over his head, six large books in the background, and an open country in the distance (this he called his portrait) ; "wert on" altogether in such an uproarious manner, that the three Miss Dounces went off on small pensions, he having made the tenement in Cursitor Street too warm to contain them ; and in short, comported and demeaned him- 288 SKETCHES BY BOZ. self in every respect like an unmitigated old Saracen, as he was. As to his ancient friends, the other old boys, at the Sir Somebody's Head, he dropped off from them by gradual degrees : for, even when he did go there, Jones — vulgar fellow that Jones — persisted in asking " when it was to be ?" and " whether he was to have any gloves ? " together with other inquiries of an equally offensive nature : at which not only Harris laughed, but Jennings also ; so, he cut the two, altogether, and attached himself solely to the blue young lady at the smart oyster-shop. Now comes the moral of the story — for it has a moral after all. The last-mentioned young lady, having derived sufficient profit and emolument from John Dounce's attachment, not only refused, when matters came to a crisis, to take him for better for worse, but expressly declared, to use her own forcible words, that she " wouldn't have him at no price ; " and John Dounce, having lost his old friends, alienated his relations, and rendered himself ridiculous to everybod}^ made offers successively to a schoolmistress, a landlady, a feminine tobacconist, and a house- keeper ; and, being directly rejected by each and every of them, was accepted by his cook, with whom he now lives, a henpecked husband, a melancholy monument of antiquated misery, and a living warning to all uxorious old boys. THE MISTAKEN MILLINER. 289 CHAPTER VIII. THE MISTAKEN MILLINER. A TALE OF AMBITION. -MISS AMELIA MARTIN was pale, tallish, thin, and two- and-thirty — what ill-natured people would call plain, and police reports interesting. She was a milliner and dressmaker, Wing on her business and not above it. If you had been a young lady in service, and had wanted Miss Martin, as a great many young ladies in service did, you would just have stepped up, in the evening, to number forty-seven, Drummond Street, George Street, Euston Square, and after casting your eye on a brass door-plate, one foot ten by one and a half, ornamented with a great brass knob at each of the four corners, and bearing the inscription " Miss Martin ; millinery and dressmaking, in all its branches;" you'd just have knocked two loud knocks at the street-door ; and down would have come Miss Martin herself, in a merino gown of the newest fashion, black velvet bracelets on the genteelest principle, and other little elegancies of the most approved description. If Miss Martin knew the young lady who called, or if the young lady who called had been recommended by any other young lady whom Miss Martin knew, Miss Martin would forth- with show her up-stairs into the two-pair front, and chat she would — so kind, and so comfortable — it really wasn't like a matter of business, she was so friendly ; and, then Miss Martin, after contemplating the figure and general appearance of the young lady in service with great apparent admiration, would say how well she would look, to-be-sure, in a low dress with short sleeves : made very full in the skirts, with four tucks in the u 290 SKETCHES BY BOZ. bottom ; to which the young lady in service would reply in terms expressive of her entire concurrence in the notion, and of the virtuous indignation with which she reflected on the tyranny of " Missis," who wouldn't allow a young girl to wear a short sleeve of an arternoon — no, nor nothing smart, not even a pair of ear-rings ; let alone hiding people's heads of hair under them frightful caps. At the termination of this complaint, Miss Amelia Martin would distantly suggest certain dark suspicions that some people were jealous on account of their own daughters, and were obliged to keep their servants' charms under, for fear they should get married first, which was no uncommon circumstance — leastways she had known two or three young ladies in service, who had married, a great deal better than their missises, and they were not very good-looking either ; and then the young lady would inform Miss Martin, in confidence, that how one of their young ladies was engaged to a young man and was a-going to be married, and Missis was so proud about it there was no bearing of her ; but how she needn't hold her head quite so high neither, for, after all, he was only a clerk. And, after expressing due contempt for clerks in general, and the engaged clerk in particular, and the highest opinion possible of themselves and each other, Miss Martin and the young lady in service would bid each other good night, in a friendly but perfectly genteel manner : and the one went back to her " place," and the other, to her room on the second-floor front. There is no saying how long Miss Amelia Martin might have continued this course of life ; how extensive a connection she might have established among young ladies in service ; or what amount her demands upon their quarterly receipts might have ultimately attained, had not an unforeseen train of circum- stances directed her thoughts to a sphere of action very different from dressmaking or millinery. A friend of Miss Martin's who had long been keeping com- pany with an ornamental painter and decorator's journeyman, THE MISTAKEN MILLINER. 29 1 at last consented (on being at last asked to do so) to name the day which would make the aforesaid journeyman a happy husband. It was a Monday that was appointed for the cele- bration of the nuptials, and Miss Amelia Martin was invited, among others, to honour the wedding-dinner with her presence. It was a charming party ; Somers Town the locality, and a front parlour the apartment. The ornamental painter and decorator's journeyman had taken a house — no lodgings nor vulgarity of that kind, but a house — four beautiful rooms, and a delightful little washhouse at the end of the passage — which was the most convenient thing in the world, for the bridesmaids could sit in the front parlour and receive the com- pany, and then run into the little washhouse and see how the pudding and boiled pork were getting on in the copper, and then pop back into the parlour again, as snug and comfortable as possible. And such a parlour as it was ! Beautiful Kidder- minster carpet — six bran-new cane-bottomed stained chairs — three wine-glasses and a tumbler on each sideboard — farmer's girl and farmer's boy on the mantel-piece : girl tumbling over a stile, and boy spitting himself on the handle of a pitchfork — long white dimity curtains in the window — and, in short, every- thing on the most genteel scale imaginable. Then, the dinner. There was baked leg of mutton at the top, boiled leg of mutton at the bottom, pair of fowls and leg of pork in the middle ; porter-pots at the corners ; pepper, mustard, and vinegar in the centre ; vegetables on the floor ; and plum-pudding and apple-pie and tartlets without number : to say nothing of cheese, and celery, and water-cresses, and all that sort of thing. As to the company ! Miss Amelia Martin herself declared, on a subsequent occasion, that, much as she had heard of the ornamental painter's journeyman's connection, she never could have supposed it was half so genteel. There was his father, such a funny old gentleman — and his mother, such a dear old lady — and his sister, such a charming girl — and his brother, such a manly-looking young man — with such u 2 202 SKETCHES BY BOZ. a eye ! But even all these were as nothing when compared with his musical friends, Mr. and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, from White Conduit, with whom the ornamental painter's journey- man had been fortunate enough to contract an intimacy while engaged in decorating the concert-room of that noble institution. To hear them sing separately was divine, but when they went through the tragic duet of " Red Ruffian, retire !" it was, as Miss Martin afterwards remarked, " thrilling." And why (as Mr. Jennings Rodolph observed) why were they not engaged at one of the patent theatres ? If he w T as to be told that their voices were not powerful enough to fill the House, his only reply was that he would back himself for any amount to fill Russell Square — a statement in which the company, after hearing the duet, expressed their full belief ; so they all said it was shameful treatment ; and both Mr. and Mrs. Jen- nings Rodolph said it was shameful too ; and Mr. Jennings Rodolph looked very serious, and said he knew who his malig- nant opponents were, but they had better take care how far they went, for if they irritated him too much he had not quite made up his mind whether he wouldn't bring the subject before Parliament ; and they all agreed that it " 'ud serve 'em quite right, and it was very proper that such people should be made an example of." So Mr. Jennings Rodolph said he'd think of it. When the conversation resumed its former tone, Mr. J ennings Rodolph claimed his right to call upon a lady, and that right being conceded, trusted Miss Martin would favour the company — a proposal which met with unanimous approbation, whereupon Miss Martin, after sundry hesitatings and coughings, with a pre- paratory choke or two, and an introductory declaration that she was frightened to death to attempt it before such great judges of the art, commenced a species of treble chirruping containing frequent allusions to some gentleman of the name of Hen-e-ry, with an occasional reference to madness and broken hearts. Mr. Jennings Rodolph frequently inter- THE MISTAKEN MILLINER. 2Q3 rupted the progress of the song, by ejaculating " Beautiful !" — "Charming !" — "Brilliant !" — " Oh ! splendid," &c. ; and at its close the admiration of himself, and his lady, knew no bounds. "Did you ever hear so sweet a voice, my dear?" inquired Mr. Jennings Rodolph of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph. " Never ; indeed I never did, love," replied Mrs. Jennings Rodolph. "Don't you think Miss Martin, with a little cultivation, would be very like Signora Marra Boni, my dear?" asked Mr. Jennings Rodolph. " Just exactly the very thing that struck me, my love," answered Mrs. Jennings Rodolph. And thus the time passed away ; Mr. Jennings Rodolph played tunes on a walking-stick, and then went behind the parlour door and gave his celebrated imitations of actors, edge- tools, and animals ; Miss Martin sang several other songs with increased admiration every time ; and even the funny old gentleman began singing. His song had properly seven verses, but as he couldn't recollect more than the first one he sang that over seven times, apparently very much to his own personal gratification. And then all the company sang the national anthem with national independence — each for himself, without reference to the other — and finally separated : all declaring that they never had spent so pleasant an evening : and Miss Martin inwardly resolving to adopt the advice of Mr. Jennings Rodolph, and to " come out " without delay. Now " coming out," either in acting, or singing, or society, or facetiousness, or anything else, is all very well, and remark- ably pleasant to the individual principally concerned, if he or she can -but manage to come out with a burst, and being out, • to keep out, and not go in again ; but it does unfortunately happen that both consummations are extremely difficult to accomplish, and that the difficulties of getting out at all in the first instance, and if you surmount them, of keeping out in the second, are pretty much on a par, and no slight ones either — and 294 SKETCHES BY BOZ. so Miss Amelia Martin shortly discovered. It is a singular fact (there being ladies in the case) that Miss Amelia Martin's principal foible was vanity, and the leading characteristic of Mrs. Jennings Kodolph an attachment to dress. Dismal wail- ings were heard to issue from the second-floor front of number forty-seven, Drummond Street, George Street, Euston Square ; it was Miss Martin practising. Half-suppressed murmurs disturbed the calm dignity of the White Conduit orchestra at the commencement of the season. It was the appearance of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph in full dress, that occa- sioned them. Miss Martin studied incessantly — the practising was the consequence. Mrs. Jennings Rodolph taught gratui- tously now and then — the dresses were the result Weeks passed away ; the White Conduit season had begun, had progressed, and was more than half over. The dress- making business had fallen off, from neglect ; and its profits had dwindled away almost imperceptibly. A benefit-night approached ; Mr. Jennings Rodolph yielded to the earnest solicitations of Miss Amelia Martin, and introduced her per- sonally to the " comic gentleman" whose benefit it was. The comic gentleman was all smiles and blandness — he had com- posed a duet, expressly for the occasion, and Miss Martin should sing it with him. The night arrived ; there was an immense room — ninety-seven sixpenn'orths of gin-and-water, thirty-two small glasses of brandy-and-water, five-and-twenty bottled ales, and forty-one neguses ; and the ornamental painter's journeyman, with his wife and a select circle of acquaintance, were seated at one of the side-tables near the orchestra. The concert began. Song — sentimental — by a light- haired young gentleman in a blue coat, and bright basket buttons [applause]. Another song, doubtful, by another gentleman in another blue coat and more bright basket buttons — [increased applause]. Duet, Mr. Jennings Rodolph, and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, " Red Ruffian, retire!" — [great applause]. Solo, Miss Julia Montague (positively on this THE MISTAKEN MILLINER. 295 occasion only) — " I am a Friar" — [enthusiasm]. Original duet, comic — Mr. H. Taplin (the comic gentleman) and Miss Martin — " The Time of Day." " Brayvo ! — Brayvo !" cried the ornamental painter's journeyman's party, as Miss Martin was. gracefully led in by the comic gentleman. "Go to work, Harry," cried the comic gentleman's personal friends. " Tap — ■ tap — tap," went the leader's bow on the music-desk. The symphony began, and was soon afterwards followed by a faint kind of ventriloquial chirping, proceeding apparently from the deepest recesses of the interior of Miss Amelia Martin. " Sing out " — shouted one gentleman in a white great-coat. " Don't be afraid to put the steam on, old gal," exclaimed another. "S — s — -s — s — s — s — s" — went the five-and-twenty bottled ales. "Shame, shame !" remonstrated the ornamental painter's journeyman's party. "S — s — s — s" went the bottled ales again, accompanied by all the gins, and a majority of the brandies. " Turn them geese out," cried the ornamental painter's journeyman's party, with great indignation. " Sing out," whispered Mr. Jennings Rodolph. " So I do," responded Miss Amelia Martin. " Sing louder," said Mrs. Jennings Eodolph. " I can't," replied Miss Amelia Martin. " Off, off, off," cried the rest of the audience. " Bray-vo !" shouted the painter's party. It wouldn't do — - Miss Amelia Martin left the orchestra, with much less cere- mony than she had entered it ; and, as she couldn't sing out, never came out. The general good-humour was not restored until Mr. Jennings Rodolph had become purple in the face, by imitating divers quadrupeds for half an hour, without being able to render himself audible ; and, to this day, neither has Miss Amelia Martin's good-humour been restored, nor the dresses made for and presented to Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, nor the vocal abilities which Mr. Jennings Rodolph once staked his professional reputation that Miss Martin possessed. 296 SKETCHES BY EQZ. CHAPTER IX. THE DANCING ACADEMY. fXF all the dancing academies that ever were established, there never was one more popular in its immediate vicinity than Signor Billsmethi's, of the " King's Theatre." It was not in Spring Gardens, or Newman Street, or Berners Street, or Gower Street, or Charlotte Street, or Percy Street, or any other of the numerous streets which have been devoted time out of mind to professional people, dispensaries, and boarding-houses ; it was not in the West-end at all — it rather approximated to the eastern portion of London, being situated in the populous and improving neighbourhood of Gray's Inn Lane. It was not a dear dancing academy — four-and-sixpence a quarter is decidedly cheap upon the whole. It was very select, the number of pupils being strictly limited to seventy-five, and a quarter's payment in advance being rigidly exacted. There was public tuition and private tuition — an assembly-room and a parlour. Signor Billsmethi's family were always thrown in with the parlour, and included in parlour price ; that is to say, a private pupil had Signor Billsmethi's parlour to dance in, and Signor Billsmethi's family to dance with ; and when he had been sufficiently broken in in the parlour, he began to run in couples in the Assembly-room. Such was the dancing academy of Signor Billsmethi, when Mr. Augustus Cooper, of Fetter Lane, first saw an unstamped advertisement walking leisurely down Holborn Hill, announcing to the world that Signor Billsmethi, of the King's Theatre, intended opening for the season with a Grand Ball. ,////•/ *gs* , j A '/s/r?//?/ ( THE DANCING ACADEMY. 297 Now, Mr. Augustus Cooper was in the oil and colour line — just of age, with a little money, a little business, and a little mother, who, having managed her husband and his business in his lifetime, took to managing her son and his business after his decease ; and so, somehow or other, he had been cooped up in the little back-parlour behind the shop on week-days, and in a little deal box without a lid (called by courtesy a pew) at Bethel Chapel, on Sundays, and had seen no more of the world than if he had been an infant all his days ; whereas Young White, at the Gas-fitter's over the way, three years younger than him, had been flaring away like winkin' — going to the theatre — supping at harmonic meetings — eating oysters by the barrel — drinking stout by the gallon — even stopping out all night, and coming home as cool in the morning as if nothing had happened. So Mr. Augustus Cooper made up his mind that he would not stand it any longer, and had that very morning expressed to his mother a firm determination to be " blowed," in the event of his not being instantly provided with a street-door key. And he was walking down Holborn Hill, thinking about all these things, and wondering how he could manage to get introduced into genteel society for the first time, when his eyes rested on Signor Billsmethi's announcement, which it immediately struck him was just the very thing he wanted ; for he should not only be able to select a genteel circle of acquaintance at once, out of the five-and-seventy pupils at four-and-sixpence a quarter, but should qualify himself at the same time to go through a horn- pipe in private society, with perfect ease to himself, and great delight to his friends. So, he stopped the unstamped adver- tisement — an animated sandwich, composed of a boy between two boards — and having procured a very small card with the Signor's address indented thereon, walked straight at once to the Signor's house — and very fast he walked too, for fear the list should be filled up, and the five-and-seventy completed, before he got there. The Signor was at home, and, what was still more gratifying, he was an Englishman ! Such a nice man 298 SKETCHES BY BOZ. — and so polite ! The list was not full, but it was a most extraordinary circumstance that there was only just one vacancy, and even that one would have been filled up, that very morning, only Signor Billsmethi was dissatisfied with the reference, and, being very much afraid that the lady wasn't select, wouldn't take her. " And very much delighted I am, Mr. Cooper," said Signor Billsmethi, " that I did not take her: I assure you, Mr. Cooper — I don't say it to flatter you, for I know you're above it — that I consider myself extremely fortunate in having a gentle- man of your manners and appearance, sir." "I am very glad of it too, sir," said Augustus Cooper. " And I hope we shall be better acquainted, sir," said Signor Billsmethi. " And I'm sure I hope we shall too, sir," responded Augustus Cooper. Just then, the door opened, and in came a young lady, with her hair curled in a crop all over her head, and her shoes tied in sandals all over her ankles. " Don't run away, my dear," said Signor Billsmethi ; for the young lady didn't know Mr. Cooper was there when she ran in, and was going to run out again in her modesty, all in confusion- like. " Don't run away, my dear," said Signor Billsmethi, " this is Mr. Cooper — Mr. Cooper, of Fetter Lane. Mr. Cooper, my daughter, sir — Miss Billsmethi, sir, who I hope will have the pleasure of dancing many a quadrille, minuet, gavotte, country dance, fandango, double hornpipe, and farinagholkajingo with you, sir. She dances them all, sir ; and so shall you, sir, before you're a quarter older, sir." And Signor Billsmethi slapped Mr. Augustus Cooper on the back, as if he had known him a dozen years, — so friendly ; — and Mr. Cooper bowed to the young lady, and the young lady curtsied to him, and Signor Billsmethi said they were as hand- some a pair as ever he'd wish to see ; upon which the young lady exclaimed, " Lor, pa !" and blushed as red as Mr. Cooper himself — you might have thought they were both standing THE DANCING ACADEMY. under a red lamp at a chemist's shop ; and before Mr. Cooper went away it was settled that he should join the family circle that very night — taking them just as they were — no ceremony nor nonsense of that kind — and learn his positions, in order that he might lose no time, and be able to come out at the forthcoming ball. Well ; Mr. Augustus Cooper went away to one of the cheap shoemakers' shops in Holborn where gentlemen's dress-pumps are seven-and-sixpence, and men's strong walking just nothing at all, and bought a pair of the regular seven-and-sixpenny, long- quartered town-mades, in which he astonished himself quite as much as his mother, and sallied forth to Signor Billsmethi' s, There were four other private pupils in the parlour : two ladies and two gentlemen. Such nice people ! Not a bit of pride about them. One of the ladies in particular, who was in training for a Columbine, was remarkably affable ; and she and Miss Billsmethi took such an interest in Mr. Augustus Cooper, and joked and smiled, and looked so bewitching, that he got quite at home, and learnt his steps in no time. After the practising was over, Signor Billsmethi, and Miss Billsmethi, and Master Billsmethi, and a young lady, and the two ladies, and the two gentlemen, danced a quadrille — none of your slipping and sliding about, but regular warm work, flying into corners, and diving among chairs, and shooting out at the door, — something like dancing ! Signor Billsmethi in particular, notwithstanding his having a little fiddle to play all the time, was out on the landing every figure, and Master Billsmethi, when everybody else was breathless, danced a hornpipe, with a cane in his hand, and a cheese-plate on his head, to the unqualified admiration of the whole company. Then, Signor Billsmethi insisted, as they were so happy, that they should all stay to supper, and proposed sending Master Billsmethi for the beer and spirits, whereupon the two gentlemen swore, " strike 'em wulgar if they'd stand that :" and were just going to quarrel who should pay for it, when Mr. Augustus Cooper said he would, if they'd have the 300 SKETCHES BY BOZ. kindness to allow him — and they had the kindness to allow him ; and Master Billsmethi brought the beer in a can, and the rum in a quart pot. They had a regular night of it ; and Miss Billsmethi squeezed Mr. Augustus Cooper's hand under the table ; and Mr. Augustus Cooper returned the squeeze and returned home too, at something to six o'clock in the morning, when he was put to bed by main force by the apprentice, after repeatedly expressing an uncontrollable desire to pitch his revered parent out of the second-floor window, and to throttle the apprentice with his own neck-handkerchief. Weeks had worn on, and the seven-and-sixpenny town-mades had nearly worn out, when the night arrived for the grand dress- ball at which the whole of the five-and-seventy pupils were to meet together, for the first time that season, and to take out some portion of their respective four-and-sixpences in lamp-oil and fiddlers. Mr. Augustus Cooper had ordered a new coat for the occasion — a two-pound-tenner from Turnstile. It was his first appearance in public ; and, after a grand Sicilian shawl- dance by fourteen young ladies in character, he was to open the quadrille department with Miss Billsmethi herself, with whom he had become quite intimate since his first introduction. It Was a night ! Everything was admirably arranged. The sand- wich-boy took the hats and bonnets at the street-door ; there was a turn-up bedstead in the back-parlour, on which Miss Billsmethi made tea and coffee for such of the gentlemen as chose to pay for it, and such of the ladies as the gentlemen treated ; red port-wine negus and lemonade were handed round at eighteen-pence a head ; and in pursuance of a previous engagement with the public-house at the corner of the street, an extra potboy was laid on for the occasion. In short, nothing could exceed the arrangements, except the company. Such ladies ! Such pink silk stockings ! Such artificial flowers ! Such a number of cabs! No sooner had one cab set down a couple of ladies, than another cab drove up and set down another couple of ladies, and they all knew : not only one another, but THE DANCING ACADEMY. 301 the majority of the gentlemen into the bargain, which made it all as pleasant and lively as could be. Signor Billsmethi, in black tights, with a large blue bow in his button-hole, intro- duced the ladies to such of the gentlemen as were strangers : and the ladies talked away — -and laughed they did — it was delightful to see them. As to the shawl-dance, it was the most exciting thing that ever was beheld ; there was such a whisking, and rustling, and fanning, and getting ladies into a tangle with artificial flowers, and then disentangling them again ! And as to Mr. Augustus Cooper's share in the quadrille, he got through it admirably. He was missing from his partner, now and then, certainly, and discovered on such occasions to be either dancing with laudable perseverance in another set, or sliding about in perspective, without any definite object ; but generally speaking, they managed to shove him through the figure, until he turned up in the right place. Be this as it may, when he had finished, a great many ladies and gentlemen came up and complimented him very much, and said they had never seen a beginner do anything like it before ; and Mr. Augustus Cooper was perfectly satisfied with himself, and everybody else into the bargain ; and "stood" considerable quantities of spirits-and-water, negus, and compounds, for the use and behoof of two or three dozen very particular friends, selected from the select circle of five-and- seventy pupils. Now, whether it was the strength of the compounds, or the beauty of the ladies, or what not, it did so happen that Mr. Augustus Cooper encouraged, rather than repelled, the very flattering attentions of a young lady in brown gauze over white calico who had appeared particularly struck with him from, tho first ; and when the encouragements had been prolonged for some time, Miss Billsmethi betrayed her spite and jealousy thereat by calling the young lady in brown gauze a " creeter," which induced the young lady in brown gauze to retort, in certain sentences containing a taunt founded on the payment of 302 SKETCHES BY BOZ. four-and-sixpence a quarter, which reference Mr. Augustus Cooper, being then and there in a state of considerable bewilder- ment, expressed his entire concurrence in. Miss Billsmethi, thus renounced, forthwith began screaming in the loudest key of her voice, at the rate of fourteen screams a minute ; and being unsuccessful in an onslaught on the eyes and face, first of the lady in gauze and then of Mr. Augustus Cooper, called dis- tractedly on the other three-and-seventy pupils to furnish her with oxalic acid for her own private drinking ; and, the call not being honoured, made another rush at Mr. Cooper, and then had her stay-lace cut, and was carried off to bed. Mr. Augustus Cooper, not being remarkable for quickness of apprehension, was at a loss to understand what all this meant, until Signor Billsmethi explained it in a most satisfactory manner, by stating to the pupils that Mr. Augustus Cooper had made and confirmed divers promises of marriage to his daughter on divers occasions, and had now basely deserted her ; on which, the indignation of the pupils became universal ; and as several chivalrous gentle- men inquired rather pressingly of Mr. Augustus Cooper, whether he required anything for his own use, or, in other words, whether he " wanted anything for himself," he deemed it prudent to make a precipitate retreat. And the upshot of the matter was, that a lawyer's letter came next day, and an action was commenced next week ; and that Mr. Augustus Cooper, after walking twice to the Serpentine for the purpose of drowning himself, and coming twice back without doing it, made a con- fidante of his mother, who compromised the matter with twenty pounds from the till : which made twenty pounds four shillings and sixpence paid to Signor Billsmethi, exclusive of treats and pumps. And Mr. Augustus Cooper went back and lived with his mother, and there he lives to this day ; and as he has lost his ambition for society, and never goes into the world, he will never see this account of himself, and will never be any the wiser. SHABBY-GENTEEL PEOPLE. 303 CHAPTER X. SHABBY-GENTEEL PEOPLE. rFHERE are certain descriptions of people who, oddly enough, appear to appertain exclusively to the metropolis. You meet them, every day, in the streets of London, but no one ever encounters them elsewhere ; they seem indigenous to the soil, and to belong as exclusively to London as its own smoke, or the dingy bricks and mortar. We could illustrate the remark by a variety of examples, but, in our present sketch, we will only advert to one class as a specimen — that class which is so aptly and expressively designated as " shabby -genteel." Now, shabby people, God knows, may be found anywhere, and genteel people are not articles of greater scarcity out of London than in it ; but this compound of the two — this shabby-gentility — is as purely local as the statue at Charing Cross or the pump at Aldgate. It is worthy of remark, too, that only men are shabby-genteel ; a woman is always either dirty and slovenly in the extreme, or neat and respectable, how- ever poverty-stricken in appearance. A very poor man, " who has seen better days," as the phrase goes, is a strange compound of dirty slovenliness and wretched attempts at faded smartness. We will endeavour to explain our conception of the term which forms the title of this paper. If you meet a man lounging up Drury Lane, or leaning with his back against a post in Long Acre, with his hands in the pockets of a pair of drab trousers plentifully besprinkled with grease-spots*: the trousers made very full over the boots, and ornamented with two cords down the outside of each leg — wearing, also, what has been a 304 SKETCHES BY BOZ. brown coat with bright buttons, and a hat very much pinched up at the sides, cocked over his right eye — don't pity him. He is not shabby-genteel. The "harmonic meetings" at some fourth-rate public-house, or the purlieus of a private theatre, are his chosen haunts ; he entertains a rooted antipathy to any kind of work, and is on familiar terms with several pantomime men at the large houses. But, if you see hurrying along a by-street, keeping as close as he can to the area railings, a man of about forty or fifty, clad in an old rusty suit of threadbare black cloth which shines with constant wear as if it had been bees- waxed — the trousers tightly strapped down, partly for the look of the thing and partly to keep his old shoes from slipping off at the heels, — if you observe, too, that his yellowish-white neckerchief is carefully pinned up, to conceal the tattered gar- ment underneath, and that his hands are encased in the remains of an old pair of beaver gloves, you may set him down as a shabby-genteel man. A glance at that depressed face, and timorous air of conscious poverty, will make your heart ache — always supposing that you are neither a philosopher nor a poli- tical economist. We were once haunted by a shabby-genteel man ; he was bodily present to our senses all day, and he was in our mind's eye all night. The man of whom Sir Walter Scott speaks in his Demonology, did not suffer half the persecution from his imaginary gentleman-usher in black velvet, that we sustained from our friend in quondam black cloth. He first attracted our notice by sitting opposite to us in the reading-room at the British Museum ; and what made the man more remarkable was, that he always had before him a couple of shabby-genteel books — two old dogs-eared folios, in mouldy worm-eaten covers, which had once been smart. He was in his chair, every morn- ing, just as the clock struck ten ; he was always the last to leave the room in the afternoon ; and when he did, he quitted it with the air of a man who knew not where else to go, for warmth and quiet. There he used to sit all day, as close to the SHABBY-GENTEEL PEOPLE. 305 table as possible, in order to conceal the lack of buttons on his coat : with his old hat carefully deposited at his feet, where he evidently flattered himself it escaped observation. About two o'clock, you would see him munching a French roll or a penny loaf • not taking it boldly out of his pocket at once, like a man who knew he was only making a lunch ; but breaking off little bits in his pocket, and eating them by stealth. He knew too well it was his dinner. When we first saw this poor object, we thought it quite impossible that his attire could ever become worse. We even went so far as to speculate on the possibility of his shortly appearing in a decent second-hand suit. We knew nothing about the matter ; he grew more and more shabby-genteel every day. The buttons dropped off his waistcoat, one by one ; then, he buttoned his coat ; and when one side of the coat was reduced to the same condition as the waistcoat, he buttoned it over on the other side. He looked somewhat better at the beginning of the week than at the conclusion, because the neckerchief, though yellow, was not quite so dingy ; and, in the midst of all this wretchedness, he never appeared without gloves and straps. He remained in this state for a week or two. At length, one of the buttons on the back of the' coat fell off, and then the man himself disappeared, and we thought he was dead. ^ We were sitting at the same table about a week after his disappearance, and as our eyes rested on his vacant chair, we insensibly fell into a train of meditation on the subject of his retirement from public life. We were wondering whether he had hung himself, or thrown himself off a bridge— whether he really was dead or had only been arrested— when our con- jectures were suddenly set at rest by the entry of the man him- self. He had undergone some strange metamorphosis, and walked up the centre of the room with an air which showed he was fully conscious of the improvement in his appearance. It - was very odd. His clothes were a fine, deep, glossy black ; and 306 SKETCHES BY BOZ. yet they looked like the same suit ; nay, there were the very darns with which old acquaintance had made us familiar. The hat, too — nobody could mistake the shape of that hat, with its high crown gradually increasing in circumference towards the top. Long service had imparted to it a reddish-brown tint ; but, now, it was as black as the coat. The truth flashed suddenly upon us — they had been "revived." It is a deceitful liquid that black and blue reviver; we have watched its effects on many a shabby-genteel man. It betrays its victims into a temporary assumption of importance ; possibly into the purchase of a new pair of gloves, or a cheap stock, or some other trifling article of dress. It elevates their spirits for a week, only to depress them, if possible, below their original level. It was so in this case ; the transient dignity of the unhappy man decreased, in exact proportion as the " reviver " wore off. The knees of the unmentionables, and the elbows of the coat, and the seams generally, soon began to get alarmingly white. The hat was once more deposited under the table, and its owner crept into his seat as quietly as ever. There was a week of incessant small rain and mist. At its expiration the " reviver " had entirely vanished, and the shabby- genteel man never afterwards attempted to effect any improve- ment in his outward appearance. It would be difficult to name any particular part of town as the principal resort of shabby-genteel men. We have met a great many persons of this description in the neighbourhood of the inns of court. They may be met with in Holborn, between eight and ten any morning ; and whoever has the curiosity to enter the Insolvent Debtors' Court will observe, both among spectators and practitioners, a great variety of them. We never went on 'Change, by any chance, without seeing some shabby- genteel men, and we have often wondered what earthly business they can have there. They will sit there for hours, leaning on ^great, dropsical, mildewed umbrellas, or eating Abernethy biscuits. Nobody speaks to them, nor they to any one. On SHABBY-GENTEEL PEOPLE. 307 consideration, we remember to have occasionally seen two shabby-genteel men conversing together on 'Change, but our experience assures us that this is an uncommon circumstance, occasioned by the offer of a pinch of snuff, or some such civility. It would be a task of equal difficulty, either to assign any particular spot for the residence of these beings, or to endea- vour to enumerate their general occupations. We were never engaged in business with more than one shabby-genteel man ; and he was a drunken engraver, and lived in a damp back- parlour in a new row of houses at Camden Town, half street, half brick-field, somewhere near the canal. A shabby-genteel man may have no occupation, or he may be a corn agent, or a coal agent, or a wine agent, or a collector of debts, or a broker's assistant, or a broken-down attorney. He may be a clerk of the lowest description, or a contributor to the press of the same grade. Whether our readers have noticed these men, in their walks, as often as we have, we know not ;. this we know — that the miserably poor man (no matter whether he owes his dis- tresses to his own conduct, or that of others) who feels his poverty and vainly strives to conceal it, is one of the most pitiable objects in human nature. Such objects, with few exceptions, are shabby-genteel people. x 2 303 SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER XI MAKING A NIGHT OF IT. JQAMON and Pythias were undoubtedly very good fellows in their way : the former for his extreme readiness to put in special bail for a friend : and the latter for a certain trump-like punctuality in turning up just in the very nick of time, scarcely less remarkable. Many points in their character have, however, grown obsolete. Damons are rather hard to find, in these days of imprisonment for debt (except the sham ones, and they cost half-a-crown) ; and, as to the Pythiases, the few that have existed in these degenerate times, have had an unfortunate knack of making themselves scarce at the very moment when their appearance would have been strictly classical. If the actions of these heroes, however, can find no parallel in modern times, their friendship can. We have Damon and Pythias on the one hand. We have Potter and Smithers on the other ; and, lest the two last-mentioned names should never have reached the ears of our unenligthened readers, we can do no better than make them acquainted with the owners thereof. Mr. Thomas Potter, then, was a clerk in the City, and Mr. Robert Smithers was a ditto in the same ; their incomes were limited, but their friendship was unbounded. They lived in the same street, walked into town every morning at the same hour, dined at the same slap-bang every day, and revelled in each other's company every night. They were knit together by the closest ties of intimacy and friendship, or, as Mr. Thomas Potter touchingly observed, they were " thick-and-thin pals, and nothing but it." There was a spice of romance in Mr. Smithers's / t MAKING A NIGHT OF IT. 309 disposition, a ray of poetry, a gleam of misery, a sort of con- sciousness of he didn't exactly know what, coming across him he didn't precisely know why — which stood out in fine relief against the off-hand, dashing, amateur -pickpocket -sort- of - manner, which distinguished Mr. Potter in an eminent degree. The peculiarity of their respective dispositions extended itself to their individual costume. Mr. Smithers generally appeared in public in a surtout and shoes, with a narrow black neckerchief and a brown hat, very much turned up at the sides — peculiarities which Mr. Potter wholly eschewed, for it was his ambition to do something in the celebrated " kiddy " or stage- coach way, and he had even gone so far as to invest capital in the purchase of a rough blue coat with wooden buttons, made upon the fireman's principle, in which, with the addition of a low-crowned, flower-pot-saucer-shaped hat, he had created no inconsiderable sensation at the Albion in Little Eussell Street, and divers other places of public and fashionable resort. Mr. Potter and Mr. Smithers had mutually agreed that, on the receipt of their quarter's salary, they would jointly and in company " spend the evening " — an evident misnomer — the spending applying, as everybody knows, not to the evening itself but to all the money the individual may chance to be possessed of, on the occasion to which reference is made ; and they had likewise agreed that, on the evening aforesaid, they would " make a night of it " — an expressive term, implying the borrowing of several hours from to-morrow morning, adding them to the night before, and manufacturing a compound night of the whole. The quarter-day arrived at last — we say at last, because quarter-days are as eccentric as comets : moving wonderfully quick when you have a good deal to pay, and marvellously slow when you have a little to receive. Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers met by appointment to begin the evening with a dinner ; and a nice, snug, comfortable dinner they had, consisting of a little procession of four chops and four SKETCHES. BY BOZ. kidneys, following each, other, supported on either side by a pot of the real draught stout, and attended by divers cushions of bread, and wedges of cheese. When the cloth was removed, Mr. Thomas Potter ordered the waiter to bring in two goes of his best Scotch whiskey, with warm water and sugar, and a couple of his " very mildest" Havannahs, which the waiter did. Mr. Thomas Potter mixed his grog, and lighted his cigar ; Mr. Robert Smithers did the same ; and then, Mr. Thomas Potter jocularly proposed as the first toast, '" the abolition of all offices whatever " (not sinecures, but counting-houses), which was immediately drunk by Mr. Robert Smithers with enthusiastic applause. So they went on, talking politics, puffing cigars, and sipping whiskey-and-water, until the " goes " — most appropriately so called — were both gone, which Mr. Robert Smithers perceiving, immediately ordered in two more goes of the best Scotch whiskey, and two more of the very mildest Havannahs ; and the goes kept coming in, and the mild Havannahs kept going out, until, what with the drinking, and lighting, and puffing, and the stale ashes on the table, and the tallow-grease on the cigars, Mr. Robert j Smithers began to doubt the mildness of the Havannahs, and to feel very much as if he had been sitting in a hackney coach with his back to the horses. As to Mr. Thomas Potter, he would keep laughing out loud, and volunteering inarticulate declarations that he was " all right ; " in proof of which he feebly bespoke the evening paper after the next gentleman, but finding it a matter of some difficulty to discover any news in its columns, or to ascertain distinctly whether it had any columns at all, walked slowly out to look for the moon, and, after coming back quite pale with looking up at the sky so long, and attempting to express mirth at Mr. Robert Smithers having fallen asleep, by various galvanic chuckles, laid his head on his arm, and went to sleep also. When he awoke again, Mr. Robert Smithers awoke too, and they both very gravely agreed that it was extremely unwise to MAKING A NIGHT OF IT. 311 eat so many pickled walnuts with, the chops, as it was a notorious fact that they always made people queer and sleepy ; indeed, if it had not been for the whiskey and cigars, there was no know- ing what harm they mightn't have done 'em. So they took some coffee, and after paying the bill, — twelve and twopence the dinner, and the odd tenpence for the waiter — thirteen shillings in all — started out on their expedition to manufacture a night. It was just half-past eight, so they thought they couldn't do better than go at half-price to the slips at the City Theatre, which they did accordingly : Mr. Eobert Smithers, who had become extremely poetical after the settlement of the bill, enlivening the walk by informing Mr. Thomas Potter in con- fidence that he felt an inward presentiment of approaching dissolution, and subsequently embellishing the theatre, by falling asleep, with his head and both arms gracefully drooping over the front of the boxes. Such was the quiet demeanour of the unassuming Smithers, and such were the happy effects of Scotch whiskey and Havannahs on that interesting person ! But Mr. Thomas Potter, whose great aim it was to be considered as a " knowing card," a " fast-goer," and so forth, conducted himself in a very different manner, and commenced going very fast indeed — rather too fast, at last, for the patience of the audience to keep pace with him. On his first entry, he contented himself by earnestly calling upon the gentlemen in the gallery to " flare up," accompanying the demand with another request, expressive of his wish that they would instantaneously " form a union," both which requisitions were responded to, in the manner most in vogue on such occasions. "Give that dog a bone !" cried one gentleman in his shirt-sleeves. " Where have you been a having half a pint of intermediate beer ? " cried a second. " Tailor ! " screamed a third. " Barber's 1 clerk ! " shouted a fourth. " Throw him o — ver ! " roared a fifth ; while numerous voices concurred in desiring Mr. Thomas SKETCHES BY BOZ. Potter to " go home to his mother ! " All these taunts Mr. Thomas Potter received with supreme contempt, cocking the low-crowned hat a little more on one side, whenever any reference was made to his personal appearance, and, standing up with his arms a-kimbo, expressing defiance melodramatically. The overture — to which these various sounds had been an ad libitum accompaniment — concluded, the second piece began, and Mr. Thomas Potter, emboldened by impunity, proceeded to behave in a most unprecedented and outrageous manner. First of all, he imitated the shake of the principal female singer ; then, groaned at the blue fire ; then, affected to be frightened into convulsions of terror at the appearance of the ghost • and, lastly, not only made a running commentary, in an audible voice, upon the dialogue on the stage, but actually awoke Mr. Robert Smithers, who, hearing his companion making a noise, and having a very indistinct notion where he was, or what was required of him, immediately, by way of imitating a good example, set up the most unearthly, unremitting, and appalling howling that ever audience heard. It was too much. " Turn them out ! " was the general cry. A noise, as of shuffling of feet, and men being knocked up with violence against wainscot- ing, was heard: a hurried dialogue of "Come out!" — "I won't ! " — " You shall ! " — " I shan't ! " — " Give me your card, sir ! " — " You're a scoundrel, sir ! " and so forth succeeded. A round of applause betokened the approbation of the audience, and Mr. Robert Smithers and Mr. Thomas Potter found them- selves shot with astonishing swiftness into the road, without having had the trouble of once putting foot to ground during the whole progress of their rapid descent. Mr. Robert Smithers, being constitutionally one of the slow- goers, and having had quite enough of fast-going, in the course of his recent expulsion, to last until the quarter-day then next ensuing at the very least, had no sooner emerged with his companion from the precincts of Milton Street, than he proceeded to indulge in circuitous references to the beauties of sleep, MAKING A NIGHT OF IT. 313 mingled with distant allusions to the propriety of returning to Islington, and testing the influence of their patent Bramahs over the street-door locks to which they respectively belonged. Mr. Thomas Potter, however, was valorous and peremptory. They had come out to make a night of it : and a night must be made. So Mr. Robert Smithers, who was three parts dull, and the other dismal, despairingly assented ; and they went into a wine-vaults, to get materials for assisting them in making a night ; where they found a good many young ladies, and various old gentlemen, and a plentiful sprinkling of hackney coachmen and cab-drivers, all drinking and talking together ; and Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers drank small glasses of brandy, and large glasses of soda, until they began to have a very con- fused idea, either of things in general, or of anything in par- ticular ; and, when they had done treating themselves, they began to treat everybody else ; and the rest of the entertain- ment was a confused mixture of heads and heels, black eyes land blue uniforms, mud and gas-lights, thick doors, and stone paving. Then, as standard novelists expressively inform us — " all was -a blank ! " and in the morning the blank was filled up with the words " Station-house," and the station-house was filled up with Mr. Thomas Potter, Mr. Robert Smithers, and the major part of their wine-vault companions of the preceding night, with a comparatively small portion of clothing of any kind. And it was disclosed at the Police-office, to the indignation of the Bench, and the astonishment of the spectators, how one Robert Smithers, aided and abetted by one Thomas Potter, had knocked down and beaten, in divers streets, at different times, five men, four boys, and three women ; how the said Thomas Potter had feloniously obtained possession of five door-knockers, two bell- handles, and a bonnet ; how Robert Smithers, his friend, had sworn at least forty pounds' worth of oaths, at the rate of five shillings apiece ; terrified whole streets full of her Majesty's subjects with awful shrieks and alarms of fire ; destroyed the 3H SKETCHES BY BOZ. uniforms of five policemen ; and committed various other atrocities, too numerous to recapitulate. And the magistrate, after an appropriate reprimand, fined Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Eobert Smithers five shillings each, for being, what the law vulgarly terms, drunk ; and thirty-four pounds for seventeen assaults at forty shillings a head, with liberty to speak to the prosecutors. The prosecutors were spoken to, and Messrs. Potter and Smithers lived on credit, for a quarter, as best they might ; and, although the prosecutors expressed their readiness to be assaulted twice a week, on the same terms, they have never since been detected in " making a night of it." THE PRISONERS' VAN. 315 CHAPTER XII. THE PRISONERS' VAN. T\7E were passing the corner of Bow Street, on our return " " from a lounging excursion the other afternoon, when a crowd assembled round the door of the Police-office, attracted our attention. We turned up the street accordingly. There were thirty or forty people, standing on the pavement and half across the road ; and a few stragglers were patiently stationed on the opposite side of the way — all evidently waiting in expectation of some arrival. We waited too, a few minutes, but nothing occurred ; so, we turned round to an unshorn sallow-looking cobbler, who was standing next us with his hands under the bib of his apron, and put the usual question of "What's the matter?" The cobbler eyed us from head to foot with superlative contempt, and laconically replied "Nuffin." Now, we were perfectly aware that if two men stop in the street to look at any given object, or even to gaze in the air, two hundred men will be assembled in no time ; but, as we knew very well that no crowd of people could by possibility remain in a street for five minutes without getting up a little amusement among themselves, unless they had some absorbing object in view, the natural inquiry next in order was, " What are all these people waiting here for?" — " Her Majesty's car- riage," replied the cobbler. This was still more extraordinary. We could not imagine what earthly business her Majesty's car- riage could have at the Public Office, Bow Street. We were beginning to ruminate on the possible causes of such an uncom- 3i6 SKETCHES BY BOZ. mon appearance, when a general exclamation from all the boys in the crowd of " Here's the wan I" caused us to raise our heads, and look up the street. The covered vehicle, in which prisoners are conveyed from the police-offices to the different prisons, was coming along at full speed. It then occurred to us, for the first time, that her Majesty's carriage was merely another name for the prisoners' van, conferred upon it, not only by reason of the superior gentility of the term, but because the aforesaid van is main- tained at her Majesty's expense : having been originally started for the exclusive accommodation of ladies and gentlemen under the necessity of visiting the various houses of call known by the general denomination of "her Majesty's Gaols." The van drew up at the office door, and the people thronged round the steps, just leaving a little alley for the prisoners to pass through. Our friend the cobbler, and the other stragglers, crossed over, and we followed their example. The driver, and another man who had been seated by his side in front of the vehicle, dismounted, and were admitted into the office. The office door was closed after them, and the crowd were on the tiptoe of expectation. After a few minutes' delay, the door again opened, and the two first prisoners appeared. They were a couple of girls, of whom the elder could not be more than sixteen, and the younger of whom had certainly not attained her fourteenth year. That they were sisters, was evident, from the resemblance which still subsisted between them, though two additional years of depravity had fixed their brand upon the elder girl's features, as legibly as if a red-hot iron had seared them. They were both gaudily dressed, the younger one especially ; and, although there was a strong similarity between them in both respects, which was rendered the more obvious by their being handcuffed together, it is impossible to conceive a greater contrast than the demeanour of the two presented. The younger girl was weeping bitterly — not for display, or in the hope of producing effect, but for very THE PRISONERS' VAN. 317 shame ; her face was buried in her handkerchief ; and her whole manner was but too expressive of bitter and unavailing sorrow. "How long are you for, Emily?" screamed a red-faced woman in the crowd. " Six weeks and labour," replied the elder girl with a flaunting laugh ; " and that's better than the stone jug anyhow ; the mill's a deal better than the Sessions, and here's Bella a-going too for the first time. Hold up your head, you chicken," she continued, boisterously tearing the other girl's handkerchief away. " Hold up your head, and show 'em your face. I an't jealous, but I'm blessed if I an't game !" — "That's right, old gal," exclaimed a man in a paper cap, who, in common with the greater part of the crowd, had been inexpressibly delighted with this little incident. — " Eight !" replied the girl; "ah, to be sure; what's the odds, eh?" — " Come ! In with you," interrupted the driver. — " Don't you be in a hurry, coachman," replied the girl, "and recollect I want to be set down in Cold Bath Fields — large house with a high garden-wall in front ; you can't mistake it. Hallo ! Bella, where are you going to — you'll pull my precious arm off?" This was addressed to the younger girl, who, in her anxiety to hide herself in the caravan, had ascended the steps first, and forgotten the strain upon the handcuff. " Come down, and let's show you the way." And after jerking the miserable girl down with a force which made her stagger on the pavement, she got into the vehicle, and was followed by her wretched companion. These two girls had been thrown upon London streets, their vices and debauchery, by a sordid and rapacious mother. What the younger girl was then, the elder had been once ; and what the elder then was, the younger must soon become. A melan- choly prospect, but how surely to be realised ; a tragic drama, but how often acted ! Turn to the prisons and police-offices of London — nay, look into the very streets themselves. These things pass before our eyes, day after day, and hour after hour 3i8 SKETCHES BY BOZ. — they have become such matters of course, that they are utterly disregarded. The progress of these girls in crime will be as rapid as the flight of a pestilence, resembling it too in its bane- ful influence and wide-spreading infection. Step by step, how many wretched females, within the sphere of every man's observation, have become involved in a career of vice, frightful to contemplate ; hopeless at its commencement, loathsome and repulsive in its course ; friendless, forlorn, and unpitied, at its miserable conclusion ! There were other prisoners — boys of ten, as hardened in vice as men of fifty — a houseless vagrant, going joyfully to prison as a place of food and shelter, handcuffed to a man whose prospects were ruined, character lost, and family rendered destitute, by his first offence. Our curiosity, however, was satisfied. The first group had left an impression on our mind we would gladly have avoided, and would willingly have effaced. The crowd dispersed ; the vehicle rolled away with its load of guilt and misfortune ; and we saw no more of the Prisoners' Van. THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 319 TALES. CHAPTER I. THE BOARDING-HOUSE. CHAPTER I. ly RS. TIBBS was, beyond all dispute, the most tidy, fidgety, thrifty, little personage that ever inhaled the smoke of London : and the house of Mrs. Tibbs was, decidedly, the neatest in all Great Coram Street. The area and the area steps, and the street-door, and the street-door steps, and the brass handle, and the door-plate, and the knocker, and the fan-light, were all as clean and bright as indefatigable whitewashing, and hearth-stoning, and scrubbing and rubbing could make them. The wonder was, that the brass door-plate, with the interesting inscription "Mrs. Tibbs," had never caught fire from constant friction, so perseveringly was it polished. There were meat-safe-looking blinds in the parlour windows, blue and gold curtains in the drawing-room, and spring-roller blinds, as Mrs. Tibbs was wont in the pride of her heart to boast, " all the way up." The bell-lamp in the passage looked as clear as a soap-bubble ; you could see yourself in all the tables, and French-polish yourself on any one of the chairs. The banisters were bees' -waxed ; and the very stair- wires made your eyes wink, they were so glittering. Mrs. Tibbs was somewhat short of stature, and Mr. Tibbs was by no means a large man. He had, moreover, very short legs, but, by way of indemnification, his face was peculiarly long. He was to his wife what the is in 90 — he was of some importance with her — he was nothing without her. Mrs. Tibbs was always 320 SKETCHES BY BOZ. talking. Mr. Tibbs rarely spoke ; but, if it were at any time possible to put in a word, when he should have said nothing at all, he had that talent. Mrs. Tibbs detested long stories, and Mr. Tibbs had one, the conclusion of which had never been heard by his most intimate friends. It always began, " I recollect when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and six," — but, as he spoke very slowly and softly, and his better half very quickly and loudly, he rarely got beyond the intro- ductory sentence. He was a melancholy specimen of the story- teller. He was the wandering Jew of Joe Millerism. Mr. Tibbs enjoyed a small independence from the pension-list — about £43 15s. lOd. a year. His father, mother, and five interesting scions from the same stock drew a like sum from the revenue of a grateful country, though for what particular service was never known. But, as this said independence was not quite sufficient to furnish two people with all the luxuries of this life, it had occurred to the busy little spouse of Tibbs, that the best thing she could do with a legacy of £700, would be to take and furnish a tolerable house — somewhere in that partially explored tract of country which lies between the British Museum, and a remote village called Somers' Town — for the reception of boarders. Great Coram Street was the spot pitched upon. The house had been furnished accordingly ; two female servants and a boy engaged ; and an advertisement inserted in the morning papers, informing the public that " Six individuals would meet with all the comforts of a cheerful musical home in a select private family, residing within ten minutes' walk of " — every- where. Answers out of number were received, with all sorts of initials ; all the letters of the alphabet seemed to be seized with a sudden wish to go out boarding and lodging ; voluminous was the correspondence between Mrs. Tibbs and the applicants ; and most profound was the secrecy observed. " E." didn't like this, " I." couldn't think of putting up with that ; " I. 0. U." didn't think the terms would suit him ; and " G. R." had never slept in a French bed. The result, however, was, that three gentle- THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 321 men became inmates of Mrs. Tibbs's house, on terms which were "agreeable to all parties." In went the advertisement again, and a lady with her two daughters proposed to increase — not their families, but Mrs. Tibbs's. " Charming woman, that Mrs. Maplesone !" said Mrs. Tibbs, as she and her spouse were sitting by the fire after breakfast ; the gentlemen having gone out on their several avocations. " Charming woman, indeed !" repeated little Mrs. Tibbs, more by way of soliloquy than anything else, for she never thought of consulting her husband. " And the two daughters are delight- ful. We must have some fish to-day ; they'll join us at dinner for the first time." Mr. Tibbs placed the poker at right angles with the fire shovel, and essayed to speak, but recollected he had nothing to say. " The young ladies," continued Mrs. T., " have kindly volun- teered to bring their own piano." Tibbs thought of the volunteer story, but did not venture it. A bright thought struck him. " It's very likely " said he. " Pray don't lean your head against the paper," interrupted Mrs. Tibbs ; " and don't put your feet on the steel fender ; that's worse." Tibbs took his head from the paper, and his feet from the fender, and proceeded. " It's very likely one of the young ladies may set her cap at young Mr. Simpson, and you know a marriage " " A what!" shrieked Mrs. Tibbs. Tibbs modestly repeated his former suggestion. " I beg you won't mention such a thing," said Mrs. T. " A marriage indeed ! — to rob me of my boarders — no, not for the world." Tibbs thought in his own mind that the event was by no means unlikely ; but, as he never argued with his wife, he put a stop to the dialogue, by observing it was " time to go to business." He always went out at ten o'clock in the morning, Y 322 SKETCHES BY BOZ. and returned at five in the afternoon, with an exceedingly dirty face, and smelling mouldy. Nobody knew what he was, or where he went ; but Mrs. Tibbs used to say with an air of great importance that he was engaged in the City. The Miss Maplesones and their accomplished parent arrived in the course of the afternoon in a hackney coach, and accom- panied by a most astonishing number of packages. Trunks, bonnet-boxes, muff-boxes, and parasols, guitar-cases, and parcels of all imaginable shapes, done up in brown paper, and fastened with pins, filled the passage. Then, there was such a running up and down with the luggage, such scampering for warm water for the ladies to wash in, and such a bustle, and confusion, and heating of servants and curling-irons, as had never been known in Great Coram Street before. Little Mrs. Tibbs was quite in her element, bustling about, talking incessantly, and distributing towels and soap like a head nurse in a hospital. The house was not restored to its usual state of quiet repose, until the ladies were safely shut up in their respective bedrooms, engaged in the important occupation of dressing for dinner. ''Are these gals 'andsome ?" inquired Mr. Simpson of Mr. Septimus Hicks, another of the boarders, as they were amusing themselves in the drawing-room, before dinner, by lolling on sofas and contemplating their pumps. "Don't know," replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who was a tallish, white-faced young man, with spectacles, and a black ribbon round his neck instead of a neckerchief — a most inter- esting person : a poetical walker of the hospitals, and a " very talented young man." He was fond of " lugging " into con- versation, all sorts of quotations from Don Juan, without fetter- ing himself by the propriety of their application ; in which particular he was remarkably independent. The other, Mr. Simpson, was one of those young men, who are in society what walking gentlemen are on the stage, only infinitely worse skilled in his vocation than the most indifferent artist. He was as empty-headed as the great bell of St. Paul's ; always THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 323 dressed according to the caricatures published in the monthly fashions ; and spelt Character with a K. " I saw a devilish number of parcels in the passage when I came home," simpered Mr. Simpson. " Materials for the toilet, no doubt," rejoined the Don Juan reader. " ' Much linen, lace, and several pair Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete ; "With other articles of ladies fair, To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat.' " " Is that from Milton ?." inquired Mr. Simpson, « No — from Byron," returned Mr. Hicks, with a look of con- tempt. He was quite sure of his author, because he had never read any other. " Hush ! Here come the gals," and they both commenced talking in a very loud key. " Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones, Mr. Hicks. Mr. Hicks — Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones," said Mrs. Tibbs, with a very red face, for she had been superintending the cooking operations below-stairs, and looked like a wax doll on a sunny day. " Mr. Simpson, I beg your pardon — Mr. Simpson — Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones " — and vice versa. The gentlemen immediately began to slide about with much politeness, and to look as if they wished their arms had been legs, so little did they know what to do with them. The ladies smiled, curtsied, and glided into chairs, and dived for dropped pocket-handkerchiefs ; the gentlemen leant against two of the curtain-pegs ; Mrs. Tibbs went through an admirable bit of serious pantomime with a servant who had come up to ask some question about the fish sa*uce ; and then the two young ladies looked at each other ; and everybody else appeared to discover something very attractive in the pattern of the fender. " Julia, my love," said Mrs. Maplesone to her youngest daughter, in a tone loud enough for the remainder of the company to hear, — " Julia." " Yes, ma." " Don't stoop." — This was said for the purpose of directing Y 2 3^4 SKETCHES BY BOZ. general attention to Miss Julia's figure, which was undeniable. Everybody looked at her, accordingly, and there was another pause. " We had the most uncivil hackney coachman to-day, you can imagine," said Mrs. Maplesone to Mrs. Tibbs, in a confidential tone. "Dear me!" replied the hostess, with an air of great com- miseration. She couldn't say more, for the servant again appeared at the door, and commenced telegraphing most earnestly to her " Missis." " I think hackney coachmen generally are uncivil," said Mr. Hicks in his most insinuating tone. " Positively I think they are," replied Mrs. Maplesone, as if the idea had never struck her before. " And cabmen, too," said Mr. Simpson. This remark was a failure, for no one intimated, by word or sign, the slightest knowledge of the manners and customs of cabmen. "Robinson, what do you want?" said Mrs. Tibbs to the servant, who, by way of making her presence known to her mistress, had been giving sundry hems and sniffs outside the door, during the preceding five minutes. " Please, ma'am, master wants his clean things," replied the servant, taken off her guard. The two young men turned their faces to the window, and "went off" like a couple of bottles of ginger-beer ; the ladies put their handkerchiefs to their mouths ; and little Mrs. Tibbs bustled out of the room to give Tibbs his clean linen, — and the servant warning. Mr. Calton, the remaining boarder, shortly afterwards made his appearance, and proved a surprising promoter of the con- versation. Mr. Calton was a superannuated beau — an old boy. He used to say of himself that although his features were not i regularly handsome, they were striking. They certainly were. It was impossible to look at his face without being reminded of a chubby street-door knocker, half lion half monkey ; and the comparison might be extended to his whole character and con- versation. He had stood still, while everything else had been THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 325 moving. He never originated a conversation, or started an idea ; but if any common-place topic were broached, or, to pursue the comparison, if anybody lifted him up, he would hammer away with surprising rapidity. He had the tic- douloureux occasionally, and then he might be said to be muffled, because he did not make quite as much noise as at other times, when he would go on prosing, rat-tat-tat the same thing over and over again. He had never been married ; but he was still on the look-out for a wife with money. He had a life interest worth about £300 a year — he was exceedingly vain, and inordinately selfish. He had acquired the reputation of being the very pink of politeness, and he walked round the park, and up Regent Street, every day. This respectable personage had made up his mind to render him- self exceedingly agreeable to Mrs. Maplesone — indeed, the desire of being as amiable as possible extended itself to the whole party ; Mrs. Tibbs having considered it an admirable little bit of manage- ment to represent to the gentlemen that she had some reason to believe the ladies were fortunes, and to hint to the ladies, that all the gentlemen were "eligible." A little flirtation, she thought, might keep her house full, without leading to any other result. Mrs. Maplesone was an enterprising widow of about fifty : shrewd, scheming, and good-looking. She was amiably anxious on behalf of her daughters ; in proof whereof she used to remark, that she would have no objection to marry again, if it would benefit her dear girls — she could have no other motive. The " dear girls" themselves were not at all insensible to the merits of " a good establishment." One of them was twenty-five ; the other, three years younger. They had been at different watering- places for four seasons ; they had gambled at libraries, read books in balconies, sold at fancy fairs, danced at assemblies, talked sentiment — in short, they had done all that industrious girls could do — but, as yet, to no purpose. "What a magnificent dresser Mr. Simpson is!" whispered Matilda Maplesone to her sister Julia. 326 SKETCHES BY BOZ. "Splendid!" returned the youngest. The magnificent individual alluded to wore a maroon-coloured dress-coat, with a velvet collar and cuffs of the same tint — very like that which usually invests the form of the distinguished unknown who condescends to play the " swell " in the pantomime at " Kichardson's Show," " What whiskers !" said Miss Julia. " Charming !" responded her sister ; "and what hair !" His hair was like a wig, and distinguished by that insinuating wave which graces the shining locks of those chefs-d'oeuvre of art surmounting the waxen images in Bartellot's window, in Eegent Street ; his whiskers meeting beneath his chin, seemed strings wherewith to tie it on, ere science had rendered them unnecessary by her patent invisible springs. " Dinner's on the table, ma'am, if you please," said the boy, who now appeared for the first time, in a revived black coat of his master's. " Oh ! Mr. Calton, will you lead Mrs. Maplesone ? — Thank you." Mr. Simpson offered his arm to Miss Julia ; Mr. Septi- mus Hicks escorted the lovely Matilda ; and the procession proceeded to the dining-room. Mr. Tibbs was introduced, and Mr. Tibbs bobbed up and down to the three ladies like a figure in a Dutch clock, with a powerful spring in the middle of his body, and then dived rapidly into his seat at the bottom of the table, delighted to screen himself behind a soup-tureen, which he could just see over, and that was all. The boarders were seated, a lady and gentleman alternately, like the layers of bread and meat in a plate of sandwiches ; and then Mrs. Tibbs directed James to take off the covers. Salmon, lobster sauce, giblet soup, and the usual accompaniments were discovered : potatoes like petrifactions, and bits of toasted bread, the shape and size of blank dice. " Soup for Mrs. Maplesone, my dear," said the bustling Mrs. Tibbs. She always called her husband " my dear " before com- pany. Tibbs, who had been eating his bread, and calculating THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 327 how long it would be before he should get any fish, helped the soup in a hurry, made a small island on the table-cloth, and put his glass upon it, to hide it from his wife. " Miss Julia, shall I assist you to some fish ?" " If you please — very little — oh ! plenty, thank you " (a bit about the size of a walnut put upon her plate). " Julia is a very little eater," said Mrs. Maplesone to Mr. Calton. The knocker gave a single rap. He was busy eating the fish with his eyes : so he only ejaculated, " Ah !" " My dear," said Mrs. Tibbs to her spouse after every one else had been helped, "what do yow take?" The inquiry was accompanied with a look intimating that he mustn't say fish, because there was not much left. Tibbs thought that the frown referred to the island on the table-cloth ; he therefore coolly replied, " Why — I'll take a little — fish, I think." " Did you say fish, my dear ?" (another frown.) " Yes, dear," replied the villain, with an expression of acute hunger depicted in his countenance. The tears almost started to Mrs. Tibbs's eyes as she helped her "wretch of a husband," as she inwardly called him, to the last eatable bit of salmon on the dish. "James, take this to your master, and take away your master's knife." This was deliberate revenge, as Tibbs never could eat fish without one. He was, however, constrained to chase small particles of salmon round and round his plate with a piece of bread and a fork, the number of successful attempts being about one in seventeen. "Take away, James," said Mrs. Tibbs, as Tibbs swallowed the fourth mouthful — and away went the plates like lightning. "I'll take a bit of bread, James," said the poor " master of the house," more hungry than ever. "Never mind your master now, James," said Mrs. Tibbs, " see about the meat." This was conveyed in the tone in which ladies usually give admonitions to servants in company, 328 SKETCHES BY BOZ. that k to say, a low one; but which, like a stage whisper pTei? PeCUHaremphasis ' is most distinctly heard by everybody A pause ensued before the table was replenished-a sort of parenthesis in which Mr. Simpson, Mr. Calton, and Mr Hicks produced respectively a bottle of sauteme, bucellas, and sherry' and took wme with everybody-except Tibbs. No one ever thought of him. Between the fish and an intimated sirloin, there was a pro- longed interval. r Here was an opportunity for Mr. Hicks. He could not resist tne singularly appropriate quotation— "But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goats' flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton, And, when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on." " Very ungentlemanly behaviour," thought little Mrs. Tibbs to talk in that way." " ^ Said Mr ' Calton > fil ^g nis glass. « Tom Moore is my poet. * " And mine," said Mrs. Maplesone. " And mine," said Miss Julia. " And mine," added Mr. Simpson. " Look at his compositions," resumed the knocker. " To be sure," said Simpson, with confidence. "Look at Don Juan," replied Mr. Septimus Hicks. "Julia's letter," suggested Miss Matilda. _ "Can anything be grander than the Fire Worshippers » " inquired Miss Julia. " " To be sure," said Simpson. "Or Paradise and the Peri," said the old beau. "Yes; or Paradise and the Peer," repeated Simpson, who thought he was getting through it capitally "It's all very well," replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who,- as we have before hinted, never had read anything but Don Juan THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 329 Where will you find anything finer than the description of the siege, at the commencement of the seventh canto ?" " Talking of a siege," said Tibbs, with a mouthful of bread — " when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and six, our commanding officer was Sir Charles Rampart ; and one day, when we were exercising on the ground on which the London University now stands, he says, says he, Tibbs (calling me from the ranks) Tibbs " " Tell your master, James." interrupted Mrs. Tibbs, in an awfully distinct tone, " tell your master if he wont carve those fowls, to send them to me." The discomfited volunteer instantly set to work, and carved the fowls almost as expe- ditiously as his wife operated on the haunch of mutton. Whether he ever finished the story is not known ; but, if he did, nobody heard it. As the ice was now broken, and the new inmates more at home, every member of the company felt more at ease. Tibbs himself most certainly did, because he went to sleep imme- diately after dinner. Mr. Hicks and the ladies discoursed most eloquently about poetry, and the theatres, and Lord Chester- field's Letters ; and Mr. Calton followed up what everybody said, with continuous double knocks. Mrs. Tibbs highly approved of every observation that fell from Mrs. Maplesone ; and as Mr. Simpson sat with a smile upon his face and said " Yes," or " Certainly," at intervals of about four minutes each, he received full credit for understanding what was going forward. The gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing-room very shortly after they had left the dining-parlour. Mrs. Maplesone and Mr. Calton played cribbage, and the "young people" amused themselves with music and conversation. The Miss Maplesones sang the most fascinating duets, and accompanied themselves on guitars, ornamented with bits of ethereal blue ribbon; Mr. Simpson put on a pink waistcoat, and said he was in raptures ; and Mr. Hicks felt in the seventh heaven of poetry, or the seventh canto of Don Juan — it was the same thing to 330 SKETCHES BY BOZ. him. Mrs. Tibbs was quite charmed with the new-comers; and Mr. Tibbs spent the evening in his usual way — he went to sleep, and woke up, and went to sleep again, and woke at supper-time. "We are not about to adopt the licence of novel-writers, and to let " years roll on ;" but we will take the liberty of requesting the reader to suppose that six months have elapsed since the dinner we have described, and that Mrs. Tibbs' s boarders have, during that period, sung, and danced, and gone to theatres and exhibitions together, as ladies and gentlemen, wherever they board, often do. And we will beg them, the period we have mentioned having elapsed, to imagine farther, that Mr. Septimus Hicks received, in his own bedroom (a front attic), at an early hour one morning, a note from Mr. Calton, requesting the favour of seeing him, as soon as convenient to himself, in his (Calton s) dressing-room on the second-floor back. " Tell Mr. Calton Til come down directly," said Mr. Septimus to the boy. "Stop — is Mr. Calton unwell?" inquired the excited walker of hospitals, as he put on a bed-furniture-looking dressing-gown. " Not as I knows on, sir," replied the boy. " Please, sir, he looked rather rum, as it might be." " Ah, that's no proof of his being ill," returned Hicks, uncon- sciously. " Very well : I'll be down directly." Down-stairs ran the boy with the message, and down went the excited Hicks himself, almost as soon as the message was delivered. " Tap, tap." " Come in." — Door opens, and discovers Mr. Calton sit- ting in an easy-chair. Mutual shakes of the hand exchanged, and Mr. Septimus Hicks motioned to a seat. A short pause. Mr. Hicks coughed, and Mr. Calton took a pinch of snuff. It was one of those interviews where neither party knows what to say. Mr. Septimus Hicks broke silence. " I received a note " he said, very tremulously, in a voice like a Punch with a cold. THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 331 " Yes," returned the other, " you did." " Exactly." " Yes." Now, although this dialogue must have been satisfactory, both gentlemen felt there was something more important to be said ; therefore they did as most men in such a situation would have done — they looked at the table with a determined aspect. The conversation had been opened, however, and Mr. Calton had made up his mind to continue it, with a regular double knock. He always spoke very pompously. " Hicks," said he, "I have sent for you, in consequence of certain arrangements which are pending in this house, connected with a marriage." "With a marriage !" ' gasped Hicks, compared with whose expression of countenance, Hamlet's, when he sees his father's ghost, is pleasing and composed. " With a marriage," returned the knocker. " I have sent for you to prove the great confidence I can repose in you." "And will you betray me?" eagerly inquired Hicks, who in his alarm had even forgotten to quote. " I betray you I Won't you betray me V " Never ; no one shall know, to my dying day, that you had a hand in the business," responded the agitated Hicks, with an inflamed countenance, and his hair standing on end as if he were on the stool of an electrifying machine in full operation. " People must know that, some time or other — within a year, I imagine," said Mr. Calton, with an air of great self-compla- cency. " We may have a family." "•We! — That won't affect you, surely?" " The devil it won't!" " No ! how can it ?" said the bewildered Hicks. Calton was too much inwrapped in the contemplation of his happiness to see the equivoque between Hicks and himself ; and threw him- self back in his chair. " Oh, Matilda !" sighed the antique beau, in a lackadaisical voice, and applying his right hand a 332 SKETCHES BY BOZ. little to the left of the fourth button of his waistcoat, counting from the bottom. " Oh, Matilda !" "What Matilda?" inquired Hicks, starting up. " Matilda Maplesone," responded the other, doing the same. " I marry her to-morrow morning," said Hicks. " It's false," rejoined his companion : " I marry her !" " You marry her !" " I marry her !" " You marry Matilda Maplesone ?" " Matilda Maplesone." " Miss Maplesone marry you V " Miss Maplesone ! No : Mrs. Maplesone." "Good Heaven!" said Hicks, falling into his chair. "You marry the mother, and I the daughter ! " " Most extraordinary circumstance !" replied Mr. Calton, " and rather inconvenient too ; for the fact is, that owing to Matilda's wishing to keep her intention secret from her daughters until the ceremony had taken place, she doesn't like applying to any of her friends to give her away. I entertain an objection to making the affair known to my acquaintance just now ; and the consequence is, that I sent to you, to know whether you'd oblige me by acting as father." " I should have been most happy, I assure you," said Hicks, in a tone of condolence ; "but, you see, I shall be acting as bride- groom. One character is frequently a consequence of the other ; but it is not usual to act in both at the same time. There's Simpson — I have no doubt he'll do it for you." " I don't like to ask him," replied Calton ; " he's such a donkey." Mr. Septimus Hicks looked up at the ceiling, and down at the floor ; at last an idea struck him. " Let the man of the house, Tibbs, be the father," he suggested ; and then he quoted, as peculiarly applicable to Tibbs and the pair — " Oh Powers of Heaven ! what dark eyes meets she there ? 'Tis — 'tis her father's — fixed upon the pair." THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 333 " The idea has struck me already," said Mr. Calton : " but you see, Matilda, for what reason I know not, is very anxious that Mrs. Tibbs should know nothing about it, till it's all over. It's a natural delicacy, after all, you know." " He's the best-natured little man in existence, if you manage him properly," said Mr. Septimus Hicks. " Tell him not to mention it to his wife, and assure him she won't mind it, and he'll do it directly. My marriage is to be a secret one, on account of the mother and my father : therefore he must be enjoined to secrecy." A small double knock, like a presumptuous single one, was that instant heard at the street-door. It was Tibbs ; it could be no one else ; for no one else occupied five minutes in rubbing his shoes. He had been out to pay the baker's bill. " Mr. Tibbs," called Mr. Calton in a very bland tone, looking over the banisters. " Sir !" replied he of the dirty face. " Will you have the kindness to step up-stairs for a moment?" " Certainly, sir," said Tibbs, delighted to be taken notice of. The bedroom door was carefully closed, aiid Tibbs, having put his hat on the floor (as most timid men do), and been accom- modated with a seat, looked as astounded as if he were suddenly summoned before the familiars of the Inquisition. " A rather unpleasant occurrence, Mr. Tibbs," said Calton, in a very portentous manner, " obliges me to consult you, and to beg you will not communicate what I am about to say, to your wife." Tibbs acquiesced, wondering in his own mind what the deuce the other could have done, and imagining that at least he must have broken the best decanters. Mr. Calton resumed : "I am placed, Mr. Tibbs, in rather an unpleasant situation." Tibbs looked at Mr. Septimus Hicks, as if he thought Mr. H.'s being in the immediate vicinity of his fellow-boarder might constitute the unpleasantness of his situation ; but as he did 334 SKETCHES BY BOZ. not exactly know what to say, he merely ejaculated the mono- syllable "Lor!" " Now/' continued the knocker, " let me beg you will exhibit no manifestations of surprise, which may be over- heard by the domestics, when, I tell you — command your feel- ings of astonishment — that two inmates of this house intend to be married to-morrow morning." And he drew back his chair several feet, to perceive the effect of the unlooked-for announcement. If Tibbs had rushed from the room, staggered down-stairs, and fainted in the passage — if he had instantaneously jumped out of the window into the mews behind the house, in an agony of surprise — his behaviour would have been much less inex- plicable to Mr. Calton than it was, when he put his hands into his inexpressible-pockets, and said with a half-chuckle, " Just so." " You are not surprised, Mr. Tibbs ?" inquired Mr. Calton. " Bless you, no, sir," returned Tibbs ; " after all it's very natural. When two young people get together, you know— — " " Certainly, certainly," said Calton, with an indescribable air of self-satisfaction. "You don't think it's at all an out-of-the-way affair then V asked Mr. Septimus Hicks, who had watched the countenance of Tibbs in mute astonishment. " No, sir," replied Tibbs ; " I was just the same at his age." He actually smiled when he said this. " How devilish well I must carry my years !" thought the delighted old beau, knowing he was at least ten years older than Tibbs at that moment. " Well, then, to come to the point at once," he continued, " I have to ask you whether you will object to act as father on the occasion ?" " Certainly not," replied Tibbs, still without evincing an atom of surprise. "You will not ?" THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 335 " Decidedly not," reiterated Tibbs, still as calm as a pot of porter with the head off.X Mr. Calton seized the hand of the petticoat-governed little man, and vowed eternal friendship from that hour. Hicks, who was all admiration and surprise, did the same. " Now confess," asked Mr. Calton of Tibbs, as he picked up his hat, "were you not a little surprised ?" " I b'lieve you !" replied that illustrious person, holding up one hand ; " I b'lieve you ! When I first heard of it." " So sudden," said Septimus Hicks. " So strange to ask me, you know," said Tibbs. " So odd altogether!" said the superannuated love-maker; and then all three laughed. " I say," said Tibbs, shutting the door which he had pre- viously opened, and giving full vent to a hitherto corked-up giggle, " what bothers me is, what will his father say ?" Mr. Septimus Hicks looked at Mr. Calton. " Yes ; but the best of it is," said the latter, giggling in his turn, " I haven't got a father — he ! he ! he !" " You haven't got a father. No ; but he has," said Tibbs. " Who has ?" inquired Septimus Hicks. " Why him." " Him, who ? Do you know my secret ? Do you mean me?" " You ! No ; you know who I mean," returned Tibbs with a knowing wink. "For Heaven's sake whom do you mean?" inquired Mr. Calton, who, like Septimus Hicks, was all but out of his senses at the strange confusion. " Why Mr. Simpson, of course," replied Tibbs ; " who else could I mean ?" "I see it all," said the Byron-quoter ; " Simpson marries Julia Maplesone to-morrow morning !" " Undoubtedly," replied Tibbs, thoroughly satisfied, " of course he does." It would require the pencil of Hogarth to illustrate — our THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 337 bill), and being disinherited by his father, who died soon after- wards, was fortunate enough to obtain a permanent engagement at a fashionable hair-cutter's ; hair-dressing being a science to which he had frequently directed his attention. In this situa- tion he had necessarily many opportunities of making himself acquainted with the habits, and style of thinking, of the exclusive portion of the nobility of this kingdom. To this fortunate cir- cumstance are we indebted for the production of those brilliant efforts of genius, his fashionable novels, which so long as good taste, unsullied by exaggeration, cant, and quackery, continues to exist, cannot fail to instruct and amuse the thinking portion of the community. It only remains to add, that this complication of disorders completely deprived poor Mrs. Tibbs of all her inmates, except the one whom she could have best spared — her husband. That wretched little man returned home, on the day of the wedding, in a state of partial intoxication ; and, under the influence of wine, excitement, and despair, actually dared to brave the anger of his wife. Since that ill-fated hour he has constantly taken his meals in the kitchen, to which apartment, it is under- stood, his witticisms will be in future confined : a turn-up bed- stead having been conveyed there by Mrs. Tibbs' s order for his exclusive accommodation. It is possible that he will be enabled to finish, in that seclusion, his story of the volunteers. The advertisement has again appeared in the morning papers. Results must be reserved for another chapter. CHAPTER THE SECOND. "Well!" said little Mrs. Tibbs to herself, as she sat in the front parlour of the Coram Street mansion one morning, mend- ing a piece of stair-carpet off the first landing. " Things have z 338 SKETCHES BY BOZ. not turned out so badly, either, and if I only get a favourable answer to the advertisement, we shall be full again." Mrs. Tibbs resumed her occupation of making worsted lattice- work in the carpet, anxiously listening to the twopenny postman, who was hammering his way down the street, at the rate of a penny a knock. The house was as quiet as possible. There was only one low sound to be heard — it was the unhappy Tibbs cleaning the gentlemen's boots in the back-kitchen, and accompanying himself with a buzzing noise, in wretched mockery of humming a tune. The postman drew near the house. He paused — so did Mrs. Tibbs. A knock — a bustle — a letter — post-paid. " T. I. presents compt. to I. T. and T. I. begs To say that i see the advertisement And she will Do Herself the pleasure of calling On you at 12 o'clock to-morrow morning. " T. I. as To apologise to I. T. for the shortness Of the notice But i hope it will not unconvenience you. " I remain yours Truly " Wednesday evening." Little Mrs. Tibbs perused the document over and over again ; and the more she read it, the more was she confused by the mixture of the first and third person ; the substitution of the "i" for the " T. I. ;" and the transition from the "I. T." to the "you." The writing looked like a skein of thread in a tangle, and the note was ingeniously folded into a perfect square, with the direction squeezed up into the right-hand corner, as if it were ashamed of itself. The back of the epistle was pleasingly ornamented with a large red wafer, which, with the addition of divers ink-stains, bore a marvellous resemblance to a black beetle trodden upon. One thing, however, was perfectly clear to the perplexed Mrs. Tibbs. Somebody was to call at twelve. The drawing-room was forthwith dusted for the third time that morning ; three or four chairs were pulled out of their places, and a corresponding number of books carefully upset, in order THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 339 that there might be a due absence of formality. Down went the piece of stair-carpet before noticed, and up ran Mrs. Tibbs " to make herself tidy." The clock of New St. Pancras Church struck twelve, and the Foundling, with laudable politeness, did the same ten minutes afterwards. St. Something else struck the quarter, and then there arrived a single lady with a double knock, in a pelisse the colour of the interior of a damson pie ; a bonnet of the same, with a regular conservatory of artificial flowers ; a white veil, and a green parasol, with a cobweb border. The visitor (who was very fat and red-faced) was shown into the drawing-room ; Mrs. Tibbs presented herself, and the nego- tiation commenced. "I called in consequence of an advertisement," said the stranger, in a voice as if she had been playing a set of Pan's pipes for a fortnight without leaving off. " Yes !" said Mrs. Tibbs, rubbing her hands very slowly, and looking the applicant full in the face — two things she always did on such occasions. "Money isn't no object whatever to me," said the lady, " so much as living in a state of retirement and obtrusion." Mrs. Tibbs, as a matter of course, acquiesced in such an exceedingly natural desire. " I am constantly attended by a medical man," resumed the pelisse wearer ; "I have been a shocking unitarian for some time — I, indeed, have had very little peace since the death of Mr. Bloss." Mrs. Tibbs looked at the relict of the departed Bloss, and thought he must have had very little peace in his time. Of course she could not say so ; so she looked very sympathising. " I shall be a good deal of trouble to you," said Mrs. Bloss ; " but, for that trouble I am willing to pay. I am going through a course of treatment which renders attention necessary. T have one mutton chop in bed at half-past eight, and another at ten, every morning." z 2 34Q SKETCHES BY BOZ. Mrs. Tibbs, as in duty bound, expressed the pity she felt for anybody placed in such a distressing situation ; and the carnivorous Mrs. Bloss proceeded to arrange the various pre- liminaries with wonderful dispatch. " Now mind," said that lady, after terms were arranged ; "I am to have the second- floor front for my bedroom ?" " Yes, ma'am." " And you'll find room for my little servant Agnes ?" " Oh ! certainly." " And I can have one of the cellars in the area for my bottled porter?" " With the greatest pleasure. James shall get it ready for you by Saturday." " And I'll join the company at the breakfast-table on Sunday morning," said Mrs. Bloss. " I shall get up on purpose." " Very well," returned Mrs. Tibbs, in her most amiable tone ; for satisfactory references had " been given and required," and it was quite certain that the new-comer had plenty of money. " It's rather singular," continued Mrs. Tibbs, with what was meant for a most bewitching smile, " that we have a gentleman now with us, who is in a very delicate state of health — a Mr. Gobler. — His apartment is the back drawing-room." " The next room ?" inquired Mrs. Bloss. " The next room," repeated the hostess. " How very promiscuous !" ejaculated the widow. " He hardly ever gets up," said Mrs. Tibbs in a whisper. " Lor !" cried Mrs. Bloss, in an equally low tone. " And when he is up," said Mrs. Tibbs, " we never can per- suade him to go to bed again." " Dear me!" said the astonished Mrs. Bloss, drawing her chair nearer Mrs. Tibbs. " What is his complaint ?" " Why, the fact is," replied Mrs. Tibbs, with a most com- municative air, " he has no stomach whatever." "No what?" inquired Mrs. Bloss, with a look of the most indescribable alarm. THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 341 "No stomach," repeated Mrs. Tibbs, with a shake of the head. "Lord bless us ! what an extraordinary case !" gasped Mrs. Bloss, as if she understood the communication in its literal sense, and was astonished at a gentleman without a stomach finding it necessary to board anywhere. " When I say he has no stomach," explained the chatty little Mrs. Tibbs, " I mean that his digestion is so much impaired, and his interior so deranged, that his stomach is not of the least use to him ; — in fact, it's an inconvenience." " Never heard such a case in my life !" exclaimed Mrs. Bloss. " Why, he's worse than I am." " Oh, yes !" replied Mrs, Tibbs ; — " certainly." She said this with great confidence, for the damson pelisse suggested that Mrs. Bloss, at all events, was not . suffering under Mr. Gobler's complaint. " You have quite incited my curiosity," said Mrs. Bloss, as she rose to depart. " How I long to see him !" " He generally comes down once a week," replied Mrs. Tibbs ; " I dare say you'll see him on Sunday." With this consolatory promise Mrs. Bloss was obliged to be contented. She accord- ingly walked slowly down the stairs, detailing her complaints all the way ; and Mrs. Tibbs followed her, uttering an excla- mation of compassion at every step. James (who looked very gritty, for he was cleaning the knives) fell up the kitchen stairs, and opened the street-door ; and, after mutual farewells, Mrs. Bloss slowly departed, down the shady side of the street. It is almost superfluous to say, that the lady whom we have just shown out at the street-door (and whom the two female servants are now inspecting from the second-floor windows) was exceedingly vulgar, ignorant, and selfish. Her deceased better- half had been an eminent cork-cutter, in which capacity he had amassed a decent fortune. He had no relative but his nephew, and no friend but his cook. The former had the insolence one morning to ask for the loan of fifteen pounds ; and, by way of 342 SKETCHES BY BOZ. retaliation, lie married the latter next day ; he made a will immediately afterwards, containing a burst of honest indignation against his nephew (who supported himself and two sisters on £100 a year), and a bequest of his whole property to his wife. He felt ill after breakfast, and died after dinner. There is a mantel-piece-looking tablet in a civic parish church, setting forth his virtues, and deploring his loss. He never dishonoured a bill, or gave away a halfpenny. The relict and sole executrix of this noble-minded man was an odd mixture of shrewdness and simplicity, liberality and meanness. Bred up as she had been, she knew no mode of living .so agreeable as a boarding-house ; and having nothing to do, and nothing to wish for, she naturally imagined she must be very ill — an impression which was most assiduously promoted by her medical attendant, Dr. Wosky, and her hand- maid Agnes : both of whom, doubtless for good reasons, encou- raged all her extravagant notions. Since the catastrophe recorded in the last chapter, Mrs. Tibbs had been very shy of young-lady boarders. Her present inmates were all lords of the creation, and she availed herself of the opportunity of their assemblage at the dinner-table, to announce the expected arrival of Mrs. Bloss. The gentlemen received the communication with stoical indifference, and Mrs. Tibbs devoted all her energies to prepare for the reception of the valetudi- narian. The second-floor front was scrubbed, and washed, and flannelled, till the wet went through to the drawing-room ceiling. Clean white counterpanes, and curtains, and napkins, water-bottles as clear as crystal, blue jugs, and mahogany furniture, added to the splendour, and increased the comfort, of the apartment. * The warming-pan was in constant requisi- tion, and a fire lighted in the room every day. The chattels of Mrs. Bloss were forwarded by instalments. First, there came a large hamper of Guinness' s stout, and an umbrella ; then, a train of trunks ; then, a pair of clogs and a bandbox ; then, an easy-chair with an air-cushion ; then, a variety of suspicious- THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 343 looking packages; and — "though last not least" — Mrs. Bloss and Agnes : the latter in a cherry-coloured merino dress, open-work stockings, and shoes with sandals : like a disguised Columbine. The installation of the Duke of Wellington, as Chancellor of the University of Oxford, was nothing, in point of bustle and turmoil, to the installation of Mrs. Bloss in her new quarters. True, there was no bright doctor of civil law to deliver a classical address on the occasion ; but there were several other old women present, who spoke quite as much to the purpose, and understood themselves equally well. The chop-eater was so fatigued with the process of removal that she declined leaving her room until the following morning ; so a mutton chop, pickle, a pill, a pint bottle of stout, and other medicines, were carried up-stairs for her consumption. " Why, what do you think, ma'am ?" inquired the inquisi- tive Agnes of her mistress, after they had been in the house some three hours ; " what do you think, ma'am ? the lady of the house is married." "Married!" said Mrs. Bloss, taking the pill and a draught of Guinness — " married ! Unpossible !" " She is indeed, ma'am," returned the Columbine ; " and her husband, ma'am, lives — he — he — he — lives in the kitchen, ma'am." " In the kitchen!" " Yes, ma'am : and — he — he — he — the housemaid says, he never goes into the parlour except on Sundays ; and that Mrs. Tibbs makes him clean the gentlemen's boots ; and that he cleans the windows, too, sometimes ; and that one morning early, when he was in the front balcony cleaning the drawing- room windows, he called out to a gentleman on the opposite side of the way, who used to live here — ' Ah ! Mr. Calton, sir, how are you V" Here the attendant laughed till Mrs. Bloss was in serious apprehension of her chuckling herself into a fit. 344 SKETCHES BY BOZ. " Well, I never ! said Mrs. Bloss. " Yes. And please, ma'am, the servants gives him gin-and- water sometimes ; and then he cries, and says he hates his wife and the boarders, and wants to tickle them." "Tickle the boarders!" exclaimed. Mrs. Bloss, seriously alarmed. " No, ma'am, not the boarders, the servants." " Oh, is that all ?" said Mrs. Bloss, quite satisfied. " He wanted to kiss me as I came up the kitchen stairs, just now," said Agnes, indignantly ; " but I gave it him — a little wretch !" This intelligence was but too true. A long course of snub- bing and neglect ; his days spent in the kitchen, and his nights in the turn-up bedstead, had completely broken the little spirit that the unfortunate volunteer had ever possessed. He had no one to whom he could detail his injuries but the servants, and they were almost of necessity his chosen confidants. It is no less strange than true, however, that the little weaknesses which he had incurred, most probably during his military career, seemed to increase as his comforts diminished. He was actually a sort of journeyman Giovanni of the basement story. The next morning, being Sunday, breakfast was laid in the front parlour at ten o'clock. Nine was the usual time, but the family always breakfasted an hour later on Sabbath. Tibbs enrobed himself in his Sunday costume — a black coat, and exceedingly short, thin trousers ; with a very large white waist- coat, white stockings and cravat, and Blucher boots — and mounted to the parlour aforesaid. Nobody had come down, and he amused himself by drinking the contents of the milk-pot with a tea-spoon. A pair of slippers were heard descending the stairs. Tibbs flew to a chair ; and a stern-looking man, of about fifty, with very little hair on his head, and a Sunday paper in his hand, entered the room. THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 345 " Good morning, Mr. Evenson," said Tibbs, very humbly, with something between a nod and bow. "How do you, Mr. Tibbs?" replied he of the slippers, as he sat himself down, and began to read his paper without saying another word. "Is Mr. Wisbottle in town to-day, do you know, sir?" inquired Tibbs, just for the sake of saying something. " I should think he was," replied the stern gentleman. " He was whistling ' The Light Guitar,' in the next room to mine, at five o'clock this morning." "He's very fond of whistling," said Tibbs, with a slight smirk. " Yes — I ain't," was the laconic reply. Mr. John Evenson was in the receipt of an independent income, arising chiefly from various houses he owned in the different suburbs. He was very morose and discontented. He was a thorough radical, and used to attend a great variety of public meetings, for the express purpose of finding fault with everything that was proposed. Mr. Wisbottle, on the other hand, was a high Tory. He was a clerk in the Woods and Forests Office, which he considered rather an aristocratic employment ; he knew the peerage by heart, and could tell you, off-hand, where any illustrious personage lived. He had a good set of teeth, and a capital tailor. Mr. Evenson looked on all these qualifications with profound contempt ; and the conse- quence was that the two were always disputing, much to the edification of the rest of the house. It should be added, that, in addition to his partiality for whistling, Mr. Wisbottle had a great idea of his singing powers. There were two other boarders, besides the gentleman in the back drawing-room — Mr. Alfred Tomkins and Mr. Frederick 0' Bleary. Mr. Tomkins was a clerk in a wine-house ; he was a connoisseur in paintings, and had a wonderful eye for the picturesque. Mr. 0' Bleary was an Irish- man recently imported ; he was in a perfectly wild state ; and had come over to England to be an apothecary, a clerk in a 346 SKETCHES BY BOZ. government office, an actor, a reporter, or anything else that turned up — he was not particular. He was on familiar terms with two small Irish members, and got franks for everybody in the house. He felt convinced that his intrinsic merits must procure him a high destiny. He wore shepherd' s-plaid inex- pressibles, and used to look under all the ladies' bonnets as he walked along the streets. His manners and appearance reminded one of Orson. " Here comes Mr. Wisbottle," said Tibbs ; and Mr. Wisbottle forthwith appeared in blue slippers, and a shawl dressing-gown, whistling " Di piacer." " Good morning, sir," said Tibbs again. It was almost the only thing he ever said to anybody. " How are you, Tibbs ? " condescendingly replied the amateur ; and he walked to the window, and whistled louder than ever. " Pretty air, that ! " said Evenson, with a snarl, and without taking his eyes oft* the paper. " Glad you like it," replied Wisbottle, highly gratified. " Don't you think it would sound better, if you whistled it a little louder ?" inquired the mastiff. " No ; I don't think it would," rejoined the unconscious Wisbottle. " I'll tell you what, Wisbottle," said Evenson, who had been bottling up his anger for some hours — " the next time you feel disposed to whistle 1 The Light Guitar ' at five o'clock in the morning, I'll trouble you to whistle it with your head out o' window. If you don't I'll learn the triangle — I will by " The entrance of Mrs. Tibbs (with the keys in a little basket) interrupted the threat, and prevented its conclusion. Mrs. Tibbs apologised for being down rather late ; the bell was rung ; J ames brought up the urn, and received an unlimited order for dry toast and bacon. Tibbs sat down at the bottom of the table, and began eating water-cresses like a Nebuchad- THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 347 nezzar. Mr. O'Bleary appeared, and Mr. Alfred Tomkins. The compliments of the morning were exchanged, and the tea was made. " God bless me ! " exclaimed Tomkins, who had been look- ing out at the window. " Here — Wisbottle — pray come here — make haste." Mr. Wisbottle started from the table, and every one looked up. " Do you see," said the connoisseur, placing Wisbottle in the right position — " a little more this way : there — do you see how splendidly the light falls upon the left side of that broken chimney-pot at No. 48?" " Dear me ! I see," replied Wisbottle, in a tone of admira- , tion. " I never saw an object stand out so beautifully against the clear sky in my life," ejaculated Alfred. Everybody (except John Evenson) echoed the sentiment ; for Mr. Tomkins had a great character for finding out beauties which no one else could discover — he certainly deserved it. " I have frequently observed a chimney-pot m College Green, Dublin, which has a much better effect," said the patriotic O'Bleary, who never allowed Ireland to be outdone on any point. The assertion was received with oovious incredulity, for Mr. Tomkins declared that no other chimney-pot in the United Kingdom, broken or unbroken, could be so beautiful as the one at No. 48. The room-door was suddenly thrown open, and Agnes appeared leading in Mrs. Bloss, who was dressed in a geranium- coloured muslin gown, and displayed a gold watch of huge dimensions ; a chain to match ; and a splendid assortment of rings, with enormous stones. A general rush was made for a chair, and a regular introduction took place. Mr. John Evenson made a slight inclination of the head ; Mr. Frederick O'Bleary, Mr. Alfred Tomkins, and Mr.* Wisbottle, 348 SKETCHES BY BOZ. bowed like the mandarins in a grocer's shop ; Tibbs rubbed hands, and went round in circles. He was observed to close one eye, and to assume a clockwork sort of expression with the other ; this has been considered as a wink, and it has been reported that Agnes was its object. We repel the calumny, and challenge contradiction. Mrs. Tibbs inquired after Mrs. Bloss's health in a low tone. Mrs. Bloss, with a supreme contempt for the memory of Lindley Murray, answered the various questions in a most satisfactory manner ; and a pause ensued, during which the eatables dis- appeared with awful rapidity. " You must have been very much pleased with the appearance of the ladies going to the drawing-room the other day, Mr. 0' Bleary ? " said Mrs. Tibbs, hoping to start a topic. " Yes," replied Orson, with a mouthful of toast. " Never saw anything like it before, I suppose ? " suggested Wisbottle. " No — except the Lord Lieutenant's levees," replied O'Bleary. " Are they at all equal to our drawing-rooms ? " " Oh, infinitely superior ! " " Gad ! I don't know," said the aristocratic Wisbottle, " the Dowager Marchioness of Publiccash was most magnifi- cently dressed, and so was the Baron Slappenbachenhausen." " What was he presented on ?" inquired Evenson. "On his arrival in England." " I thought so," growled the radical ; " you never hear of these fellows being presented on their going away again. They know better than that." " Unless somebody pervades them with an apintment," said Mrs. Bloss, joining in the conversation in a faint voice. " Well," said Wisbottle, evading the point, "it's a splendid sight." " And did it never occur to you," inquired the radical, who never would be quiet ; " did it never occur to you, that you pay for these precious ornaments of society ? " THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 349 " It certainly has occurred to me," said Wisbottle, who thought this answer was a poser ; " it has occurred to me, and I am willing to pay for them." " Well, and it has occurred to me too," replied John Evenson, " and I ain't willing to pay for 'em. Then why should I ? — I say, why should I ? " continued the politician, laying down the paper, and knocking his knuckles on the table. " There are two great principles — demand " " A cup of tea if you please, dear," interrupted Tibbs. " And supply " " May I trouble you to hand this tea to Mr. Tibbs ? " said Mrs. Tibbs, interrupting the argument, and unconsciously illus- trating it. The thread of the orator's discourse was broken. He drank his tea and resumed the paper. " If it's very fine," said Mr. Alfred Tomkins, addressing the company in general, " I shall ride down to Richmond to-day, and come back by the steamer. There are some splendid effects of light and shade on the Thames ; the contrast between the blueness of the sky and the yellow water is frequently exceed- ingly beautiful." Mr. Wisbottle hummed, " Flow on, thou shining river." "We have some splendid steam-vessels in Ireland," said O'Bleary." " Certainly," said Mrs. Bloss, delighted to find a subject broached in which she could take part. " The accommodations are extraordinary," said O'Bleary. " Extraordinary indeed," returned Mrs. Bloss. " When Mr. Bloss was alive, he was promiscuously obligated to go to Ireland on business. I went with him, and raly the manner in which the ladies and gentlemen were accommodated with berths, is not creditable." Tibbs, who had been listening to the dialogue, looked aghast, and evinced a strong inclination to ask a question, but was checked by a look from his wife. Mr. Wisbottle laughed, and 35° SKETCHES BY BOZ. said Tomkins had made a pun ; and Tomkins laughed too, and said he had not. The remainder of the meal passed off as breakfasts usually do. Conversation flagged, and people played with their tea- spoons. The gentlemen looked out at the window ; walked about the room ; and, when they got near the door, dropped off one by one. Tibbs retired to the back-parlour by his wife's orders, to check the greengrocer's weekly account ; and ulti- mately Mrs. Tibbs and Mrs. Bloss were left alone together. " Oh dear !" said the latter, " I feel alarmingly faint ; it's very singular." (It certainly was, for she had eaten four pounds of solids that morning.) " By-the-bye," said Mrs. Bloss, " I have not seen Mr. What's his name yet." " Mr. Gobler ? " suggested Mrs. Tibbs. " Yes." " Oh ! " said Mrs. Tibbs, " he is a most mysterious person. He has his meals regularly sent up-stairs, and sometimes don't leave his room for weeks together," " I haven't seen or heard nothing of him,"- repeated Mrs. Bloss. " I dare say you'll hear him to-night," replied Mrs. Tibbs ; " he generally groans a good deal on Sunday evenings." " I never felt such an interest in any one in my life," ejacu- lated Mrs. Bloss. A little double knock interrupted the con- versation ; Dr. Wosky was announced, and duly shown in. He was a little man with a red face, — dressed of course in black, with & stiff white neckerchief. He had a very good practice, and plenty of money, which he had amassed by invariably humouring the worst fancies of all the females of all the families he had ever been introduced into. Mrs. Tibbs offered to retire, but was entreated to stay. " Well, my dear ma'am, and how are we ? " inquired Wosky, in a soothing tone. " Very ill, doctor — very ill," said Mrs. Bloss, in a whisper. " Ah ! we must take care of ourselves ; — we must, indeed," THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 351 said the obsequious Wosky, as he felt the pulse of his interesting patient. " How is our appetite ? " Mrs. Bloss shook her head. " Our friend requires great care," said Wosky, appealing to Mrs. Tibbs, who of course assented. " 1 hope, however, with the blessing of Providence, that we shall be enabled to make her quite stout again." Mrs. Tibbs wondered in her own mind what the patient would be when she was made quite stout. " We must take stimulants," said the cunning Wosky — " plenty of nourishment, and, above all, we must keep our nerves quiet ; we positively must not give way to our sensi- bilities. We must take all we can get," concluded the doctor, as he pocketed his fee, " and we must keep quiet." " Dear man ! " exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, as the doctor stepped * into his carriage. " Charming creature indeed — quite a lady's man ! " said Mrs. Tibbs, and Dr. Wosky rattled away to make fresh gulls of delicate females, and pocket fresh fees. As we had occasion, in a former paper, to describe a dinner at Mrs. Tibbs' s ; and as one meal went off very like another on all ordinary occasions ; we will not fatigue our readers by entering into any other detailed account of the domestic economy of the establishment. We will therefore proceed to events, merely premising that the mysterious tenant of the back drawing-room was a lazy, selfish hypochondriac ; always com- plaining and never ill. As his character in many respects closely assimilated to that of Mrs. Bloss, a very warm friendship soon sprung up between them. He was tall, thin, and pale ; he always fancied he had a severe pain somewhere or other, and his face invariably wore a pinched, screwed-up expression ; he looked, indeed, like a man who had got his feet in a tub of exceedingly hot water, against his will. For two or three months after Mrs. Bloss' s first appearance in Coram Street, John Evenson was observed to become, every 352 SKETCHES BY BOZ. day, more sarcastic, and more ill-natured ; and there was a degree of additional importance in his manner, which clearly showed that he fancied he had discovered something, which he only wanted a proper opportunity of divulging. He found it at last. One evening, the different inmates of the house were assembled in the drawing-room engaged in their ordinary occupations. Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss were sitting at a small card-table near the centre window, playing cribbage ; Mr. Wisbottle was describing semicircles on the music-stool, turning over the leaves of a book on the piano, and humming most melodiously ; Alfred Tomkins was sitting at the round table, with his elbows duly squared, making a pencil sketch of a head considerably larger than his own ; 0' Bleary was reading Horace, and trying to look as if he understood it ; and John Evenson had drawn his chair close to Mrs. Tibbs's work-table, and was talking to her very earnestly in a low tone. " I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs," said the radical, laying his forefinger on the muslin she was at work on ; "I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs, that nothing but the interest I take in your welfare would induce me to make this communication. I repeat, I fear Wisbottle is endeavouring to gain the affections of that young woman, Agnes, and that he is in the habit of meeting her in the store-room on the first floor, over the leads. From my bedroom I distinctly heard voices there, last night. I opened my door immediately, and crept very softly on to the landing : there I saw Mr. Tibbs, who, it seems, had been dis- turbed also. — Bless me, Mrs. Tibbs, you change colour !" "No, no — it's nothing," returned Mrs. T. in a hurried manner ; "it's only the heat of the room." " A flush !" ejaculated Mrs. Bloss from the card-table ; " that's good for four." " If I thought it was Mr. Wisbottle," said Mrs. Tibbs, after a pause, "he should leave this house instantly." " Go !" said Mrs. Bloss again. THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 353 " And if I thought," continued the hostess with a most threat- ening air, " if I thought he was assisted by Mr. Tibbs •" "One for his nob !" said Gobler. " Oh," said Evenson, in a most soothing tone — he liked to make mischief — " I should hope Mr. Tibbs was not in any way implicated. He always appeared to me very harmless." " I have generally found him so," sobbed poor little Mrs. Tibbs, crying like a watering-pot. " Hush ! hush ! pray — Mrs. Tibbs — consider — we shall be observed — pray, don't!" said John Evenson, fearing his whole plan would be interrupted. " We will set the matter at rest with the utmost care, and I shall be most happy to assist you in doing so." Mrs. Tibbs murmured her thanks. " When you think every one has retired to rest to-night," said Evenson very pompously, " if you'll meet me without a light, just outside my bedroom door, by the staircase window, I think we can ascertain who the parties really are, and you will after- wards be enabled to proceed as you think proper." Mrs. Tibbs was easily persuaded ; her curiosity was excited, her jealousy was roused, and the arrangement was forthwith made. She resumed her work, and John Evenson walked up and down the room with his hands in his pockets, looking as if nothing had happened. The game of cribbage was over, and conversation began again. " Well, Mr. 0' Bleary," said the humming-top, turning round on his pivot, and facing the company, " what did you think of Vauxhall the other night ?" " Oh, it's very fair," replied Orson, who had been enthu- siastically delighted with the whole exhibition. " Never saw anything like that Captain Ross's set-out — eh?" "No," returned the patriot, with his usual reservation — " except in Dublin." " I saw the Count de Canky and Captain Fitzthompson in the Gardens," said Wisbottle ; " they appeared much delighted." 354 SKETCHES BY BOZ. " Then it must be beautiful/' snarled Evenson. " I think the white bears is partickerlerly well done," suggested Mrs. Bloss. " In their shaggy white coats they look just like Polar bears — don't you think they do, Mr. Evenson?" " I think they look a great deal more like omnibus cads on all fours," replied the discontented one. " Upon the whole, I should have liked our evening very well," gasped Gobler ; " only I caught a desperate cold which increased my pain dreadfully ! I was obliged to have several shower- baths, before I could leave my room." "Capital things those shower-baths !" ejaculated Wisbottle. " Excellent!" said Tomkins. "Delightful!" chimed in 0' Bleary. (He had once seen one outside a tinman's.) "Disgusting machines !" rejoined Evenson, who extended his dislike to almost every created object, masculine, feminine, or neuter. "Disgusting, Mr. Evenson!" said Gobler, in a tone of strong indignation. " Disgusting ! Look at their utility — - consider how many lives they have saved by promoting per- spiration." " Promoting perspiration, indeed," growled John Evenson, stopping short in his walk across the large squares in the pattern of the carpet — " I was ass enough to be persuaded some time ago to have one in my bedroom. 'Gad, I was in it once, and it effectually cured me, for the mere sight of it threw me into a profuse perspiration for six months afterwards." A titter followed this announcement, and before it had sub- sided James brought up " the tray," containing the remains of a leg of lamb which had made its debut at dinner ; bread ; cheese ; an atom of butter in a forest of parsley ; one pickled walnut and the third of another, and so forth. The boy dis- appeared, and returned again with another tray, containing glasses and jugs of hot and cold water. The gentlemen brought in their spirit bottles ; the housemaid placed divers plated bed- THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 355 room candlesticks under the card-table ; and the servants retired for the night. Chairs were drawn round the table, and the conversation pro- ceeded in the customary manner. John Evenson, who never eat supper, lolled on the sofa, and amused himself by contra- dicting everybody. 0' Bleary eat as much as he could conveni- ently carry, and Mrs. Tibbs felt a due degree of indignation thereat ; Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss conversed most affectionately on the subject of pill-taking and other innocent amusements ; and Tomkins and Wisbottle "got into an argument :" that is to say, they both talked very loudly and vehemently, each flatter- ing himself that he had got some advantage about something, and neither of them having more than a very indistinct idea of what they were talking about. An hour or two passed away ; and the boarders and the brass candlesticks retired in pairs to their respective bedrooms. John Evenson pulled off his boots, locked his door, and determined to sit up until Mr. Gobler had retired. He always sat in the drawing-room an hour after everybody else had left it, taking medicine and groaning. Great Coram Street was hushed into a state of profound repose : it was nearly two o'clock. A hackney coach now and then rumbled slowly by ; and occasionally some stray lawyer's clerk, on his way home to Somers' Town, struck his iron heel on the top of the coal-cellar with a noise resembling the click of a smoke-jack. A low, monotonous, gushing sound was heard, which added considerably to the romantic dreariness of the scene. It was the water " coming in " at number eleven. " He must be asleep by this time," said John Evenson to himself, after waiting with exemplary patience for nearly an hour after Mr. Gobler had left the drawing-room. He listened for a few moments ; the house was perfectly quiet ; he extinguished his rushlight, and opened his bedroom door. The staircase was so dark that it was impossible to see anything. "S — s — s!" whispered the mischief-maker, making a noise A A 2 356. SKETCHES BY BOZ. like the first indication a catherine-wheel gives of the probability of its going off. "Hush !" whispered somebody else. " Is that you, Mrs. Tibbs ?" , - . . ; i " Yes, sir." " Where?" " Here ;" and the misty outline of Mrs. Tibbs appeared at the staircase window like the ghost of Queen Anne in the tent scene in Richard. " This way, Mrs. Tibbs," whispered the delighted busybody : "give me your hand — there ! Whoever these people are, they are in the store-room now, for I have been looking down from my window, and I could see that they accidentally upset their candle- stick, and are now in darkness. You have no shoes on, have you?" "No," said little Mrs. Tibbs, who could hardly speak for trembling. " Well ; I have taken my boots off, so we can go down, close to the store-room door, and listen over the banisters;" and down-stairs they both crept, accordingly, every board creaking like a patent mangle on a Saturday afternoon. "It's Wisbottle and somebody I'll swear," exclaimed the radical in an energetic whisper, when they had listened for a few moments. "Hush — pray let's hear what they say!" exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs, the gratification of whose curiosity was now paramount to every other consideration. "Ah! if I could but believe you," said a female voice coquettishly, "I'd be bound to settle my missis for life." "What does she say?" inquired Mr. Evenson, who was not quite so well situated as his companion. " She says she'll settle her missis's life," replied Mrs. Tibbs. " The wretch ! they're plotting murder." " I know you want money," continued the voice, which belonged to Agnes ; " and if you'd secure me the five hundred pound, I warrant she should take fire soon enough." THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 357 "What's that?" inquired Evenson again. He could just hear enough to want to hear more. " I think she says she'll set the house on fire," replied the affrighted Mrs. Tibbs. " But thank God I'm insured in the Phoenix!" " The moment I have secured your mistress, my dear," said a man's voice in a strong Irish brogue, " you may depend on having the money." "Bless my soul, it's Mr. O'Bleary L" exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs, in a parenthesis. "The villain!" said the indignant Mr. Evenson. " The first thing to be done," continued the Hibernian, " is to poison Mr. Gobler's mind." " Oh, certainly," returned Agnes. "What's that?" inquired Evenson again, in an agony of curiosity and a whisper. " He says she's to mind and poison Mr. Gobler," replied Mrs. Tibbs, aghast at this sacrifice of human life. " And in regard of Mrs. Tibbs," continued O'Bleary. — Mrs. Tibbs shuddered. "Hush !" exclaimed Agnes, in a tone of the greatest alarm, just as Mrs. Tibbs was on the extreme verge of a fainting-fit. "Hush!" "Hush!" exclaimed Evenson, at the same moment to Mrs. Tibbs. "There's somebody comings-stairs," said Agnes to O'Bleary. " There's somebody coming cfowft-stairs," whispered Evenson to Mrs. Tibbs. " Go into the parlour, sir," said Agnes to her companion. " You will get there before whoever it is gets to the top of the kitchen stairs." " The drawing-room, Mrs. Tibbs!" whispered the astonished Evenson to his equally astonished companion ; and for the drawing-room they both made, plainly hearing the rustling of two persons, one coming down-stairs, and one coming up. 358 SKETCHES BY BOZ. "What can it be?" exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs. "It's like a dream. I wouldn't be found in this situation for the world !" " Nor I," returned Evenson, who could never bear a joke at his own expense. " Hush ! here they are at the door." "What fun!" whispered one of the new-comers. — It was Wisbottle. "Glorious !" replied his companion, in an equally low tone. — This was Alfred Tomkins. " Who would have thought it ?" " I told you so," said Wisbottle, in a most knowing whisper. " Lord bless you, he has paid her most extraordinary attention for the last two months. I saw 'em when I was sitting at the piano to-night." " Well, do you know I didn't notice it," interrupted Tomkins. "Not notice it!" continued Wisbottle. "Bless you; I saw him whispering to her, and she crying ; and then I'll swear I heard him say something about to-night when we were all in bed." "They're talking ofus/" exclaimed the agonised Mrs. Tibbs, as the painful suspicion, and a sense of their situation, flashed upon her mind. "I know it — I know it," replied Evenson, with a melan- choly consciousness that there was no mode of escape. "What's to be done? we cannot both stop here!" ejaculated Mrs. Tibbs, in a state of partial derangement. "I'll get up the chimney," replied Evenson, who really meant what he said. " You can't," said Mrs. Tibbs, in despair. " You can't — -it's a register stove." " Hush !" repeated John Evenson. "Hush — hush!" cried somebody down-stairs. "What ad — d hushing!" said Alfred Tomkins, who began' to get rather bewildered. "There they are!" exclaimed the sapient Wisbottle, as a rustling noise was heard in the store-room. THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 359 " Hark !" whispered both the young men. "Hark!" repeated Mrs. Tibbs and Evenson. " Let me alone, sir," said a female voice in the store-room. "Oh, Hagnes!" cried another voice, which clearly belonged to Tibbs, for nobody else ever owned one like it. " Oh, Hagnes ■ — lovely creature !" " Be quiet, sir !" (A bounce.) « Hag " " Be quiet, sir — I am ashamed of you. Think of your wife, Mr. Tibbs. Be quiet, sir !" "My wife!" exclaimed the valorous Tibbs, who was clearly under the influence of gin-and-water, and a misplaced attach- ment ; "I ate her ! Oh, Hagnes ! when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and " "I declare I'll scream. Be quiet, sir, will you?" (Another bounce and a scuffle.) "What's that?" exclaimed Tibbs, with a start. " What's what ?" said Agnes, stopping short. "Why, that!" " Ah ! you have done it nicely now, sir," sobbed the frightened Agnes, as a tapping was heard at Mrs. Tibbs' s bed- room door, which would have beaten any dozen woodpeckers hollow. "Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!" called out Mrs. Bloss. "Mrs. Tibbs, pray get up." (Here the imitation of a woodpecker was resumed with tenfold violence.) "Oh, dear — dear!" exclaimed the wretched partner of the depraved Tibbs. " She's knocking at my door. We must be discovered ! What will they think?" "Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!" screamed the woodpecker again. " What's the matter ?" shouted Gobler, bursting out of the back drawing-room, like the dragon at Astley's. " Oh, Mr. Gobler !" cried Mrs. Bloss, with a proper approxi- mation to hysterics ; "I think the house is on lire, or else there's thieves in it. I have heard the most dreadful noises !" 360 SKETCHES BY BOZ. " The devil you have !" shouted Gobler again, bouncing back into his den, in happy imitation of the aforesaid dragon, and returning immediately with a lighted candle. "Why, what's" this ? Wisbottle ! Tomkins ! O'Bleary ! Agnes ! What the deuce ! all up and dressed ?" "Astonishing!" said Mrs. Bloss, who had run down-stairs, and taken Mr. Gobler' s arm. " Call Mrs. Tibbs directly, somebody," said Gobler, turning into the front drawing-room. " What ! Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson ! !" "Mrs* Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!" repeated everybody, as that unhappy pair were discovered : Mrs. Tibbs seated in an arm- chair by the fire-place, and Mr. Evenson standing by her side. We must leave the scene that ensued to the reader's imagina- tion. We could tell, how Mrs. Tibbs forthwith fainted away, and how it required the united strength of Mr. Wisbottle and Mr. Alfred Tomkins to hold her in her chair ; how Mr. Evenson explained, and how his explanation was evidently disbelieved ; how Agnes repelled the accusations of Mrs. Tibbs, by proving that she was negotiating with Mr. O'Bleary to influence her mistress's affections in his behalf ; and how Mr. Gobler threw a damp counterpane on the hopes of Mr. O'Bleary by avowing that he (Gobler) had already proposed to, and been accepted by, Mrs. Bloss ; how Agnes was discharged from that lady's service ; how Mr. O'Bleary discharged himself from Mrs. Tibbs' s house, without going through the form of previously discharging his bill ; and how that disappointed young gentleman rails against England and the English, and vows there is no virtue or fine feeling extant, " except in Ireland." We repeat that we could tell all this, but we love to exercise our self-denial, and we therefore prefer leaving it to be imagined. The lady whom we have hitherto described as Mrs. Bloss is no more. Mrs. Gobler exists : Mrs. Bloss has left us for ever. In a secluded retreat in Newington Butts, far, far removed from the noisy strife of that great boarding-house, the world, the THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 361 enviable Gobler and his pleasing wife revel in retirement ; happy in their complaints, their table, and their medicine ; wafted through life by the grateful prayers of all the purveyors of animal food within three miles round. We would willingly stop here, but we have a painful duty imposed upon us which we must discharge. Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs have separated by mutual consent, Mrs. Tibbs receiving one moiety of £43 15s. 10d., which we before stated to be the amount of her husband's annual income, and Mr. Tibbs the other. He is spending the evening of his days in retirement ; and he is spending also, annually, that small but honourable independence. He resides among the original settlers at Wal- worth ; and it has been stated, on unquestionable authority, that the conclusion of the volunteer story has been heard in a small tavern in that respectable neighbourhood. The unfortunate Mrs. Tibbs has determined to dispose of the whole of her furniture by public auction, and to retire from a residence in which she has suffered so much. Mr. Robins has been applied to, to conduct the sale, and the transcendant abilities of the literary gentlemen connected with his establish- ment are now devoted to the task of drawing up the preliminary advertisement. It is to contain, among a variety of brilliant matter, seventy-eight words in large capitals, and six original quotations in inverted commas. 362 SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER II. MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN. 1M"R AUGUSTUS MINNS was a bachelor, of about forty as lie said — of about eight-and-forty as his friends said. He was always exceedingly clean, precise, and tidy ; perhaps some- what priggish, and the most retiring man in the world. He usually wore a brown frock-coat without a wrinkle, light inexplicables without a spot, a neat neckerchief with a remark- ably neat tie, and boots without a fault ; moreover, he always carried a brown silk umbrella with an ivory handle. He was a clerk in Somerset House, or, as he said himself, he held " a responsible situation under Government." He had a good and increasing salary, in addition to some £10,000 of his own (invested in the funds), and he occupied a first floor in Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, where he had resided for twenty years, having been in the habit of quarrelling with his landlord the whole time : regularly giving notice of his inten- tion to quit on the first day of every quarter, and as regularly countermanding it on the second. There were two classes of created objects which he held in the deepest and most unmingled horror ; these were dogs and children. He was not unamiable, but he could, at any time, have viewed the execu- tion of a dog, or the assassination of an infant, with the liveliest satisfaction. Their habits were at variance with his love of order ; and his love of order was as powerful as his love of life. Mr. Augustus Minns had no relations, in or near London, with the exception of his cousin, Mr. Octavius Budden, to whose son, whom he had never seen (for he disliked the MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN. 363 father) he had consented to become godfather by proxy. Mr. Budden having realised a moderate fortune by exercising the trade or calling of a corn-chandler, and having a great predi- lection for the country, had purchased a cottage in the vicinity of Stamford Hill, whither he retired with the wife of his bosom, and his only son, Master Alexander Augustus Budden. One evening, as Mr. and Mrs. B. were admiring their son, discuss- ing his various merits, talking over his education, and disputing whether the classics should be made an essential part thereof, the lady pressed so strongly upon her husband the propriety of cul- tivating the friendship of Mr. Minns in behalf of their son, that Mr. Budden at last made up his mind, that it should not be his fault if he and his cousin were not in future more intimate. " I'll break the ice, my love," said Mr. Budden, stirring up the sugar at the bottom of his glass of brandy-and- water, and casting a sidelong look at his spouse to see the effect of the announcement of his determination, " by asking Minns down to dine with us on Sunday." " Then pray, Budden, write to your cousin at once," replied Mrs. Budden. " Who knows, if we could only get him down here, but he might take a fancy to our Alexander, and leave him his property ? — Alick, my dear, take your legs off the rail of the chair !" " Very true," said Mr. Budden, musing, " very true, indeed, my love I" On the following morning, as Mr. Minns was sitting at his breakfast-table, alternately biting his dry toast, and casting a look upon the columns of his morning paper, which he always read from the title to the printer's name, he heard a loud knock at the street-door ; which was shortly afterwards followed by the entrance of his servant, who put into his hand a particularly small card, on. which was engraven in immense letters "Mr. Octavius Budden, Amelia Cottage, (Mrs. B.'s name was Amelia,) Poplar Walk, Stamford Hill." " Budden!" ejaculated Minns, "what can bring that vulgar 3^4 SKETCHES BY BOZ. man here ? — say I'm asleep — say I'm out, and shall never be home again — anything to keep him down-stairs." " But please, sir, the gentleman's coming up," replied the servant : and the fact was made evident by an appalling creak- ing of boots on the staircase, accompanied by a pattering noise ; the cause of which, Minns could not, for the life of him, divine. " Hem ! — show the gentleman in," said the unfortunate bachelor. Exit servant, and enter Octavius, preceded by a large white dog, dressed in a suit of fleecy hosiery, with pink eyes, large ears, and no perceptible tail. The cause of the pattering on the stairs was but too plain. Mr. Augustus Minns staggered beneath the shock of the dog's appearance. "My dear fellow, how are you ?" said Budden, as he entered. He always spoke at the top of his voice, and always said the same thing half-a-dozen times. " How are you, my hearty ?" " How do you do, Mr. Budden ? — pray take a chair !" politely stammered the discomfited Minns. " Thank you — thank you — well — how are you, eh 1 K "Uncommonly well, thank you," said Minns, casting a diabolical look at the dog, who, with his hind leg's on the floor, and his fore paws resting on the table, was dragging a bit of bread-and-butter out of a plate preparatory to devouring it, with the buttered side next the carpet. " Ah, you rogue !" said Budden to his dog ; "you see, Minns, he's like me, always at home, eh, my boy ? — Egad, I'm precious hot and hungry ! I've walked all the way from Stamford Hill this morning." " Have you breakfasted ?" inquired Minns. " Oh, no ! — came to breakfast with you ; so ring the bell, my dear fellow, will you ? and let's have another cup and saucer, and the cold ham. — Make myself at home you see !" continued Budden, dusting his boots with a table napkin. " Ha ! — ha ! — ha ! — 'pon my life, I'm hungry." MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN. 365 Minns rang the bell, and tried to smile. " I decidedly never was so hot in my life," continued Octavius, wiping his forehead : " well, but how are you, Minns ? Ton my soul, you wear capitally I" " D'ye think so ?" said Minns ; and he tried another smile. " Ton my life, I do !" "Mrs. B. and — what's his name — quite well V* "Alick — my son, you mean, never better — never better. But at such a place as we've got at Poplar Walk, you know, he couldn't be ill if he tried. When I first saw it, by Jove ! it looked so knowing, with the front garden, and the green rail- ings, and the brass knocker, and all that — I really thought it was a cut above me." " Don't you think you'd like the ham better," interrupted Minns, "if you cut it the other way?" He saw, with feelings which it is impossible to describe, that his visitor was cutting or rather maiming the ham, in utter violation of all established rules. " No, thank ye," returned Budden, with the most barbarous indifference to crime, " I prefer it this way — it eats short. But I say, Minns, when will you come down and see us ? You will be delighted with the place ; I know you will. Amelia and I were talking about you the other night, and Amelia said — another lump of sugar, please ; thank ye — she said, don't you think you could contrive, my dear, to say to Mr. Minns, in a friendly way — come down, sir — damn the dog ! he's spoiling your curtains, Minns — ha! — ha! — ha!" Minns leaped from his seat as though he had received the discharge from a gal- vanic battery. "Come out, sir! — go out, hoo!" cried poor Augustus, keeping, nevertheless, at a very respectful distance from the dog ; having read of a case of hydrophobia in the paper of that morning. By dint of great exertion, much shouting, and a marvellous deal of poking under the tables with a stick and umbrella, the dog was at last dislodged, and placed on the land- 366 SKETCHES BY BOZ. ing outside the door, where he immediately commenced a most appalling howling ; at the same time vehemently scratching the paint off the two nicely-varnished bottom panels, until they resembled the interior of a backgammon board. "A good dog for the country that!" coolly observed Budden to the distracted Minns, " but he's not much used to confine- ment. But now, Minns, when will you come down ? I'll take no denial, positively. Let's see, to-day's Thursday. — Will you come on Sunday ? We dine at five, don't say no — do." After a great deal of pressing, Mr. Augustus Minns, driven to despair, accepted the invitation and promised to be at Poplar Walk on the ensuing Sunday, at a quarter before five to the minute. " Now mind the direction," said Budden : " the coach goes from the Flower-pot, in Bishopsgate Street, every half-hour. When the coach stops at the Swan, you'll see, immediately opposite you, a white house." " Which is your house — I understand," said Minns, wishing to cut short the visit, and the story, at the same time. " No, no, that's not mine ; that's Grogus's, the great iron- monger's. I was going to say — you turn down by the side of the white house till you can't go another step further — mind that ! — and then you turn to your right, by some stables — well ; close to you, you'll see a wall with ' Beware of the Dog ' written on it in large letters — (Minns shuddered) — go along by the side of that wall for about a quarter of a mile — and any- body will show you which is my place." « Very well — thank ye — good-bye." " Be punctual." " Certainly : good morning." " I say, Minns, you've got a card." " Yes, I have : thank ye." And Mr. Octavius Budden departed, leaving his cousin looking forward to his visit of the following Sunday, with the feelings of a penniless poet to the weekly visit of his Scotch landlady. MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN. 367 Sunday arrived ; the sky was bright and clear ; crowds of people were hurrying along the streets, intent on their different schemes of pleasure for the day ; everything and everybody looked cheerful and happy except Mr. Augustus Minns. The day was fine, but the heat was considerable ; when Mr. Minns had fagged up the shady side of Fleet Street, Cheapside, and Threadneedle Street, he had become pretty warm, tolerably dusty, and it was getting late into the bargain. By the most extraordinary good fortune, however, a coach was waiting at the Flower-pot, into which Mr. Augustus Minns got, on the solemn assurance of the cad that the vehicle would start in three minutes — that being the very utmost extremity of time it was allowed to wait by Act of Parliament. A quarter of an hour elapsed, and there were no signs of moving. Minns looked at his watch for the sixth time. "Coachman, are you going or not?" bawled Mr. Minns, with his head and half his body out of the coach-window. " Di — rectly, sir," said the coachman, with his hands in his pockets, looking as much unlike a man in a hurry as possible. " Bill, take them cloths off." Five minutes more elapsed ; at the end of which time the coachman mounted the box, from whence he looked down the street, and up the street, and hailed all the pedestrians for another five minutes. " Coachman ! if you don't go this moment, I shall get out," said Mr. Minns, rendered desperate by the lateness of the hour, and the impossibility of being in Poplar Walk at the appointed time. " Going this minute, sir," was the reply ; and, accordingly, the machine trundled on for a couple of hundred yards, and then stopped again. Minns doubled himself up in a corner of the coach, and abandoned himself to his fate, as a child, a mother, a bandbox, and a parasol, became his fellow-passengers. The child was an affectionate and an amiable infant ; the little dear mistook Minns for his other parent, and screamed to embrace him. 368 SKETCHES BY BOZ. " Be quiet, dear," said the mamma, restraining the impetu- osity of the darling, whose little fat legs were kicking and stamping, and twining themselves into the most complicated forms in an ecstasy of impatience. " Be quiet, dear, that's not your papa." " Thank Heaven I am not !" thought Minns, as the first gleam of pleasure he had experienced that morning shone like a meteor through his wretchedness. Playfulness was agreeably mingled with affection in the dis- position of the boy. When satisfied that Mr. Minns was not his parent, he endeavoured to attract his notice by scraping his drab trousers with his dirty shoes, poking his chest with his mamma's parasol, and other nameless endearments peculiar to infancy, with which he beguiled the tediousness of the ride, apparently very much to his own satisfaction. When the unfortunate gentleman arrived at the Swan, he found, to his great dismay, that it was a quarter-past five. The white house, the stables, the "Beware of the Dog," — every landmark was passed with a rapidity not unusual to a gentleman of a certain age when too late for dinner. After the lapse of a few minutes, Mr. Minns found himself opposite a yellow brick house with a green door, brass knocker, and door-plate, green window-frames and ditto railings, with " a garden" in front, that is to say, a small loose bit of gravelled ground, with one round and two scalene triangular beds, containing a fir-tree, twenty or thirty bulbs, and an unlimited number of marigolds. The taste of Mr. and Mrs. Budden was further displayed by the appearance of a Cupid on each side of the door, perched upon a heap of large chalk flints, variegated with pink conch-shells. His knock at the door was answered by a stumpy boy, in drab livery, cotton stockings, and high-lows, who, after hanging his hat on one of the dozen brass pegs which ornamented the passage, denominated by courtesy " The Hall," ushered him into a front drawing-room, commanding a very extensive view of the backs of the neighbouring houses. MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN. 369 The usual ceremony of introduction, and so forth, over, Mr. Minns took his seat : not a little agitated at finding that he was the last comer, and, somehow or other, the Lion of about a dozen people, sitting together in a small drawing-room, getting rid of that most tedious of all time, the time preceding dinner. " Well, Brogson," said Budden, addressing an elderly gentle- man in a black coat, drab knee-breeches, and long gaiters, who, under pretence of inspecting the prints in an Annual, had been engaged in satisfying himself on the subject of Mr. Minns' s general appearance, by looking at him over the tops of the leaves — " well, Brogson, what do Ministers mean to do ? Will they go out, or what ?" " Oh — why — really, you know, I'm the last person in the world to ask for news. Your cousin, from his situation, is the most likely person to answer the question." Mr. Minns assured the last speaker, that although he was in Somerset House, he possessed no official communication relative to the projects of his Majesty's Ministers. But his remark was evidently received incredulously ; and no further con- jectures being hazarded on the subject, a long pause ensued, during which the company occupied themselves in coughing and blowing their noses, until the entrance of Mrs. Budden caused a general rise. The ceremony of introduction being over, dinner was announced, and down-stairs the party proceeded accordingly — Mr. Minns escorting Mrs. Budden as far as the drawing-room door, but being prevented, by the narrowness of the staircase, from extending his gallantry any farther. The dinner passed off as such dinners usually do. Ever and anon, amidst the clatter of knives and forks, and the hum of conversation, Mr. B.'s voice might be heard, asking a friend to take wine, and assuring him he was glad to see him ; and a great deal of by-play took place between Mrs. B. and the servants, respecting the removal of the dishes, during which her countenance B B 370 SKETCHES BY BOZ. assumed all the variations of a weather-glass, from " stormy" to " set fair." Upon the dessert and wine being placed on the table, the , servant, in compliance with a significant look from Mrs. B., brought down " Master Alexander," habited in a sky-blue suit with silver buttons ; and possessing hair of nearly the same colour as the metal. After sundry praises from his mother, and various admonitions as to his behaviour from his father, he was introduced to his godfather. " Well, my little fellow — you are a fine boy, ain't you ? " said Mr. Minns, as happy as a tomtit on birdlime. " Yes." " How old are you ?" " Eight, next We'nsday. How old are you ?" "Alexander," interrupted his mother, "how dare you ask Mr. Minns how old he is !" " He asked me how old I was," said the precocious child, to whom Minns had from that moment internally resolved that he never would bequeath one shilling. As soon as the titter occa- sioned by the observation had subsided, a little smirking man with red whiskers, sitting at the bottom of the table, who during the whole of dinner had been endeavouring to obtain a listener to some stories about Sheridan, called out, with a very patronising air — " Alick, what part of speech is he V* " A verb." " That's a good boy," said Mrs. Budden with all a mother's pride. " Now, you know what a verb is ?" " A verb is a word which signifies to be, to do, or to suffer ; as, I am — I rule — I am ruled. Give me an apple, ma." " I'll give you an apple," replied the man with the red whiskers, who was an established friend of the family, or in other words was always invited by Mrs. Budden, whether Mr. Budden liked it or not, " if you'll tell me what is the meaning of be." "Be ?" said the prodigy, after a little hesitation — "an insect that gathers honey." MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN. 371 " No, dear," frowned Mrs. Budden ; " B double E is the sub- stantive." " I don't think he knows much yet about common sub- stantives," said the smirking gentleman, who thought this an admirable opportunity for letting off a joke. "It's clear he's not very well acquainted with proper names. He! he! he!" " Gentlemen," called out Mr. Budden, from the end of the table, in a stentorian voice, and with a very important air, " will you have the goodness to charge your glasses ? I have a toast to propose." "Hear! hear!" cried the gentlemen, passing the decanters. After they had made the round of the table, Mr. Budden pro- ceeded — " Gentlemen ; there is an individual present — ■ — " " Hear ! hear !" said the little man with red whiskers. "Pray be quiet, Jones," remonstrated Budden. " I say, gentlemen, there is an individual present," resumed the host, " in whose society, I am sure we must take great delight — and — and — the conversation of that individual must have afforded to every one present, the utmost pleasure." ["Thank Heaven, he does not mean me!" thought Minns, conscious that his diffidence and exclusiveness had prevented his saying above a dozen words since he entered the house.] " Gentlemen, I am but a humble individual myself, and I perhaps ought to apologise for allowing any individual feelings of friendship and affection for the person I allude to, to induce me to venture to rise, to propose the health of that person — a person that I am sure — that is to say, a person whose virtues must endear him to those who know him — and those who have not the pleasure of knowing him, cannot dislike him." " Hear ! hear !" said the company, in a tone of encouragement and approval. " Gentlemen," continued Budden, " my cousin is a man who — who is a relation of my own." (Hear ! hear !) Minns B li 2 372 SKETCHES BY BOZ. groaned audibly. " Who I am most happy to see here, and who, if he were not here, would certainly have deprived us of the great pleasure we all feel in seeing him. (Loud cries of hear!) Gentlemen, I feel that I have already trespassed on your attention for too long a time. With every feeling — of — with every sentiment of — of — — " Gratification" — suggested the friend of the family. " — Of gratification, I beg to propose the health of Mr. Minns." "Standing, gentlemen!" shouted the indefatigable little man with the whiskers — eople have given them up for lost : and men have died, who might have been restored, if proper means had been resorted to. Don't let him lie here, sir, without one effort to save him ! This very moment life may be passing away. Do try, sir, — do, for Heaven's sake !" And while speaking, she hurriedly chafed, first the forehead, and then the breast, of the senseless form before her ; and then, wildly beat the cold hands, which, when she ceased to hold them, fell listlessly and heavily back on the coverlet. " It is of no use, my good woman," said the surgeon sooth- ingly, as he withdrew his hand from the man's breast. " Stay — undraw that curtain !" " Why ?" said the woman, starting up. " Undraw that curtain ! "repeated the surgeon in an agitated tone. 442 SKETCHES BY BOZ. " I darkened the room on purpose," said the woman, thowing herself before him as he rose to undraw it. " Oh ! sir, have pity on me ! If it can be of no use, and he is really dead, do not expose that form to other eyes than mine !" " This man died no natural or easy death," said the surgeon. "I must see the body S" With a motion so sudden, that the Avoman hardly knew that he had slipped from beside her, he tore open the curtain, admitted the full light of day, and returned to the bedside. " There has been violence here," he said, pointing towards the body, and gazing intently on the face, from which the black veil was now, for the first time, removed. In the excitement of a minute before, the female had thrown off the bonnet and veil, and now stood with her eyes fixed upon him. Her features Avere those of a Avoman of about fifty, who had once been hand- some. SorroAV and weeping had left traces upon them which not time itself would ever have produced without their aid ; her face was deadly pale ; and there was a nervous contortion of the lip, and an unnatural fire in her eye, which showed too plainly that her bodily and mental powers had nearly sunk beneath an accumulation of misery. "There has been violence here," said the surgeon, preserving his searching glance. " There has !" replied the woman. " This man has been murdered." " That I call God to witness he has," said the woman passionately ; " pitilessly, inhumanly murdered 1" "By whom?" said the surgeon, seizing the Avoman by the arm. "Look at the butchers' marks, and then ask me!" she replied. The surgeon turned his face towards the bed, and bent over the body which now lay full in the light of the window. The throat was swollen, and a livid mark encircled it. The truth flashed suddenly upon him. THE BLACK VEIL. 443 " This is one of the men who were hanged this morning !" lie exclaimed, turning away with a shudder. " It is," replied the woman, with a cold, unmeaning stare. " Who was he ?" inquired the surgeon. " My son" rejoined the woman ; and fell senseless at his feet. It was true. A companion, equally guilty with himself, had been acquitted for want of evidence ; and this man had been left for death, and executed. To recount the circumstances of the case, at this distant period, must be unnecessary, and might give pain to some persons still alive. The history was an every- day one. The mother was a widow without friends or money, and had denied herself necessaries to bestow them on her orphan boy. That boy, unmindful of her prayers, and forgetful of the sufferings she had endured for him — incessant anxiety of mind, and voluntary starvation of body — had plunged into a career of dissipation and crime. And this was the result ; his own death by the hangman's hands, and his mother's shame, and incurable insanity. For many years after this occurrence, and when profitable and arduous avocations would have led many men to forget* that such a miserable being existed, the young surgeon was a daily visitor at the side of the harmless mad woman ; not only soothing her by his presence and kindness, but alleviating the rigour of her condition by pecuniary donations for her comfort and support, bestowed with no sparing hand. In the transient gleam of recollection and consciousness which preceded her death, a prayer for his welfare and protection, as fervent as mortal ever breathed, rose from the lips of this poor friendless creature. That prayer flew to Heaven and was heard. The blessings he was instrumental in conferring, have been repaid to him a thousand-fold ; but, amid all the honours of rank and station which have since been heaped upon him, and which he has so well earned, he can have no reminiscence more gratifying to his heart than that connected with The Black Veil. 444 SKETCHES BY BOZ. CHAPTER VII. THE STEAM EXCURSION. T1TR PERCY NOAKES was a law-student, inhabiting a set of chambers on the fourth floor, in one of those houses in Gray's Inn Square which command an extensive view of the gardens, and their usual adjuncts — flaunting nursery-maids, and town-made children, with parenthetical legs. Mr. Percy Noakes was what is generally termed — "a devilish good fellow." He had a large circle of acquaintance, and seldom dined at his own expense. He used to talk politics to papas, flatter the vanity of mammas, do the amiable to their daughters, make pleasure engagements with their sons, and romp with the younger branches. Like those paragons of perfection, advertising foot- men out of place, he was always " willing to make himself generally useful." If any old lady, whose son was in India, gave a ball, Mr. Percy Noakes was master of the ceremonies ; if any young lady made a stolen match, Mr. Percy Noakes gave her away ; if a juvenile wife presented her husband with a blooming cherub, Mr. Percy Noakes was either godfather, or deputy godfather ; and if any member of a friend's family died, Mr. Percy Noakes was invariably to be seen in the second mourning coach, with a white handkerchief to his eyes, sobbing — to use his own appropriate and expressive description — " like winkin' !" It may readily be imagined that these numerous avocations were rather calculated to interfere with Mr. Percy Noakes' s pro- fessional studies. Mr. Percy Noakes was perfectly aware of the fact, and had, therefore, after mature reflection, made up his THE STEAM EXCURSION. 445 mind not to study at all — a laudable determination, to which he adhered in the most praiseworthy manner. His sitting- room presented a strange chaos of dress-gloves, boxing-gloves, caricatures, albums, invitation-cards, foils, cricket-bats, card- board drawings, paste, gum, and fifty other miscellaneous articles, heaped together in the strangest confusion. He was always making something for somebody, or planning some party of pleasure, which was his great forte. He invariably spoke with astonishing rapidity ; was smart, spoffish, and eight-and-twenty. " Splendid idea, 'pon my life!" soliloquised Mr. Percy Noakes, over his morning's coffee, as his mind reverted to a suggestion which had been thrown out on the previous night, by a lady at whose house he had spent the evening. " Glorious idea! — Mrs. Stubbs." " Yes, sir," replied a dirty old woman with an inflamed countenance, emerging from the bedroom, with a barrel of dirt and cinders. — This was the laundress. "Did you call, sir?" " Oh ! Mrs. Stubbs, I'm going out. If that tailor should call again, you'd better say — you'd better say I'm out of town, and shan't be back for a fortnight ; and if that bootmaker should come, tell him I've lost his address, or I'd have sent him that little amount. Mind he writes it down ; and if Mr. Hardy should call — you know Mr. Hardy?" "The funny gentleman, sir?" " Ah ! the funny gentleman. If Mr. Hardy should call, say I've gone to Mrs. Taunton's about that water-party." " Yes, sir." " And if any fellow calls, and says he's come about a steamer, tell him to be here at five o'clock this afternoon, Mrs. Stubbs." " Very well, sir." Mr. Percy Noakes brushed his hat, whisked the crumbs off his inexplicables with a silk handkerchief, gave the ends of his hair a persuasive roll round his forefinger, and sallied forth for Mrs. Taunton's domicile in Great Marlborough Street, where she and her daughters occupied the upper part of a house. She 446 SKETCHES BY BOZ. was a good-looking widow of fifty, with the form of a giantess and the mind of a child. The pursuit of pleasure, and some means of killing time, were the sole end of her existence. She doted on her daughters, who were as frivolous as herself. A general exclamation of satisfaction hailed the arrival of Mr. Percy Noakes, who went through the ordinary salutations, and threw himself into an easy-chair near the ladies' work-table, with the ease of a regularly established friend of the family. Mrs. Taunton was busily engaged in planting immense bright bows on every part of a smart cap on which it was possible to stick one ; Miss Emily Taunton was making a watch-guard ; Miss Sophia was at the piano, practising a new song — poetry by the young officer, or the police-officer, or the custom-house officer, or some other interesting amateur. "You good creature!" said Mrs. Taunton, addressing the gallant Percy. " You really are a good soul ! You've come about the water-party, I know." " I should rather suspect I had," replied Mr. Noakes, triumphantly. " Now come here, girls, and I'll tell you all about it." Miss Emily and Miss Sophia advanced to the table. " Now," continued Mr. Percy Noakes, " it seems to me that the best way will be, to have a committee of ten, to make all the arrangements, and manage the whole set-out. Then, I propose that the expenses shall be paid by these ten fellows jointly." " Excellent, indeed !" said Mrs. Taunton, who highly approved of this part of the arrangements. " Then, my plan is, that each of these ten fellows shall have the power of asking five people. There must be a meeting of the committee, at my chambers, to make all the arrangements, and these people shall be then named ; every member of the committee shall have the power of black-balling any one who is proposed ; and one black ball shall exclude that person. This will insure our having a pleasant party, you know." " What a manager you are !" interrupted Mrs. Taunton again. THE STEAM EXCURSION. 447 " Charming !" said the lovely Emily. " I never did !" ejaculated Sophia. M Yes, I think it'll do," replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who was now quite in his element. " I think it'll do. Then you know we shall go down to the Nore, and back, and have a regular capital cold dinner laid out in the cabin before we start, so that everything may be ready without any confusion ; and we shall have the lunch laid out on deck, in those little tea-garden looking concerns by the paddle-boxes — I don't know what you call 'em. Then, we shall hire a steamer expressly for our party, and a band, and have the deck chalked, and we shall be able to dance quadrilles all day ; and then, whoever we know that's musical, you know, why they'll make themselves useful and agreeable ; and — and — upon the whole, I really hope we shall have a glorious day, you know !" The announcement of these arrangements was received with the utmost enthusiasm. Mrs. Taunton, Emily, and Sophia, were loud in their praises. " Well, but tell me, Percy," said Mrs. Taunton, " who are the ten gentlemen to be ? " " Oh ! I know plenty of fellows who'll be delighted with the scheme," replied Mr. Percy Noakes : " of course we shall have " "Mr. Hardy !" interrupted the servant, announcing a visitor. Miss Sophia and Miss Emily hastily assumed the most interest- ing attitudes that could be adopted on so short a notice. "How are you?" said a stout gentleman of about forty, pausing at the door in the attitude of an awkward harlequin. This was Mr. Hardy, whom we have before described, on the authority of Mrs. Stubbs, as " the funny gentleman." He was an Astley-Cooperish Joe Miller — a practical joker, im- mensely popular with married ladies, and a general favourite with young men. He was always engaged in some pleasure excursion or other, and delighted in getting somebody into a scrape on such occasions. He could sing comic songs, imitate 448 SKETCHES BY BOZ. hackney coachmen and fowls, play airs on his chin, and execute concertos on the Jew's-harp. He always eat and drank most immoderately, and was the bosom friend of Mr. Percy Noakes. He had a red face, a somewhat husky voice, and a tremendous laugh. " How are you ?" said this worthy, laughing as if it were the finest joke in the world to make a morning call, and shaking hands with the ladies with as much vehemence as if their arms had been so many pump-handles. " You're just the very man I wanted," said Mr. Percy Noakes, who proceeded to explain the cause of his being in requisition. " Ha ! ha ! ha !" shouted Hardy, after hearing the statement, and receiving a detailed account of the proposed excursion. " Oh, capital ! glorious ! What a day it will be ! what fun ! But, I say, when are you going to begin making the arrange- ments ?" " No time like the present — at once, if you please." " Oh, charming !" cried the ladies. " Pray do !" Writing materials were laid before Mr. Percy Noakes, and the names of the different members of the committee were agreed on, after as much discussion between him and Mr. Hardy as if the fate of nations had depended on their appointment. It was then' agreed that a meeting should take place at Mr. Percy Noakes' s chambers on the ensuing Wednesday evening at eight o'clock, and the visitors departed. Wednesday evening arrived ; eight o'clock came, and eight members of the committee were punctual in their attendance. Mr. Loggins, the solicitor, of Boswell Court, sent an excuse, and Mr. Samuel Briggs, the ditto of Furnival's Inn, sent his brother : much to his (the brother's) satisfaction, and greatly to the dis- comfiture of Mr. Percy Noakes. Between the Briggses and the Tauntons there existed a degree of implacable hatred, quite unprecedented. The animosity between the Montagues and Capulets was nothing to that which prevailed between these THE STEAM EXCURSION. 449 two illustrious liouses. Mrs. Briggs was a widow, with three daughters and two sons ; Mr. Samuel, the eldest, was an attorney, and Mr. Alexander, the youngest, was under articles to his brother, ' They resided in Portland Street, Oxford Street, and moved in the same orbit as the Tauntons — hence their mutual dislike. If the Miss Briggses appeared in smart bonnets, the Miss Tauntons eclipsed them with smarter. If Mrs. Taunton appeared in a cap of all the hues of the rainbow, Mrs. Briggs forthwith mounted a toque, with all the patterns of the kaleido- scope. If Miss Sophia Taunton learnt a new song, two of the Miss Briggses came out with a new duet. The Tauntons had once gained a temporary triumph with the assistance of a harp, but the Briggses brought three guitars into the field, and effectually routed the enemy. There was no end to the rivalry between them. Now, as Mr. Samuel Briggs was a mere machine, a sort of self-acting legal walking-stick ; and as the party was known to have originated, however remotely, with Mrs. Taunton, the female branches of the Briggs family had arranged that Mr. Alexander should attend, instead of his brother ; and as the said Mr. Alexander was deservedly celebrated for possessing all the pertinacity of a bankruptcy-court attorney, combined with the obstinacy of that useful animal which browses on the thistle, he required but little tuition. He was especially enjoined to make himself as disagreeable as possible ; and, above all, to black-ball the Tauntons at every hazard. The proceedings of the evening were opened by Mr. Percy Noakes. After successfully urging on the gentlemen present the propriety of their mixing some brandy-and-water, he briefly stated the object of the meeting, and concluded by observing that the first step must be the selection of a chairman, neces- sarily possessing some arbitrary — he trusted not unconstitutional — powers, to whom the personal direction of the whole of the arrangements (subject to the approval of the committee) should be confided. A pale young gentleman, in a green stock and G G 450 SKETCHES BY BOZ. spectacles of the same, a member of the honourable society of the Inner Temple, immediately rose for the purpose of proposing Mr. Percy Noakes. He had known him long, and this he would say, that a more honourable, a more excellent, or a better-hearted fellow never existed. — (Hear, hear !) The young gentleman, who was a member of a debating society, took this opportunity of entering into an examination of the state of the English law, from the days of William the Conqueror down to the present period ; he briefly adverted to the code established by the ancient Druids ; slightly glanced at the principles laid down by the Athenian lawgivers ; and concluded with a most glowing eulogium on picnics and constitutional rights. Mr. Alexander Briggs opposed the motion. He had the highest esteem for Mr. Percy Noakes as an individual, but he did consider that he ought not to be intrusted with these immense powers — (oh, oh !). He believed that in the proposed capacity Mr. Percy Noakes would not act fairly, impartially, or honourably ; but he begged it to be distinctly understood, that he said this without the slightest personal disrespect. Mr. Hardy defended his honourable friend, in a voice rendered partially unintelligible by emotion and brandy-and-water. The proposition was put to the vote, and there appearing to be only one dissentient voice, Mr. Percy Nokes was declared duly elected, and took the chair accordingly. The business of the evening now proceeded with rapidity. The chairman delivered in his estimate of the probable expense of the excursion, and every one present subscribed his pro- portion thereof. The question was put that " The Endeavour " be hired for the occasion ; Mr. Alexander Briggs moved as an amendment, that the word " Fly " be substituted for the word "Endeavour;" but after some debate consented to withdraw his opposition. The important ceremony of balloting then com- menced. A tea-caddy was placed on a table in a dark corner of the apartment, and every one was provided with two -back- gammon men, one black and one white. THE STEAM EXCURSION. 45 1 The chairman with great solemnity then read the following list of the guests whom he proposed to introduce : — Mrs. Taunton and two daughters, Mr. Wizzle, Mr. Simson. The names were respectively balloted for, and Mrs. Taunton and her daughters were declared to be black-balled. Mr. Percy Noakes and Mr. Hardy exchanged glances. "Is your list prepared, Mr. Briggs?" inquired the chairman. "It is," replied Alexander, delivering in the following : — " Mrs. Briggs and three daughters, Mr. Samuel Briggs." The previous ceremony was repeated, and Mrs. Briggs and three daughters were declared to be black-balled. Mr. Alexander Briggs looked rather foolish, and the remainder of the com- pany appeared somewhat overawed by the mysterious nature of the proceedings. The balloting proceeded ; but, one little circumstance which Mr. Percy Noakes had not originally foreseen, prevented the system from working quite as well as he had anticipated. Everybody was black-balled. Mr. Alexander Briggs, by way of retaliation, exercised his power of exclusion in every instance, and the result was, that after three hours had been consumed in hard balloting, the names of only three gentlemen were found to have been agreed to. In this dilemma what was to be done ? either the whole plan must fall to the ground, or a compromise must be effected. The latter alternative was preferable ; and Mr. Percy Noakes therefore proposed that the form of balloting should be dispensed with, and that every gentleman should merely be required to state whom he intended to bring. The proposal was acceded to ; the Tauntons and the Briggses were reinstated ; and the party was formed. The next Wednesday was fixed for the eventful day, and it was unanimously resolved that every member of the committee should wear a piece of blue sarcenet ribbon round his left arm. It appeared from the statement of Mr. Percy Noakes, that the boat belonged to the General Steam Navigation Company, and was then lying off the Custom House ; and, as he proposed that G G 2 452 SKETCHES EY BOZ. the dinner and wines should be provided by an eminent City purveyor, it was arranged that Mr. Percy Noakes should be on board by seven o'clock to superintend the arrangements, and that the remaining members of the committee, together with the company generally, should be expected to join her by nine o'clock. More brandy-and-water was dispatched ; several speeches were made by the different law students present ; thanks were voted to the chairman ; and the meeting separated. The weather had been beautiful up to this period, and beautiful it continued to be. Sunday passed over, and Mr. Percy Noakes became unusually fidgety — rushing, constantly, to and from the Steam Packet Wharf, to the astonishment of the clerks, and the great emolument of the Holborn cabmen. Tuesday arrived, and the anxiety of Mr. Percy Noakes knew no bounds. He was every instant running to the window, to look out for clouds ; and Mr. Hardy astonished the whole square by practising a new comic song for the occasion, in the chairman's chambers. Uneasy were the slumbers of Mr. Percy Noakes that night ; lie tossed and tumbled about, and had confused dreams of steamers starting off, and gigantic clocks with the hands pointing to a quarter past nine, and the ugly face of Mr. Alexander Briggs looking over the boat's side, and grinning, as if in derision of his fruitless attempts to move. He made a violent effort to get on board, and awoke. The bright sun was shining cheerfully into the bedroom, and Mr. Percy Noakes started up for his watch, in the dreadful expectation of finding his worst dreams realised. It was just five o'clock. He calculated the time — he should be a good half-hour dressing himself; and, as it was a lovely morning, and the tide would be then running down, he would walk leisurely to Strand Lane, and have a boat to the Custom House. He dressed himself, took a hasty apology for a breakfast, and sallied forth. The streets looked as lonely and deserted as if THE STEAM EXCURSION. 453 they had been crowded, overnight, for the last time. Here and there, an early apprentice, with quenched-looking sleepy eyes, was taking down the shutters of a shop ; and a policeman or milkwoman might occasionally be seen pacing slowly along ; but the servants had not yet begun to clean the doors, or light the kitchen fires, and London looked the picture of desolation. At the corner of a by-street, near Temple Bar, was stationed a " street-breakfast." The coffee was boiling over a charcoal fire, and large slices of bread-and-butter were piled one upon the other, like deals in a timber-yard. The company were seated on a form, which, with a view both to security and comfort, was placed against a neighbouring wall. Two young men, whose uproarious mirth and disordered dress bespoke the con- viviality of the preceding evening, were treating three "ladies" and an Irish labourer. A little sweep was standing at a short distance, casting a longing eye at the tempting delicacies ; and a policeman was watching the group from the opposite side of the street. The wan looks and gaudy finery of the thinly-clad women contrasted as strangely with the gay sun-light, as did their forced merriment with the boisterous hilarity of the two young men, who, now and then, varied their amusements by "bonneting" the proprietor of this itinerant coffee-house. Mr. Percy Noakes walked briskly by, and when he turned down Strand Lane, and caught a glimpse of the glistening water, he thought he had never felt so important or so happy in his life. "Boat, sir!"' cried one of the three watermen who were mopping out their boats, and all whistling. " Boat, sir !" " No," replied Mr. Percy Noakes, rather sharply ; for the inquiry was not made in a manner at all suitable to his dignity. " Would you prefer a wessel, sir?" inquired another, to the infinite delight of the " Jack-in-the- water." Mr. Percy Noakes replied with a look of supreme contempt. " Did you want to be put on board a steamer, sir ?" inquired an old fireman- waterman, very confidentially. He was dressed 454 SKETCHES BY BOZ. in a faded red suit, just the colour of the cover of a very old Court Guide. " Yes, make haste — the Endeavour — off the Custom House." "Endeavour !" cried the man who had convulsed the " Jack" before. " Vy, I see the Endeavour go up half an hour ago." " So did I," said another ; " and I should think she'd gone down by this time, for she's a precious sight too full of ladies and gen'lemen." Mr. Percy Noakes affected to disregard these representations, and stepped into the boat, which the old man, by dint of scram- bling, and shoving, and grating, had brought up to the causeway. " Shove her off!" cried Mr. Percy Noakes, and away the boat glided down the river ; Mr. Percy Noakes seated on the recently mopped seat, and the watermen at the stairs offering to bet him any reasonable sum that he'd never reach the " Custum-us." " Here she is, by Jove !" said the delighted Percy, as they ran alongside the Endeavour. "Hold hard!" cried the steward over the side, and Mr. Percy Noakes jumped on board. " Hope you will find everything as you wished, sir. She looks uncommon well this morning." " She does, indeed," replied the manager, in a state of ecstasy which it is impossible to describe. The deck was scrubbed, and the seats were scrubbed, and there was a bench for the band, and a place for dancing, and a pile of camp-stools, and an awning ; and then, Mr. Percy Noakes bustled down below, and there were the pastrycook's men, and the steward's wife, laying out the dinner on two tables the whole length of the cabin ; and then, Mr. Percy Noakes took off his coat, and rushed back- wards and forwards, doing nothing, but quite convinced he was assisting everybody ; and the steward's wife laughed till she cried, and Mr. Percy Noakes panted with the violence of his exertions. And then, the bell at London Bridge wharf rang ; and a Margate boat was just starting ; and a Gravesend boat just starting, and people shouted, and porters ran down the THE STEAM EXCURSION. 455 steps with luggage that would crush any men but porters ; and sloping boards, with bits of wood nailed on them, were placed between the outside boat and the inside boat ; and the pas- sengers ran along them, and looked like so many fowls coming out of an area ; and then, the bell ceased, and the boards were taken away, and the boats started, and the whole scene was one of the most delightful bustle and confusion. The time wore on ; half-past eight o'clock arrived : the pastrycook's men went ashore ; the dinner was completely laid out ; and Mr. Percy Noakes locked the principal cabin, and put the key in his pocket, in order that it might be suddenly dis- closed, in all its magnificence, to the eyes of the astonished com- pany. The band came on board, and so did the wine. Ten minutes to nine, and the committee embarked in a body. There was Mr. Hardy, in a blue jacket and waistcoat, white trousers, silk stockings, and pumps — in full aquatic costume, with a straw hat on his head, and an immense telescope under his arm ; and there was the young gentleman with the green spectacles, with nankeen inexplicables, with a ditto waistcoat and bright buttons, like the pictures of Paul — not the saint, but he . of Virginia notoriety. The remainder of the committee, dressed in white hats, light jackets, waistcoats, and trousers, looked something between waiters and West India planters. Nine o'clock struck, and the company arrived in shoals. Mr. Samuel Briggs, Mrs. Briggs, and the Misses Briggs, made their appearance in a smart private wherry. The three guitars, in their respective dark green cases, were carefully stowed away in the bottom of the boat, accompanied by two immense port- folios of music, which it would take at least a week's incessant playing to get through. The Tauntons arrived at the same moment with more music, and a lion — a gentleman with a bass voice and an incipient red moustache. The colours of the Taunton party were pink ; those of the Briggses a light blue. The Tauntons had artificial flowers in their bonnets ; here the Briggses gained a decided advantage — they wore feathers. 45^ SKETCHES BY BOZ. "How d'ye do, dear?" said the Misses Briggs to the Misses Taunton. (The word " dear " among girls is frequently synonymous with "wretch.") "Quite well/ thank you, dear," replied the Misses Taunton to the Misses Briggs ; and then, there was such a kissing, and congratulating, and shaking of hands, as might have induced one to suppose that the two families were the best friends in the world, instead of each wishing the other overboard, as they most sincerely did. Mr. Percy Noakes received the visitors, and bowed to the strange gentleman, as if he should like to know who he was. This was just what Mrs. Taunton wanted. Here was an oppor- tunity to astonish the Briggses. " Oh ! I beg your pardon," said the general of the Taunton party, with a careless air. " Captain Helves — Mr. Percy Noakes — Mrs. Briggs — Captain Helves." Mr. Percy Noakes bowed very low ; the gallant captain did the same with all due ferocity, and the Briggses were clearly overcome. " Our friend, Mr. Wizzle, being unfortunately prevented from coming," resumed Mrs. Taunton, " I did myself the pleasure of bringing the captain, whose musical talents I knew would be a great acquisition." " In the name of the committee I have to thank you for doing so, and to offer you welcome, sir," replied Percy. (Here the scraping was renewed.) " But pray be seated — won't you walk aft ? Captain, will you conduct Miss Taunton ? Miss Briggs, will you allow me?" "Where could they have picked up that military man?" inquired Mrs. Briggs of Miss Kate Briggs, as they followed the little party. " I can't imagine," replied Miss Kate, bursting with vexation ; for the very fierce air with which the gallant captain regarded the company, had impressed her with a high sense of his importance. Boat after boat came alongside, and guest after guest arrived. THE STEAM EXCURSION. 457 The invites had been excellently arranged : Mr. Percy Noakes having considered it as important that the number of young men should exactly tally with that of the young ladies, as that the quantity of knives on board should be in precise proportion to the forks. " Now, is every one on board ?" inquired Mr. Percy Noakes. The committee (who, with their bits of blue ribbon, looked as if they were all going to be bled) bustled about to ascertain the fact, and reported that they might safely start. "Go on !" cried the master of the boat from the top of one of the paddle-boxes. "Go on !" echoed the boy, who was stationed over the hatch- way to pass the directions down to the engineer ; and away went the vessel with that agreeable noise which is peculiar to steamers, and which is composed of a mixture of creaking, gushing, clanging, and snorting. " Hoi — oi — oi — oi — oi — oi — o — i — i — i !" shouted half-a- dozen voices from a boat, a quarter of a mile astern. " Ease her !" cried the captain. " Do these people belong to us, sir ?" "Noakes," exclaimed Hardy, who had been looking at every object far and near, through the large telescope, "it's the Fleetwoods and the Wakefields — and two children with them, by Jove !" " What a shame to bring children !" said everybody ; " how very inconsiderate I" " I say, it would be a good joke to pretend not to see 'em, wouldn't it?" suggested Hardy, to the immense delight of the company generally. A council of war was hastily held, and it was resolved that the new-comers should be taken on board, on Mr. Hardy's solemnly pledging himself to tease the children during the whole of the day. " Stop her !" cried the captain. "Stop her!" repeated the boy; whizz went the steam, and all the young ladies, as in duty bound, screamed in concert. 458 SKETCHES BY BOZ. They were only appeased by the assurance of the martial Helves, that the escape of steam consequent on stopping a vessel was seldom attended with any great loss of human life. Two men ran to the side ; and after some shouting, and swearing, and angling for the wherry with a boat-hook, Mr. Fleetwood, and Mrs. Fleetwood, and Master Fleetwood, and Mr. Wakefield, and Mrs. Wakefield, and Miss Wakefield, were safely deposited on the deck. The girl was about six years old, the boy about four ; the former was dressed in a white frock with a pink sash and dog's-eared-looking little spencer : a straw bonnet and green veil, six inches by three and a half ; the latter was attired for the occasion in a nankeen frock, between the bottom of which, and the top of his plaid socks, a consider- able portion of two small mottled legs was discernible. He had a light blue cap with a gold band and tassel on his head, and a damp piece of gingerbread in his hand, with which he had slightly embossed his countenance. The boat once more started off ; the band played " Off she goes;" the major part of the company conversed cheerfully^ in groups ; and the old gentlemen walked up and down the deck in pairs, as perseveringly and gravely as if they were doing a match against time for an immense stake. They ran briskly down the Pool ; the gentlemen pointed out the Docks, the Thames Police-office, and other elegant public edifices ; and the young ladies exhibited a proper display of horror at the appear- ance of the coal-whippers and ballast-heavers. Mr. Hardy told stories to the married ladies, at which they laughed very much in their pocket-handkerchiefs, and hit him on the knuckles with their fans, declaring him to be " a naughty man — a shocking creature " — and so forth ; and Captain Helves gave slight descriptions of battles, and duels, with 'a most bloodthirsty air, which made him the admiration of the women, and the envy of the men. Quadrilling commenced ; Captain Helves danced one set with Miss Emily Taunton, and another set with Miss Sophia Taunton. Mrs. Taunton was in ecstasies. The THE STEAM EXCURSION. 459 victory appeared to be complete ; but alas ! the inconstancy of man ! Having performed this necessary duty, he attached himself solely to Miss Julia Briggs, with whom he danced no less than three sets consecutively, and from whose side he evinced no intention of stirring for the remainder of the day. Mr. Hardy, having played one or two very brilliant fantasias on the Jew's-harp, and having frequently repeated the exqui- sitely amusing joke of slily chalking a large cross on the back of some member of the committee, Mr. Percy Noakes expressed his hope that some of their musical friends would oblige the company by a display of their abilities. " Perhaps," he said in a very insinuating manner, " Captain Helves will oblige us ?" Mrs. Taunton's countenance lighted up, for the captain only sang duets, and couldn't sing them with anybody but one of her daughters. " Really," said that warlike individual, " I should be very happy, but " " Oh ! pray do," cried all the young ladies. " Miss Emily, have you any objection to join in a duet ?" " Oh ! not the slightest," returned the young lady, in a tone which clearly showed she had the greatest possible objection. " Shall I accompany you, dear?" inquired one of the Miss Briggses, with the bland intention of spoiling the effect. " Very much obliged to you, Miss Briggs," sharply retorted Mrs. Taunton, who saw through the manoeuvre ; " my daughters always sing without accompaniments." " And without voices," tittered Mrs. Briggs, in a low tone. " Perhaps," said Mrs. Taunton, reddening, for she guessed the tenor of the observation, though she had not heard it clearly — " perhaps it would be as well for some people, if their voices were not quite so audible as they are to other people." " And, perhaps, if gentlemen who are kidnapped to pay attention to some persons' daughters, had not sufficient discern- ment to pay attention to other persons' daughters," returned Mrs. Briggs, " some persons would not be so ready to display 460 SKETCHES BY BOZ. that ill-temper which, thank God, distinguishes them from other persons." "Persons!" ejaculated Mrs. Taunton. " Persons," replied Mrs. Briggs. " Insolence !" " Creature !" "Hush ! hush !" interrupted Mr. Percy Noakes, who was one of the very few by whom this dialogue had been overheard. " Hush ! — pray, silence for the duet." After a great deal of preparatory crowing and humming, the captain began the following duet from the opera of " Paul and Virginia," in that grunting tone in which* a man gets down,- Heaven knows where, without the remotest chance of ever get- ting up again. This, in private circles, is frequently designated " a bass voice." " See (sung the captain) from o — ce — an ri — sing Bright flames the or — b of d— ay. From yon gro — ove, the varied so — ongs " Here, the singer was interrupted by varied cries of the most dreadful description, proceeding from some grove in the immediate vicinity of the starboard paddle-box. "My child !" screamed Mrs. Fleetwood. "My child ! it is his voice — I know it." Mr. Fleetwood, accompanied by several gentlemen, here rushed to the quarter from whence the noise proceeded, and an exclamation of horror burst from the company ; the general impression being, that the little innocent had either got his head in the water, or his legs in the machinery. "What is the matter?" shouted the agonised father, as he returned with the child in his arms. "Oh ! oh ! oh !" screamed the small sufferer again. "What is the matter, dear?" inquired the father, once more — hastily stripping off the nankeen frock, for the purpose of ascertaining whether the child had one bone which was not smashed to pieces. THE STEAM EXCURSION. " Oh ! oh ! I'm so frightened !" " What at, dear ? — what at ?" said the mother, soothing the sweet infant. "Oh! he's been making such dreadful faces at me," cried the hoy, relapsing into convulsions at the bare recollection. " He ! — who ?" cried everybody, crowding round him. " Oh ! — him!" replied the child, pointing at Hardy, who affected to be the most concerned of the whole group. The real state of the case at once flashed upon the minds of all present, with the exception of the Fleetwoods and the Wakefields. The facetious Hardy, in fulfilment of his promise, had watched the child to a remote part of the vessel, and, sud- denly appearing before him with the most awful contortions of visage, had produced his paroxysm of terror. Of course he now observed that it was hardly necessary for him to deny the accusation ; and the unfortunate little victim was accordingly led below, after receiving sundry thumps on the head from both; his parents, for having the wickedness to tell a story. This little interruption having been adjusted, the captain resumed, and Miss Emily chimed in, in due course. The duet was loudly applauded, and, certainly, the perfect independence of the parties deserved great commendation. Miss Emily sang her part, without the slightest reference to the captain ; and the captain sang so loud, that he had not the slightest idea what was being done by his partner. After having gone through the last few eighteen or nineteen bars by himself, therefore, he acknowledged the plaudits of the circle with that air of self- denial which men usually assume when they think they have done something to astonish the company. " Now," said Mr. Percy Noakes, who had just ascended from the fore-cabin, where he had been busily engaged in decanting the wine, " if the Misses Briggs will oblige us with something before dinner, I am sure we shall be very much delighted." One of those hums of admiration followed the suggestion, which one frequently hears in society, when nobody has the 462 SKETCHES BY BOZ. most distant notion what he is expressing his approval of 'Hie three Misses Briggs looked modestly at their mamma, and the mamma looked approvingly at her daughters, and Mrs. Taunton looked scornfully at all of them. The Misses Briggs asked for their guitars, and several gentlemen seriously damaged the cases in their anxiety to present them. Then, there was a very interesting production of three little keys for the aforesaid cases, and a melodramatic expression of horror at finding a string broken ; and a vast deal of screwing and tightening, and winding, and tuning, during which Mrs. Briggs expatiated to those near her on the immense difficulty of playing a guitar, and hinted at the wondrous proficiency of her daughters in that mystic art. Mrs. Taunton whispered to a neighbour that it was " quite sickening !" and the Misses Taunton looked as if they knew how to play, but disdained to do it. At length, the Misses Briggs began in real earnest. It was a new Spanish composition, for three voices and three guitars. The effect was electrical. All eyes were turned upon the captain, who was reported to have once passed through Spain with his regiment, and who must be well acquainted with the national music. He was in raptures. This was sufficient : the trio was encored ; the applause was universal ; and never had the Tauntons suffered such a complete defeat. " Bravo ! bravo !" ejaculated the captain ; " bravo !" " Pretty ! isn't it, sir?" inquired Mr. Samuel Briggs, with the •air of a self-satisfied showman. By-the-bye, these were the first words he had been heard to utter since he left Boswell Court the evening before. "De — rightful!" returned the captain, with a flourish, and a military cough ; — " de — lightful !" " Sweet instrument I" said an old gentleman with a bald head, who had been trying all the morning to look through a telescope, inside the glass of which Mr. Hardy had fixed a large black wafer. "Did you ever hear a Portuguese tamborine?" inquired that jocular individual. THE STEAM EXCURSION. 463 "Did you ever hear a tom-tom, sir?" sternly inquired the captain, who lost no opportunity of showing off his travels, real or pretended.