UNIVERSITY OF 
 ILLINOIS LIBRARY 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/friendsofbohemia01whit 
 
FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA : 
 
 OE, 
 
 PHASES OF LONDON LIFE, 
 
FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA: 
 
 OB, 
 
 PHASES OF LONDON LIFE 
 
 BY 
 
 E. M. WHITTY, 
 
 AUTHOE OF '•THE GOYEKyiiSG CLASSES, 
 
 IX TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDOX : 
 SMITH, ELDER, AND CO., (jo, CORNHILL. 
 
 1857. 
 
[the authoe eesekves the bight op translation.] 
 

 Wh/Sl 
 
 ^ "I SUPPOSE that most men who address the public aspire to some 
 
 slight inflaence on opinion— the propagation of something, whether 
 humorously tirged or not, which is to contribute its drop to the 
 dissemination of truth among mankind. I have shown how the true 
 satirist contributes his share to that, and how he may hope that his 
 laughter wDl not die away along with the cachinnations of merrj- 
 andrews." 
 
 " A wag of that period, who was also a screw, once exclaimed while 
 ^ he was eating oysters, 'What grand things oysters would be if one 
 ^ could make one's servants live on the shells.' They achieved that in 
 
 government; for the parties got the oysters and the people got the 
 
 shells." — James Hannai/s " Satire and Satirists" 
 
TO 
 
 EOBEET BENNETT, 
 
 OF LIVERPOOL, 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED BY HIS OLD SCHOOLFELLOW 
 AND OLD FRIEITD, 
 
CONTENTS OF VOL. I 
 
 CHAPTER I. Page 
 
 Governing Classes , . . . . .1 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Old Lottery . . . . . .11 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 It's Good to be Merry and Wise, (S:c. . . . .18 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Forced Orange Blossoms . . . . .25 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A Wedding-Ring too Small . , . . .30 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The Faster yon eat the Peach, the Sooner yon come to tlie 
 Stone ....... 38 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Lares in Flannel . . . . . .41 
 
 CHAPTER VIII, 
 
 Lake Scener}" ...... 46 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Dinner Discourse . . . . . .54 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Treasure-Trove ...... 65 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The Family 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Weak Sons and Strong Fathers .... 88 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A Ne^ Year's Old Blunder . . . . 96 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Butterflv-Life . . . • .113 
 
X CONTENTS OF VOI,. T. 
 
 CIIAl'TLli XV. Page 
 
 Sclf-Keliance too Selfish . .117 
 
 CHAPTIili XVI. 
 
 Scir-KeliancL' Distrust of all Men .... \-22 
 
 CHAPTER X\ III. 
 
 London Ilennits . . . . . ,1-44 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Philosophic Gossip , . . . . .1.54 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Idle Busybo dies . . . . . . .1.59 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Purple Glas.ses in Bohemia . . . . .170 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 An unexpected Guest . . . . . .176 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 The Law of Divorce . . . . . .188 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Night . . . . . . .19.5 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Morning ....... 20.3 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 A Mad Stoiy . . . . . . .211 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 A True-Love Story . . . . . .234 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Marriage against the Mode ..... 2.51 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Contrasts in Toilets ...... 257 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Men of Business . . . . . .265 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Keeping up Appearances ..... 270 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 Bohemian Language . . . . . .274 
 
FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA; 
 
 OR, 
 
 PHASES OF LONDON LIFE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 GOVERNING CLASSES. 
 
 " Who would have thouglit it ! " exclaimed the 
 quidnuncs throughout Pall-Malldom. The quidnuncs 
 are always making this exclamation at every thing 
 new. The fact is, the quidnuncs never think, and are 
 in a normal state of surprise. 
 
 Lord Slumberton had got the Governorship then in 
 the market. It was a very good one. Every body 
 knew some body who had asked for it. 
 
 Lord Slumberton was Baron Slumberton of Slum- 
 berton, a fine old Warwickshire hall, newly furnished 
 by a Birmingham steel pen-maker, who had taken it 
 for a term of years ; and, being glad to obhge a peer 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
2 FKIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 when there was no actual loss on the transaction, had 
 advanced some six or seven years' rent. How natural, 
 therefore, that Mr. Magnum Bonum should talk 
 among his friends of " my place ! " 
 
 Slumberton had been born to a nearly ruined pro- 
 perty, and as he had all liis life fancied that he had a 
 great talent for finance, generally developed by avoid- 
 ing payments of the money owed to others and 
 routing out tenants who owed money to him, 
 ►Slumberton was, by the time he got the Governorship, 
 utterly ruined. In the process of being utterly ruined, 
 he, as a poor Peer having claims on his class which 
 had a whole national property to administer, had got 
 nice little imperial pickings every now and then. He 
 had got his sister into that highly exclusive " Union " 
 for the most polished of our paupers, Hampton Court, 
 and he had got himself into Commissions every now and 
 then, and had once been a Minister by some mistake. 
 
 This good Governorship was to get rid of him ; 
 for he had become a bore to the big Peers. Of course, 
 big Peers, of first class qualifications, like to have 
 little Peers about them ; but not such very little Peers 
 as Slumberton. First-class men avoid second-class 
 men who may be first-class men ; but they are com- 
 
GOVER^^:xG classes. 3 
 
 pelled to keep off also fourtli-class men. Lucky are 
 the third-rate men : they always get on ! 
 
 Slumberton had a fine manner, an even temper, and 
 a reserved disposition. It was not every one, there- 
 fore, who knew that he was not a first-class man. He 
 possessed two daughters, who were fully impressed 
 with the idea that mentally he was quite worthy of 
 the affectionate respect with wliich they always re- 
 garded him. There are very few loveable people, 
 particularly in intimacy, from that of Hero and 
 Valet to Darby and Joan ; so that it is a fine pro- 
 vision of nature that we should all be taken in by our 
 fathers and mothers. 
 
 The Hon. Misses Slumberton were pretty, and not 
 silly. They had been well trained by a governess, 
 unvulgarized by profuse connexions and compli- 
 cated relations; also discreetly left alone by their 
 papa. 
 
 On the morning after the commotion in Pall-Mall- 
 dom, they were at breakfast with papa, congratu- 
 lating him joyfully about the new^ dignity of which 
 they only understood that it would make him happy, 
 and looking at him with the reverence due to the rulers 
 of men — • 
 
4 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 " To be taken out in a frigate ! " exclaimed the 
 youngest ^liss Slumberton. 
 
 " You must save us great fortunes out of that grand 
 salary, papa, and then we'll all go back to Warwick- 
 shire again ! " exclaimed the eldest Miss Slumberton. 
 
 ^' On the subject of fortune," said his lordship, " I 
 wish you always to remember that it is well under- 
 stood that you are, some few years hence, to have the 
 Wortley property divided between you, under the will 
 of my aunt, Mistress Wortley/' 
 
 " Yes, papa," commented the youngest ; " but there 
 are three lives between it and us, you know, and it 
 seems so dreadful to be speculating upon people 
 dying." 
 
 His lordship dusted his elegant but feeble mouth, 
 and answered, " It is still more dreadful to look for- 
 ward to your being absolute paupers. Circumstances 
 will prevent me saving any thing out of the — ah — 
 (he hesitated to use the word salary) — the sum allotted 
 by her Majesty as the emolument of the high office 
 to which I am called. (It is noticeable that the 
 nation was not shouting particularly.) In cases of 
 property, it is proper to calculate all contingencies. 
 In this case, the eminent advice of actuaries assures 
 
GOVERXEN'G CLASSES. 5 
 
 me that I mav feel — ah — comfortable with re^zard to 
 yom* future life. (His lordship sipped his tea.) ^ly 
 own estates being entailed on males — whom I prefer 
 not to know — I am forbidden to look forward to the 
 re-establishment of our house in any direct way. I 
 may leave a name as a statesman — perhaps : but 
 the barony of Slumberton dies with me." He sigrhed 
 and turned to his morning paper, which appeared to 
 be insensible to this contingency. 
 
 ^' Mr. Dwyorts — in the library — desires to see you 
 for a few moments, my lord, on pressing business." 
 This was the intimation of a cj^uiet servant, quietly 
 opening the door. 
 
 The last of the kSlumljertons (always pale, as 
 became a descendant from Joan, mistress of Edward 
 the Fom'th, who had done all the blusliing no doubt 
 in the beginning), now turned yellow. But he said, 
 '• In a few minutes. Plush." Plush bowed his stately 
 head, which grew grey twice a day in the service 
 of fashion, closed the door, and communicated with 
 Dwyorts, poked the library fire, and left Dwyorts 
 to wait. Dwyorts walked up and down the all but 
 bookless library, and at each turn looked at his 
 watch. 
 
6 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 '^ Good-morning, Mr. Dwyorts ! " saluted the peer. 
 ^^ Hope I see you well. Surprised at seeing you in 
 town. Take a cliair. Take — a — cliair — lieli!" The 
 rheumatic Slumberton had taken a chair himself. 
 
 ^^ I came up, my lord, by the express train last night 
 from Liverpool. We got the news of your appoint- 
 ment there by telegraph in the morning. Lots of Liver- 
 pool men have estates in the island, and are anxious to 
 know your views on the Lollipop question that your 
 predecessor has made such a mess of." 
 
 " Ah — yes ! The merchants of Liverpool are very 
 able persons, and very powerful. I shall be happy to 
 hear their views. But I am not going for a few 
 weeks. Ha — ha ! Expeditious people, you Liver- 
 pool men." 
 
 " Why, my lord, I didn't come on public grounds 
 altogether. / have no property in Saccharinia. The 
 truth is, I hoped your lordship would now settle that 
 £30,000 matter." 
 
 *^ Ha — yes ! Dear me, I wish I had not gone into 
 that speculation." 
 
 "Well, I lost more than you did, and I cannot 
 afford to lose for more than one." The man of busi- 
 ness was peremptory. His northern accent was harsh 
 
GOVERNING CLASSES. 7 
 
 to the embarrassed nobleman, who gazed at the fire 
 with great intensity, and told off his helpless " Yes — 
 yes — eSj" with which he was perpetually assenting to 
 something — probably the whispers of conscience. Pity 
 that conscience had not been brought up to speak 
 out! 
 
 A long and still more dull story of the connection 
 between the peer and the merchant. The peer, who 
 was always for making great coups and was always 
 getting into great scrapes, had heard of a bold project 
 of Dwyorts', had thrust himself into it, became partner 
 in the enterprise, and been eventually informed by a 
 most respectful accountant that he owed Mr. Dwyorts 
 £26,000, which, with interest, was now £29.000. 
 Dwyorts, a square-built man, was fond of round 
 numbers : the rounder the better. Thus, he always 
 wrote and spoke of this transaction with Lord Slum- 
 berton as 'Uhat £30,000 affair." 
 
 The peer now made a variety of proposals. A 
 policy on his life, with instalments per annum out 
 of his newly secured salary. Any thing in reason. 
 
 Dwyorts was awfully candid. He was squeezed just 
 now. His Canadian railway — he owned nearly half 
 the stock, and was contractor as well — had gone 
 
8 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 wrong. Iron had run up. Cotton had run down. He 
 wanted the money, and he must have the money ! 
 Unless he left this money behind him, his lordship 
 might make up his mind that he would never reign 
 in Sucreton, Saccharinia. 
 
 Driven into a corner, the peer reached a suggestion 
 which his small selfishness of character often intruded 
 on him. 
 
 " There is my daughter Nea, now — yes — She is of 
 age some weeks. You are probably not aware that 
 the Wortley estates come to her and her sister — it 
 must be in a very few years. Now, could not she 
 make an assignment — prospectively to you — of such 
 a sum as, with the securities I can give, might make 
 it worth your while to wait ? " 
 
 Dwyorts had looked at "that £30,000 affair" from 
 every point of view before coming up ; and he had 
 wished to bring it to this point. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, without a pause. '• I was aware 
 of that, and am not disinclined to such a proposal. But, 
 as a man of business, I must have a safe assignment. 
 
 " In what way .^ " 
 
 "Why, the best security would be for the young 
 lady to assign over herself" 
 
GOVERNING CLASSES. 9 
 
 "How, ;Mr. Dw}^orts! You — but you are mar- 
 ried?" 
 
 " And in consequence have a son." 
 
 The perturbed Skimberton, weak and wily, stared 
 hard, softly turned to the fii^e and consulted the coals — 
 silently. 
 
 Dwyorts would give him no time. " Let the young 
 people marry. I want no fortune down. I want to 
 marry my son, and settle him. This would suit. I'll 
 give the young couple enough to live on." 
 
 The peer still consulted the coals. Conscience did 
 not seem to be making any remark, and there was no 
 '' Yes — yes," for once. 
 
 " Of course I am assuming that your lordship, as 
 a man of the world, has not got any notions about 
 differences in rank preventing otherwise suitable 
 marriages. In these days it's the pewter makes the 
 rank — and no mistake ! " By "pewter" Dwyorts meant 
 gold. Dwyorts chuckled coarseley. 
 
 ^^ Yes— yes!" at last. "Well— well! This will 
 require consideration. Shall we see each other again 
 in a few days ? " 
 
 ^* Certainly ! But your lordship understands that 
 that is my ultimatum. The money : or this marriage." 
 
10 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 " Yes — yes ! But have you consulted your son ? '^ 
 
 " Not at all ! He'll do what I tell him. He's not 
 
 likely to flinch from such a match. She's a sweet 
 
 young lady : one to be proud of. And, unless I am 
 
 mistaken, she'll be worth £100,000 before she's thirty." 
 
 " Yes — yes ! In a few days, then. Good-morning." 
 
 Then his lordship locked the door, and went steadily 
 
 into a conference with the coals, and conscience : whose 
 
 loquacity was tremendous, for his lordship assented 
 
 incessantly till luncheon-time. 
 
THE OLD LOTTERY. 11 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE OLD LOTTERY. 
 
 Lord Slumberton desired Mrs. Triste, the once 
 governesSj now duenna, or companion, or pensioner, 
 to come into the library. 
 
 He stated the case to her as artfully as he could. 
 But she understood it. 
 
 She would like to see Nea married. She was sur 
 her heart was disengaged. Nea was a sensible girl, 
 and her father might rely on her affection. This 
 might be an excellent match. The only child of Mr. 
 Dwyorts would be very rich, no doubt : and, as his 
 lordship said, rank had in these days to be waived. 
 But then how could Nea be asked to say ^' Yes," not 
 having seen or known the young gentleman ? 
 
 ''Yes — yes! Suppose we ask ISlea to join us at 
 once T' 
 
 Mrs. Triste thought it would be better that she 
 should first speak to Nea. 
 
12 FRIENDS OF BOHEMDV. 
 
 Lord Slumberton considered it policy to show at 
 his club that day, and from the club went and dined 
 with an ex-Colonial Secretary, who had views about 
 beetroot, and wished to impress the new Governor with 
 these views. He did not see Nea, to hear her decision, 
 until next morning at breakfast, when she kissed him : 
 which promised well. 
 
 The Misses Slumberton had not seen much of the 
 world, and had been kept tolerably free from romance. 
 Deprived of county position by their sire's financial 
 position, with no large family connections to bring 
 them on in London, alternating their unostentatious 
 and inexpensive life between Bryanstone square. No. 
 90, taken furnished, to Brighton, No. 91, taken fur- 
 nished, they had grown up very modestly and mildly, 
 watched over by ]\Irs. Triste, a pure-minded, plain, 
 practical woman. Presented at court, seen at balls, 
 and dinner parties, and other fetes, they were still 
 innocent of the delirium of fashion, and had escaped, 
 if not emotions, at least adventures. The announce- 
 ment of the wishes of Lord Slumberton was taken 
 very calmly by his eldest child. The idea of a mar- 
 riage — of a marriage desired by her father, and advised 
 by her only friend (whom she regarded as daughters 
 
THE OLD LOTTERY. 13 
 
 sliouklj but seldom do, regard a motlier) was not dis- 
 pleasing to her. The vagueness as to the personality 
 of the husband did not render the idea unpleasant : 
 for, if so, would not the idea of marriage — the idea 
 on which they are nourislied — he distasteful to all 
 young girls ? Mrs. Triste, like most disappointed 
 ladies, had come to the conclusion that love was 
 a childish affair ; and she now spoke of matrimony as 
 an inevitable partnership between the sexes : those 
 being safest of their future who went into the business 
 without any enthusiastic behef in the profits. 
 • The younger sister urged a wedding ; it would be 
 such fun. Nea thought of her father's age, her few 
 friends, her own and her sister's and her governess's 
 position, in the event of his death. She thought of a 
 house, and of the dignity of ample means of her own. 
 She thought of — who can tell what a young lady does 
 not think of, when she thinks of giving herself in 
 marriage ? 
 
 It was understood, w^hen breakfast was over that 
 morning, that Nea had no objections, if her father 
 and she and Mrs. Triste should like the gentleman 
 on his presenting himself 
 
 Dwyorts — hurrying up to town again in due time 
 
14 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 — was satisfied, was shown into the drawing-room, 
 kissed the young lady's cheek, sent her and her sister 
 and Mrs. Triste magnificent presents, fixed the wed- 
 ding-day at a month's distance, and went back to 
 Liverpool, content with "this stroke of work" — as 
 he expressed it. 
 
 Dwyorts, when a young man making his way, was 
 head clerk to a house in Eio Janeiro. His employer 
 died. He married his employer's widow. She was 
 a rather coloured woman : she didn't know exactly of 
 what race ; they not being genealogists in these febrile 
 regions of mingled ethnographs. She had a dreadful 
 temper ; but then she had a good property^ and 
 Dwyorts seldom complained. He left her for London ; 
 and she followed. He settled in London, and she 
 unsettled him. He concentrated his business in 
 Liverpool, and she followed ; and then he endured her, 
 watching his son grow up, for many years. 
 
 Lately he had bought a fine Irish estate — only 
 because it was going a bargain — from a descendant of a 
 variety of Celtic kings ; and, as his wife had quarrelled 
 with all her husband's family and connections, and was 
 not really fond of towns, and had outlived her leanings 
 to the reluctant Dwyorts, he had induced her to take 
 
THE OLD LOTTERY. 15 
 
 up her residence at the old OsMre castle. There she 
 was again free from the conventionalities of civiHsa- 
 tion, and was happy in the large atmosphere that 
 breathed of the Atlantic. She took walks in her park, 
 clad in a flannel dressing-wrapper, with stockingless 
 but slippered feet. She cursed in Spanish the cowed 
 peasants, and was altogether much better tempered 
 than Dwyorts would have believed. 
 
 At the time that D^vyorts went up to London, Mrs. 
 Dwyorts' happiness was increased by the presence of 
 her son, whom she adored ; and whom she abused till 
 she was apoplectic, whenever she could have him with 
 her. He was there now, doing quarantine. He had 
 broken down in debt, and, while his father was 
 arrangmg his affairs, he was hiding — and hunting. 
 
 To the letter from D\vyorts senior, giving his or- 
 ders about coming over to marry Miss Slumberton, 
 Dwyorts junior returned the follo\^ing letter — written 
 by his valet : — 
 
 '^Dear Father, — I will marry any one you tell 
 me to marry. I said that long ago, and am ready any 
 day, and you need not think of consulting me in any 
 arrangement you like to make. But as to going 
 
1 6 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 over, I have broken ray arm in trying Blazes, who is used 
 to Leicestershire, over an infernal Irish wall, and a 
 doctor fellow is writing to you to say that I must not 
 stir. So you will have to postpone it, unless the lady 
 and her people will come here, which I suppose they 
 won't. Mother has been dreadfully put out by* my 
 accident, saying it is my own fault ; and she ordered 
 Blazes to be shot while I was insensible, and would 
 have done it herself if they had refused. The doctor 
 keeps her out of the room, as he says she would drive 
 me into a fever, and she has threatened to shoot 
 him. 
 
 " Your affectionate son, 
 
 " Diego Dwyorts. 
 
 ^' P.S. — You didn't say if she has fair or dark hair ; 
 I could guess the eyes from that. 
 
 '• Lord Septpat, here, has started a screw yacht in 
 his bay. I wish you'd have one. Mother says she'd 
 like a cruise to Kio Janeiro. I dare say, I could get 
 into the royal yacht club. But don't mind if it's 
 expensive, as I hear the parliament in Canada has 
 been swindling you. I never liked M.P.s." 
 
 Mrs. Dwyorts did di'ive her son into a fever. It 
 
THE OLD LOTTERY. 17 
 
 happened in this way. Lord Septpat called to ask 
 how he was getting on. His lordship was shown to 
 Mrs. Dwyorts' room ; and as he talked in a way she 
 didn't like, about the duties of landed proprietors 
 showing an example to the people by attending a 
 place of worship — which she positively would never 
 do — she told him, in effect, that the sooner he left 
 her house the better would she be pleased. The 
 valet informed the son of this; he sprang up to 
 go and rail at her, stumbled, freshly fractured the 
 arm, and became very ill. 
 
 But the Colonial Office hastened Lord Slumberton, 
 with some notion that the island would find out that it 
 could do without a governor. Mr. Dwyorts remained 
 peremptory about " The £30,000 affair." There was 
 nothing for Lord Slumberton but to go over to Oshire 
 and marry off his daughter. He did : the ladies, 
 after natural struggles, having consented to this step. 
 The condition they made was privacy, and as much 
 secresy as possible. Nea was nervous ; like a novice, 
 accustomed to the contemplation, taking the veil. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
18 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA, 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 it's good to be merry and wise, etc. 
 
 The day that Mr. Diego Dwyorts got orders to 
 marry Nea Slumberton, he sent his servant, Mr. Kees, 
 a great confidant of his, on a mission. 
 
 This dark November morning, ere the sun has 
 faced this absm'd world, and while the household is 
 in that horizontal position of snorey repose which 
 lovers of their species had best think about as little 
 as possible, Mr. Kees has returned. Mr. Kees, 
 arriving on a horse which appears to have been 
 swimming through liquefied ploughed fields, turns 
 the steed loose in the park, with very little prospect 
 of ever being found in any particular state of health 
 again, and gets in at a window. There is no absolute 
 necessity for this secretive method of coming home ; 
 but it is the character of Mr. Kees to proceed in this 
 manner. If Mr. Kees had a castle, he would live in 
 
it's good to be merry and wise, etc. 19 
 
 the subten'anean passages. He likes mystery^ and 
 surprises, and large cloaks. 
 
 The noise he makes in his room, which is close to 
 his master's, wakes that gentleman. Mr. Kees is 
 compelled to change his clothes, and to look for a little 
 brandy after the long wet ride; but he is mortified 
 that he has not effected these comforts in the furtive 
 fashion he had attempted. 
 
 " Who is that moving in there ? " 
 
 Kees enters, trims the night light, exposes his face, 
 and adds, " Hope I see you better, sir." 
 
 '^ Good God — Kees ! what has kept you ? I was 
 going mad with anxiety. Why, the wedding is to be 
 to-day ! " 
 
 '' Just in time, then, sir. I made all the haste I 
 could ; but it was a long hunt." 
 
 There was a pause — Kees understood it, and said, 
 ^^ I'll just make you some tea, sir, as I see you are not 
 likely to sleep again, and I'll light the candles and 
 make a fire, and tell you my news, sir. Is the arm 
 all right now, sir ?" 
 
 '^ Very nearly ; I had a relapse after you went. But 
 tell me all. Where did you find her ? " 
 . >'I went of course to Paris fii'st, and saw the 
 
20 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 bankers. They had last remitted to Vienna. At 
 Vienna the news was that she was singing at Madrid 
 again. I travelled night and day. She had set off to 
 go there, but fell ill at Bayonne. I should tell you, 
 sir, before leaving Germany, she had dressed herself 
 as a young man, and played the devil, as a student 
 at Heidelberg." 
 
 " What. You mean ? " 
 
 " Not at all, sir. Same as ever that way : cares 
 for no man at all. Not a word of that sort has any 
 one to say against her. But she fought duels, and 
 insisted on pistols, and gave dreadful drinking parties, 
 and got a professor carried off, or something of that 
 kind, and had to run from the police." 
 
 « Well— go on." 
 
 " She was very ill, indeed ; and, when only half 
 recovered, she left Bayonne suddenly, but did not go 
 to Madrid : that was all any one could tell me." 
 
 "Well— weU!" 
 
 " But she did a serious thing at Bayonne, sir." 
 
 '' What .?— quick, quick ! " 
 
 " She sent for a confessor." 
 
 '' Well ! " 
 
 ^' I found him out. He told me (cost money) that 
 
it's good to be merky and wise, etc. 2] 
 
 her intention was to renounce the world and go into 
 a convent. He had got a letter for her to a religious 
 lady, the superior of a convent in Paris." 
 
 " She went to Paris ? " 
 
 " Exactly, sir : where I started from." 
 
 " You saw her." 
 
 " I did, sir. She was quite changed." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 ^' Not in looks, sir. I think she's a finger-breadth 
 taller, but still very little-looking — ^very little ; and 
 she's paler, perhaps: but, on the whole, there's no 
 change that far. What I mean is in her manner. 
 She was much kinder in her way to me, sir — much 
 kinder and softer ; and listened to me without inter- 
 rupting me, or jeering at me." 
 
 '' But what did she say ? The point — the point ! " 
 
 " She said that, as to a divorce, she had divorced 
 herself already from the world, and would be very 
 glad if you'd get the lawyers to make the business 
 complete. That but I need not say all she said." 
 
 "All— all!" 
 
 '^ Well, sir, she said that she hated you : that you 
 
 were selfish, and — and " 
 
 . *^ AVhat— what .? " 
 
22 FRIEXDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 " Ugly, sir ! She even said, sir — begging your par- 
 don, sir — that when she was so mad, in that freak, as 
 to marry you, she wondered she hadn't chosen me. 
 A very odd young lady, sir ! " 
 
 " Go on : I understand what she meant." 
 " She said you need not fear ever to hear of her 
 again, so that you would only settle whatever was 
 necessary on the convent, to — in fact, to pay for her 
 maintenance for life there." 
 
 " She'll not stay there a month. It would be so 
 much money wasted. But she will aid in getting the 
 divorce — that is understood ? " 
 
 " She'll run before you in that, sir." 
 " But the time. What did the lawyers say ? " 
 " I couldn't understand them, sir, except that they 
 wanted to see you — yourself." 
 " For money ? " 
 
 ^' No, sir ! They would have gone on without 
 money in hand, but they insisted that you must go 
 over there yourself. There seems, I'm afraid, sir, some 
 difficulty about the divorce, as you are an English 
 subject, and she's no subject at all ; and you were 
 married in Germany by a Catholic, you being Pro- 
 testant." 
 
it's good to be merry a^td wise, etc. 23 
 
 ^* Then, we're in a fix ! I am disturbed. The 
 governor ivill have this marriage to-night, the mo- 
 ment they arrive, as Lord Slumberton must return to 
 London in the morning. What is to be done ?" 
 
 Diego had got up and was walking about the 
 room. KeeS; quite unimpassioned, was trimming the 
 fii'e. 
 
 Kees comprehended his master ; nobody else did. 
 Dwyorts senior, and ]\Irs. Dwyorts, and all his 
 companions, considered him a careless creature, 
 without will or opinion, influenced by any body or 
 any thing — who never had a plan, and could never 
 say no. This was the character he had deliberately 
 acted : it sat so well on a stalwart youth, with an 
 assured future, and overflowing with money. But it 
 was a character not reconcilable with the large, square 
 head, the massive jaw, and the full steady eye. Kees 
 had been wdth Diego for some years, and had watched 
 the youth hardening into the selfish, cautious, callous, 
 calculating man. Kees knew that he never took any 
 advice that he had not himself artfully ehcited ; and 
 just now Kees could not guess what would be the course 
 the young gentleman might decide on. Kees watched 
 him closely as he strode about the room — striding 
 
24 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 about in liis night-toga and nouglit else, and in no 
 respect attempting to overcome tlie prejudices of ^Ir. 
 Kees' class in respect to heroes. 
 
 He got to bed af^jain and had some tea. Kees did 
 not learn what was to be done about the marriage. 
 
FORCED ORANGE BLOSSOMS, 25 
 
 CHAPTEB lY. 
 
 , FORCED ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 
 
 At about eight that evening, two carriages full of 
 company arrived at the hall, as for a dinner party, 
 from the distant railway station. Mr. Dwyorts, Lord 
 Slumberton, his lordship's daughters, Mrs. Triste, a 
 clergyman with the most special attainable licence 
 in his pocket — servants. 
 
 Mr. Dwyorts did not mind dressing, and went 
 straight to his son. 
 
 " Well, Diego, are you ready ? " 
 
 *^ Yes, father, if it must be. But you see my arm. 
 A maimed bridegroom is a miserable affair. Couldn't 
 the lady be left here until I am well, and we are all 
 better acquainted ? " 
 
 " No ! It won't do. That's what they have asked. 
 You wall understand all the reasons by and by. So, 
 come along to the drawing-room ; they'll be down 
 directly for dinner." 
 
2Q FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 " Oil ! I am under regimen : I will come up to the 
 drawin£:-room after dinner. I must dress. Been 
 lying on the sofa all day reading Plutarch. Stunners 
 they were in those old days. What things those 
 fellows dared to do ! " 
 
 " I'll go and talk to your mother. How does she 
 like this business ? " 
 
 " Oh ! she doesn't object. But T couldn't live here 
 with her after the marriage, could I ? " 
 
 " We'll see to all that. Be up as soon as you 
 can/' 
 
 He entered the drawing-room. A copious dame, 
 of abrupt black eyes that were not quite pairs in re- 
 gard to shape, but each equally fierce, 'and of a heavy 
 jaw, obviously related to Diego's, was sitting, her mag- 
 nificent apparel tossed on ungracefully, before a 
 fire that flamed furiously, as if to put out the colour of 
 her red velvet robe." 
 
 " How do you do, wife ? " 
 
 " What are you marrying Diego in this sudden way 
 for ? " She didn't rise, or notice his salutation. Her 
 voice was very coarse, and her foreign accent gave the 
 impression that she was in a passion, because she could 
 not pronounce the alien words. 
 
FORCED ORANGE BLOSSOMS, 27 
 
 " What did I ever do any thing for ? Money !" was 
 the answer, as he drew a chair close to the blaze, and 
 warmed himself. 
 
 ^^ Money ! Yes — you married me for money/' 
 
 '' Of course I did ! This girl vdW have £100,000 
 in a few years. I suppose, therefore, you will do all 
 you can to help Diego to the girl/' 
 
 Between this couple there was only one point of 
 accord — they loved their son with passion. 
 
 '' £100,000 ! Why, people say you are worth mil- 
 lions. What is £100,000 to Diego, if he is to have 
 your money ?" 
 
 ^' People are sometimes mistaken : I am not so rich 
 as to throw away this girl's money. Besides, she's the 
 daughter of a lord. He's an ass, and a rogue — but 
 he's a lord! It raises our name. The Dwyorts of 
 London haven't done as much as tliat. Damn them ! 
 if I cariJt keep my own, or be as rich as them, I've 
 licked 'em so far." Walking about the room as 
 usual : — a man of strong character, not particularly 
 influenced in life by the New Testament. 
 
 " I don't think Diego wants to marry. He is very 
 suUen since he's been well of the fever." 
 
 *^ But he 2^i7? marry ! That's the only point. Now, 
 
28 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA, 
 
 I ask you to be very civil to those women coming 
 down." 
 
 " I don't want any womens here. They must all go 
 after the marriage. 1 detest womens!" 
 
 Lord Slumberton and his party came in. The lord 
 grinned and chattered feebly. The bride and her sister 
 (Sabine) kissed the old lady ; and, being in a thorough 
 state of fatigued fright, glanced at her imploringly, 
 soliciting her friendship and support. Mr. Dwyorts 
 made excuses for his son^ and rang for dinner. 
 
 Mrs. Dwyorts was always kindly to people at first. 
 She was well disposed, as a rule, to young people ; 
 and particularly at table. She considered that young 
 people were in a continuous state of growing — she 
 often looked at them as if to mark the head moving 
 up, and her theory was that they ought to be cease- 
 lessly fed. But, her politeness notwithstanding, it 
 was a terrible ceremony that dinner. Lord Slumber- 
 ton didn't look at his daughters. Mr. Dwyorts took 
 a good deal of wine. The clergyman, who thought 
 that severe gravity once a week required the reaction 
 of playful twaddle all the rest of the week, was 
 facetious for some time; but, finding that a failure, 
 fell to studying the pictures on the wall opposite, at 
 
FORCED ORAXGE BLOSSOMS. 29 
 
 wliicli lie looked with meek rej^roachfulnesS; as if not 
 up to the mark in oiliness. The young ladies were 
 occupied in avoiding the over-eating to which they 
 were incited by their hostess. Mrs. Triste was 
 contemplative. Her theory of life, as regarded her 
 sex, was that they ought to be '' settled." She con- 
 sidered that a young lady was safe when she was 
 '* settled" — viz.j married; after which nobody need 
 trouble their heads further about her. She was 
 therefore calmly rejoicing that her dear Xea was going 
 to be settled. There is something of the maternal 
 instinct in this. When a lioness finds the little Kons 
 can catch their own prey, she deserts them. The old 
 hen-bird is joyful when the young can do \^-ithout her, 
 and, reverting to careless independence, she picks up 
 her own worms in her own private life. To be sure, in 
 natural history (so called to distinguish it, perhaps, 
 from human history) parentage is a frequent and 
 oppressive affair, and, as the mother cannot attend to 
 aU, she is beneficently permitted to neglect all. Pro- 
 vidence appears to have distrusted man and woman 
 so far, that only one child at a time is the general 
 rule, and the one child is helpless for a frightfully 
 protracted period. 
 
30 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A WEDDING-KING TOO SMALL, 
 
 The gentlemen left the dining-room with the 
 ladies. 
 
 Diego, dressed ceremoniously, his arm slinged, his 
 eye nervous and eager, stood by the fire, and, as they 
 entered, advanced to meet them. 
 
 As Lord Slumberton was shaking hands with him 
 elaborately, Nea had time to collect herself for the 
 presentation ; a quick but frightened glance had told 
 her little. 
 
 ^' My daughters, sir — Nea, Sabine." 
 
 As bride and bridegroom shook hands, Mrs. Dwyorts 
 broke in, to relieve the young lady's shocked con- 
 fusion — 
 
 ^' I remember such a marriage as this in my coun- 
 try. The girl's father lost her, at gaming, to a man 
 as old as the father : the man was captain of a ship ; 
 
A WEDDING-RING TOO S^IALL. 31 
 
 and he carried her off that night, and the brig with 
 all hands was lost at sea." 
 
 "Ha — ha!" said the clergyman. "Fortunately, 
 madam, there is no disparity of age in this case, and 
 the happy couple need not go to sea. Besides, you 
 never game, my lord, do you .^" 
 
 His lordship saw the point as little as the clergy- 
 man did, and made a formal and polite answer : — He 
 never played. 
 
 Diego had handed Nea to a seat on a sofa beside 
 her sister, and stood speaking to her — Xea with her 
 eyes down; Sabine passing swift looks from one to 
 the other. 
 
 ^* It was only the day before yesterday that I re- 
 ceived word from my father that you — that he and 
 Lord Slumberton — were coming here. There was no 
 time to communicate and stop him ; or, as I was well 
 enough to travel, I would have gone on to London, 
 or at least to Dublin, and insisted on the ceremony 
 taking place there ; which I am sure would have been 
 to you preferable to coming here among strangers." 
 
 Nea moved her lips as if to speak ; but he went on, 
 speaking as much to Sabine as to her. 
 
 ^^ Any where I know it must have been, and will be, 
 
32 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 most distressing to you ; and, believe me, I did all I 
 could, while obeying the will of my father, as you 
 obey yours — this match being quite a mystery to me, 
 except as it is a great honour to our family — to ob- 
 tain you — shall I call it a respite ? — that you might 
 stay some time with my mother before — shall I call 
 it execution ? I dare say the advantage is mine, in 
 not being known ; but I considered you, and was 
 sure you would like delay." 
 
 Sabine said, " Nea is a good child : she does what 
 she is told by papa and Mrs. Triste ; and you are to 
 be very grateful and very good to her. If they had 
 selected me, instead " 
 
 " You would have preferred it ? " 
 
 " I would be a dreadful vixen if you were not good." 
 
 " But cannot you stay and take command of me, 
 too.?" 
 
 " No ! Mrs. Triste and I are to go back with papa. 
 Poor papa cannot do without Mrs. Triste and me, 
 now that he is to lose Nea. So Nea will be all alone, 
 and you must take great care of her." 
 
 " I will devote my life to make her happy." 
 
 He said this with vehemence, and Nea looked up 
 at liim. The words were reassuring ; but she canght 
 
A WEDDIXG-EING TOO SMALL. 33 
 
 Lis look, and it was too watchful of her own to sustain 
 the words. 
 
 Mr. Dwyorts — standing alone with his back to the 
 fireplace — attentive to the groupings, of Lord Slum- 
 berton and Mrs. Dwyorts, of the Eev. Mr. Berger with 
 Mrs. Dwyorts, who seemed too large and self-willed 
 for that shepherd to manage — considered that the 
 time had come for business. 
 
 "Lord Slumberton, I have ordered the carriages 
 for half-past six in the morning. It is obvious that 
 there would be no time then for coupling these young 
 people ; and if your friend, Mr. Berger, sees no ob- 
 jection, I think we had better get it done now." 
 
 " Yes — yes ! Nea, my dear " 
 
 " Father," urged Diego, " I again ask, for this young 
 lady's sake, to postpone the marriage for a little 
 whHe." 
 
 " A nice gallant, you are ! " was the paternal sneer. 
 " Why, the young lady herself is plucky enough : she 
 makes no objection," 
 
 Nea was trembling too much to make any comment. 
 Sabine, as Diego moved to his father, had whispered 
 a — ^'Do you like him, love 2^^ But Nea made no answer. 
 When her father came up to her, he whispered — " For 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
34 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 my sake, my dear child : " and she suppressed her 
 tears and tried to feel steady in this "settling" — 
 steady as a ship becomes just before going down. 
 Mrs. Triste came to her side with smelling salts and 
 Christian consolation. 
 
 The position was not a common one. But are 
 these emotions strange at weddings ? How many 
 girls say " Yes " without some of the pangs and some 
 of the dread that were tightening the heart of poor 
 Nea ? After the longest courtship is there not still 
 a teasing mystery ? In acquaintanceship of the 
 closest kind, we have never seen any thing of our 
 friend but his or her face and hands — of wliich he or 
 she does not altogether consist. 
 
 In some cases, indeed, more is obtained than could 
 possibly be expected. I read in a police report the 
 other day of a woman — absent when her husband 
 died, he dying a pauper and being buried by the parish 
 ' — who applied to the authorities that the body should 
 be disinterred and handed over to her. Her repre- 
 sentation was, that the doctors of Paris had offered 
 her 700 francs for the body, which was profoundly 
 interesting from a magnificent malformation which 
 science desired to caress. 
 
A WEDDING-EING TOO S^IALL. 35 
 
 Needless to describe that wedding. Nea sat up all 
 night with Sabine and Mrs. Triste. Lord Slumber- 
 ton — Mr. Dwyorts — and the clergyman — (who was 
 appallingly solemn during the ceremony, and, the 
 moment it was over, afifectingly lively, so that he 
 wanted to propose the bride's health over the wine 
 and water which concluded the festivities of the 
 evening) — slept. 
 
 When Diego was being undressed, Kees, having 
 handed him his pipe and his Plutarch, ventured to 
 observe — 
 
 " Wish you joy, sir ! Beautiful young lady, sir ! 
 All the servants quite happy, sir ! I'm to take the 
 chair at a jollification by and by, sir — to drink her 
 health, and yours, sir — and very glad, I shall be, sir 
 — to do so, sir." 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "When you're going up-stairs, sir, you'd better 
 put on this thick dressing-gown, sir. Good deal of 
 draughts about this old house, sir." 
 
 " I'm not going up-stairs, Kees, thank you." 
 
 ^'Not going to — to join your wife, sir? — Mrs. 
 Dwyorts, beg your pardon, sir/' 
 
 "No; not quite so fast as that, Kees. A Little 
 
36 FKIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 baclielorism left. By the by, Kees, you will have to 
 be off to Paris again in a day or two. I don't believe 
 that that was any real raarriage with Therese ; but it 
 is as well to make safe, and have a regular divorce. 
 I must go to Paris myself." 
 
 " Yes, sir ! But, sir, if there's any thing unlawful — 
 beg your pardon, sir — in your marrying again — it's 
 done, sir, and " 
 
 '•Not quite. Pm safe so far, and must work 
 through ; and you'll help me, Kees. We understand 
 one another, Kees. My father has given me a splen- 
 did cheque to-night, and you shall go and get it cashed, 
 and take a good commission. Good-night, Kees ! 
 Set the alarm clock for five. Good-night ! " 
 
 And he did not read Plutarch, nor sleep. 
 
 And Kees turned up unexpectedly, by some un- 
 suspected door, in the servants' hall, and he took the 
 chair ; and the domestics stayed up all night, to be 
 ready for the early breakfast and early departure. 
 They were chiefly Irish domestics. They had the 
 profoundest contempt for Kees as a cockney, and for 
 his master and his master's family, as new people who 
 had dispossessed the old race. But they were partial 
 to liquor and deception ; and any one watching their 
 
A WEDDING-KING TOO SMALL. 37 
 
 debauch, would have concluded that they were faithful 
 and affectionate retainers, and that they considered 
 the cockney Kees as an eminently sujDerior being. 
 Kees made such periphrastic speeches, and accom- 
 panied them by so many nods and winks, that the 
 impression would really have been a very natural one. 
 
38 FEIEXDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 THE FASTER YOU EAT THE PEACH, THE SOONER YOU COME TO 
 
 THE STONE. 
 
 Therese DEsrREZ was the daughter of a French 
 fiddler by a German milliner. She was born in 
 Frankfort. She had dazzling fair hair and alabaster 
 skin, an exquisite little nose, and the biggest black 
 eyes ever placed in the head of a very little woman. 
 As a childj she shewed a decided genius for singing, 
 and surprising partiality for an avoidance of the piano. 
 But her gift was so wonderful that she could sing 
 splendidly without any knowledge of the rules. They 
 couldn't say she didn't practise her voice — she was 
 always singing. She touched the heart of a great 
 ecclesiastic as she showered her notes down to his ven- 
 erable ears from an organ-loft, and he sent her to 
 Italy. Some one lent her books, and she caught a 
 taste for reading. She became romantic at the regu- 
 lar period ; and, having no one to restrain her, she ran 
 
THE FASTER YOU EAT THE PEACH, ETC. 39 
 
 away, in search of life and love. So pretty a child thus 
 running, ran great risks ; but she had bought a pair 
 of pistols. Kead Wilhelm Meister, and you may guess 
 a great deal of her life. She had notliing to take to 
 but acting and singing, and got on very well as far 
 as board and lodging are concerned. But she was 
 very unhappy. An intense earnestness of character 
 cured her of her romance ; and the life of a mime 
 became hateful to her. She sought a real career — 
 genuine life — genuine love. She treated her com- 
 panions with disdain : she was pure, and honest, and 
 bold ; and she loved books better than society. But 
 she advanced to a small fame, and at last found a lover 
 whom she could not contemn. 
 
 Diego Dwyorts, travelling about Europe in prince's 
 splendour, saw and was fascinated. They became 
 acquainted. He was grandly gay, and the cause of 
 gaiety. In his society, and that which he gathered 
 around him, her nature seemed to undergo a change: 
 she scattered her sadness, and became wildly joyous 
 and reckless. He underwent a frenzy of love — his 
 first love : he was but a boy, mad with the success 
 'with w^hich he began life. He brought her jewels. 
 Of no avail. He brought a priest ; one of the faith 
 
40 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 which she professed as the only faith for an artist — 
 the Roman Catholic. She laughed at his Eeverence, 
 but asked him to stay to dinner; and there was a 
 frolicsome party, laughing like champagne corks as 
 they are blown up with the compressed air. At that 
 party Diego and Therese were married. His wealth 
 had excited her imagination: his devotion had 
 touched her heart. 
 
 They went to the East. The honeymoon revolves 
 round the sun. They were very voluptuous. As they 
 returned, he grew afraid of his father. She saw the 
 change, and resented it. His passion was sated. 
 She was disappointed. They parted. 
 
 When, after the marriage in Oshire, Diego arrived 
 at the convent, in order to make terms with his first 
 love, she had flown again: unstable and versatile, her 
 taste for life returned with her healthful capacity for 
 it. She left a letter. She had changed her mind. 
 She would not consent to any divorce, and would 
 appeal to his father — to the English parliament — to 
 the English queen — to God — if he took any steps for 
 a divorce. 
 
 So Diego returned to his bride in Oshire. AVhat 
 else could he do ? 
 
L.VEES IX FLANNEL. 41 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 LAKES IX FLANNEL. 
 
 On the morning of Christmas-Eve, Mrs. Dwyorts 
 junior presided at the breakfast table of Bellars Hall, 
 Oshire. Not recognized by Mrs. Dwyorts dowager as 
 the mistress of the establishment, yet she was made 
 to do this portion of the work attached to the dig- 
 nity. Opposite Nea sat the dowager ; her copious 
 brown form loosely wrapped in a capacious white thick 
 robe ; her thick rope-like hair curled, not with a ship's 
 tidiness, beneath a covering which looked something 
 between a turban and a sail. 
 
 '^Nea, my dear, you look very pretty. You are 
 pretty. Diego, get up and kiss her for me.'* 
 
 Diego, who was not long back from France, looked 
 up pleased at his mother. Nea blushed. She was cer- 
 tainly charming. Her agitations over, her great wish for 
 country life gratified, that life regular and orderly, 
 
42 FKIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 and her mother-in-law by some chance taking an 
 immense fancy to her — the gentle, innocent girl 
 having startled the old harridan by treating her with 
 affectionate respect, which was what the elderly per- 
 son was not accustomed to — Kea was beginning to 
 feel happy. She had not even missed Diego. He had 
 presented her with such a pretty little carriage, with 
 such a pair of black ponies ! With this carriage she 
 had been fully occupied ; for there was magnificient 
 scenery, and there were plenty of poor round the Hall. 
 They had pleasant converse at the breakfast table. 
 There were the immemorial associations of Christmas 
 to warm their hearts towards one another and the 
 world. Dwyorts senior had gone to Canada, which 
 was understood to be a cold place ; and even his wife 
 now shuddered as she thought what his sensations 
 must be. Then, about the blankets which the Hall 
 had distributed among the complacent but contemp- 
 tuous, still frightfully-feudal, j)easantry. Also, the 
 coals, had they been properly proportioned 7 Would 
 K ea like to go to church — it was a very long way off 
 — next morning .? Would she like to hear the midnight 
 mass that Father Emmett was to hold or say that 
 night 7 
 
LARES IN FLANNEL. 43 
 
 Diego was eager to make Xea happy : to construct 
 scliemes of occupation and enjoyment for her. Was 
 he in love ? She beamed so kindly on him an acknow- 
 ledgment of his considerate planning, that the 
 observer would guess that she at least believed that he 
 was a lover-husband. 
 
 " Well/' said the dowager, '• his excellency (this was 
 her way of referring to Dwj'orts senior) wrote a long 
 letter of caution that we were to make use of Chiistmas 
 to win the people, as he called it, and I suppose we 
 must do all we can ; but I am not going to turn out 
 into the cold this weather. You two may go and ride 
 about as much as you like, to wish them merry Christ- 
 mas ; but, for me, by heavens I'll get close to the fire 
 and sleep till you come back ! By heavens, God was 
 good to the people in these damp islands, to give 
 them such plenty of coal, as there is no sun ! " 
 
 " But the people have no coal here, mamma," said 
 Kea : " they burn turf." 
 
 " Yes ! I believe they are lazy. The English go 
 under ground for coal, but the Irish burn the ground 
 itself." 
 
 Diego laughed with Nea at the blunder. '• Bravo, 
 mother ! If one of the patriots heard that, he'd think 
 
44 FRIEXDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 you were making a joke of his fondness for his native 
 land." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, Diego, and I don't 
 care. AVheel that chair to the fire, sir, and leave me 
 alone." 
 
 And she was soon sleepily oblivious of the cold, and 
 passed a quiet day digesting one meal and preparing 
 for another. 
 
 " What an animal existence — what forgetfulness of 
 the duty of the wife of a landed proprietor ! " the 
 English Christian lady would exclaim. Madam, we 
 are victims of our temperaments. If you are active, , 
 it is because you like activity ; your climate suiting 
 your moral duties. You neither eat nor drink as much 
 as Mrs. Dwyorts ; but you admit that you eat and 
 drink as much as you like. For — you, and your hus- 
 band, and your intimate friends, including the rector 
 and the curate, are not temperate by an effort : it is 
 not self-denial and a remembrance of a future world 
 which induces you to avoid intemperance. Alas ! in 
 the matter of minor and middle morals, not within 
 police cognizance, do we not do pretty much what we 
 like ? Given such and such a shaped head, and such 
 and such a fashion or custom, and who is to declare 
 
LAKES EN' rLAXNT:L. 45 
 
 that Miss Aspasia was vicious, or that Mrs. Fry was 
 an angel ? 
 
 Mrs. Dwyorts was not born very good ; and, nobody 
 having taken the trouble to improve whatever good- 
 ness might have been in her, she appears to be a sort 
 of old lady that you do not esteem with any particular 
 frenzy. 
 
46 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 LAKE SCENERY. 
 
 Nea and Diego had a busy day, riding through 
 the broad lands bought with Bellars Hall, visiting, 
 money-giving, popularity-hunting. Diego was glad 
 of the new sensation of finding himself benevolent, and 
 Nea was quite happy under the blessings that were 
 heaped upon her. These blessings were sincere ; for, 
 " Sure the young lady was not to be blamed for marry- 
 ing a rich young man — and a stout, well-set young 
 man he was, though his smile was grave " — and 
 "Troth didnt they say she was of an ould family 
 herself, though English, poor thing ?" 
 
 The young couple concluded their mission of peace 
 and good-will towards the early and misty twilight. 
 But they were a long ride from the Hall ; and the 
 dowager would be rampant if they were late for 
 dinner. The groom advised that they should cross 
 
LAKE SCENERY. 47 
 
 the lake in the boat, instead of riding round : the 
 boat would land them within a mile's walk of the 
 hall. " If his honour could manage the boat, there it 
 was at the miller's below there, and there was just a 
 nice wind." 
 
 ^* A nice wind — I call it a devil of a wind! As to 
 managing the boat, of course I can. Haven't I often 
 been in it before .^" 
 
 '^ Av coorse your honour has, and sailed as if you 
 was born on the say." 
 
 " Oh, let us take the boat ! " said Xea. " I am not in 
 the least afraid." 
 
 " Very well, then. Take the horses round. But 
 gallop down to the old mill first, and see is the boat 
 clean. Well put the coats in the stern-sheets for you, 
 Nea. But, mind it will be a cold blow." 
 
 The boat was there. It was an old heavy lake boat, 
 kept at this point for the convenience of the servants 
 and others at the Hall. The lake was five miles in 
 length, but of only two in breadth, so that boats at 
 certain points were indispensable for the inhabitants 
 at either shore. 
 
 Very few men have the moral courage to disclaim 
 perfect command over horses, guns, and boats. Diego, 
 
48 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 after making his wife as comfortable as possible^ went 
 about getting out the sail with all the airs of an old 
 salt. But the groom who watched the operations, 
 and who, being born near the lake, had something of a 
 fresh-water sailor's conceit, seemed to doubt his mas- 
 ter's seamanship, and shouted, " Keep her well up to 
 the wind, sir, and clear of the island in rounding it. 
 You'll have the breeze sharp when you get from under 
 cover of the mountain, and I suppose your honour 
 will then take a reef in ?" 
 
 ^' Yes — yes! goon!" cried Diego impatiently; and 
 the boat sailed out. Nea was placed at the tiller, 
 with ample instructions how to obey orders, and Diego 
 attended to the sail. 
 
 They got on very well half-way across. But here 
 the difficulty occurred. They had to weather the 
 long high island, just as the wind was clear of a wall 
 of mountain which so far had sheltered them ; and 
 the steering was not expert. 
 
 Another boat was rounding the island from the 
 other side. A tremendous voice shouted to them, 
 " Port your helm — port ! " The danger of a collision 
 was imminent. Diego rushed, or rather tumbled to 
 the helm, but in his confusion set it the wrong way, 
 
LAKE SCENERY. 4t 
 
 and the wind was carrying the clumsy craft gunwale 
 under, when the other boat struck her heavily. 
 
 They were over, and under, in a second's time. But 
 the occupant of the other boat was cool and quick. 
 He caught Nea as she rose, and dragged her in. 
 Diego was clinging to the capsized boat, and was soon 
 saved. Now, seated, freezingly dripping, with Nea's 
 head in his lap, he was in a most ignominious state 
 of mind. 
 
 '' You need not be frightened," said the stranger, 
 who was coolly steering in the direction he had pre- 
 viously been pursuing. " She's not drowned. I felt 
 her heart beat. There — she's sighing." 
 
 Diego, anxious, did not answer. He was warming 
 her face with kisses, and muttering consolation. 
 
 ^' The stranger looked at them, and gave a kindly 
 sounding laugh." 
 
 Diego looked up, his large black eye flaming — 
 
 " I don't know who you are," he said, slowly; " but 
 I'll soon learn, and settle with you. Where are you 
 steering to ? Turn the boat's head and make for the 
 Park boat-house — it's at the other end of the broken 
 wall. Turn at once, I say !" 
 
 " Well, this is a novelty. Here's a reward for sav- 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
50 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 ing lives. Threatened to be tlii-aslied, and ordered to 
 go miles out of my way. There ! there ! — don't fly 
 into a passion. Eecollect there is a lady here. 
 There, now I've turned her, and you shall get to the 
 Park boat-house." 
 
 It had become so dark that they could not see each 
 other's faces. The voice of the stranger had assured 
 Diego, however, that the man he had been bullying 
 was not a peasant, but a gentleman. Nea had noticed 
 this stiU sooner, and it had increased her confusion — 
 the confusion that any lady in the same circumstances 
 would feel, in thinking of the disarray in which she 
 had been dragged out of the water. But she mastered 
 tliis confusion with her sense of gratitude, and said — 
 
 " I hope, sir, you will believe that I am grateful 
 — that we are grateful." 
 
 The stranger's voice at once softened, and there was 
 no jeer in his answer — "Faith, it might have been an 
 unluclvy accident ; and I should have spent a sad 
 Christmas if, after upsetting you, I had not saved you. 
 But as it is, and your health does not suffer, I hope 
 this gentleman will regard his queer steering as a 
 matter for jesting." 
 , "It was your own steering as much as mine," 
 
LAKE SCENERY. 51 
 
 replied Diego sullenly, and stung with the graceful 
 good-humour of the big form at the helm. 
 
 " Well, perhaps so. We ought both to have given 
 a wider sweep coming round. But it would be no 
 disgrace to you, who are a stranger here, to concede 
 better steering to me on this lake, that is as well 
 known to me as my hand." 
 
 " How do you know I am a stranger here ? and, if 
 you know me, tell us who you are ? " 
 
 " I know you are Mr. Dyworts of Bellars Hall, and 
 I am Brandt Bellars, formerly of Bellars Hall. You 
 may have heard my name hereabouts." This he said 
 with an obvious sneer. 
 
 '' I didn't know you resided in this country now." 
 
 ^' Nor do I. I have come, like an ass, to spend Christ- 
 mas here with my old friend — guide, and philosopher, 
 too — Father Emmett." 
 
 Diego began to see the false position his anger had 
 got him into. 
 
 " I hope you will visit us, while here. As they say 
 in my mother's country — 'Consider the house your 
 own.'" 
 
 " Thanks ! Your hospitality might make me forget 
 the Encumbered Estates Court, and I might be ordering 
 
 LIBRARY -~ 
 
 uNivzRsmr of aiiNOis 
 
52 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 the servants about. I walked about the park to look 
 at tlie old Hall ; and could hardly realize what has 
 passed since I last wandered there." 
 
 ^^ You will find a great many changes, I believe/* 
 said Diego, dryly. 
 
 '^ Ha — ha ! Yes, no doubt — you have got some fur- 
 niture there. But my father and I never wanted any. 
 The few grooms we had about took naturally to the 
 hay-lofts. I slept in the library many a day on a 
 mattress of ancient histories — placed mosaic-wise on 
 the floor, with a horse-rug for blanket. Then, we 
 never had any ladies there, and the civilisation of the 
 century was not missed. My ancestors were good gen- 
 tlemen, I believe ; and a man may be a gentleman 
 dressed in sheep skin, and unknowing of ' Eureka 
 shirts ' and electric brushes. There's the boat-house. T 
 wonder you don't get that wall mended : it was I blew 
 it up when I had my military fit on, and I was trying 
 mine-work. There is a gale setting up outside : do 
 you hear the park trees moaning ? *' 
 
 "Yes! Pray come on and dine with us to night. My 
 mother will be happy to see you." 
 
 ^' Oh, yes — do ! " said Nea. 
 
 *^ Thanks again. I didn't look to make friends of 
 
LAKE SCENERY. ' 53 
 
 the ^ new people/ as they call you when they speak 
 to me of you ; but it would be churlish to decline. 
 I cannot dine with you this evening, as at this very 
 minute the father is crying at the spoiled potatoes that 
 are waiting. Ill come and breakfast with you in 
 the morning." 
 
 '^ As you please. But take a horse round to Father 
 Emmett's cottage. The lake is dangerous." 
 
 ^' Not a bit. There, now ; hold on as I take the 
 fiail in. Soho — safe ! Lean on my arm getting out, 
 madam. That's it. Now run through the park, and 
 you'll keep the cold oflP. Good-night ! And " — he 
 raised his voice as they hurried off — " give the young 
 lady the least taste of whisky punch the moment she 
 gets in." 
 
 *' An odd acquaintance," he soliloquized, as he pre- 
 ]}ared for a fresh start, " and an odd way of making it. 
 That fellow's a snob, I'll swear ! But I'll look at them 
 all in the morning." 
 
 He got out a cigar, lit it, pushed off, spread his sail, 
 and darted off at a great speed ; thinking a little of 
 the fall of the Bellars family, and a little of the dinner 
 that he knew was smoking impatiently awaiting him. 
 
54 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 DINNER DISCOURSE. 
 
 Father Emmett was walking round and round the 
 small table laid for two in his little drawing-room, 
 which was also his breakfast, dining, and every other 
 description of occupation, save sleeping, room, in his 
 limited house. This house was built alongside the 
 chapel, at the head of a straggHng village which was 
 half agricultural and half piscatorial, close upon the 
 coast. 
 
 The Father was about fifty years of age, his black 
 hair just beginning to be improved by the threads of 
 silver. He had the bent form and the delicate hands 
 of a student. He had the Celtic face of an enthusiast. 
 The broad and high cheekbones, the large mouth, 
 and the coarse skin, hardened by Atlantic weather — 
 these would have suggested to the town-bred young 
 lady who studies the human form as depicted on Jul- 
 lien's music-sheets, and who loves that literature of 
 
DIXNER DISCOURSE. 55 
 
 N. P. Willis-ism which so daintily describes the life 
 scull figures must live, that the priest was ugly — rather 
 a monster. But his physiognomy was beautiful when 
 be spoke and smiled — and he generally smiled when he 
 spoke. Some people have a muscular smile : the gear 
 of the voluntary muscles about the mouth is obviously 
 set in motion : — avoid such. Father Emmett's smile 
 was a non-muscular smile — natural, like the sky's. 
 
 A shot was heard mthout. The priest opened his 
 door and called out to the kitchen, "That's his gun, 
 ^lary. Get dinner in now, as soon as you can. Wel- 
 come back, Brandt ! Where have you been ? " 
 
 Brandt was taking off coat and boots, and putting 
 a gun in a corner. He is a man about thirty, rather 
 a fat and clumsy though strong figure ; — it would 
 perhaps strike you as a vulgar figure, but for the 
 graceful Hmbs and the shapely hands and feet. His 
 face is slightly fatty in the cheeks and worn about the 
 mouth, but it is verv handsome. The strons^ curling: 
 brown hair, the bold bright blue eye, and the dazzling 
 white teeth, tell of a nature full of vitality and vigour. 
 The last of the Bellars used to say that he forgave 
 his father every thing for having given him a good 
 constitution. It was one of his weak points to believe 
 
56 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 ill his strength — that disease could never approach 
 him. A consequence of this sort of faith is, that we 
 lead a kind of life, sometimes, which puts disease upon 
 her mettle. 
 
 " Father, I hope you have food enough in the house. 
 I'm as hungry as a hunter — as five hunters — as the 
 whole squad of picqueurs of Fontainebleau — as the 
 jockey club : I'll eat you out of house and home, hke 
 that sacrilegious, large-abdomened Benjamin, who 
 swallowed the church and the steeple. Here's ^lary 
 — God bless you, Mary ! Is the fish overdone .^— never 
 mind, it was underdone yesterday, ^lary, and this is a 
 century of compromises. I'll take the juste milieu of 
 that sole — thank you. Father. Mary, give me some 
 beer ; baked potatoes, thank God ! — what's to follow, 
 Maiy— a shoulder of mutton ? Oh ! Mary, Mary, is 
 that the way you feed the father ? Upon my word, 
 you are sinful gluttons here. It's only for me, ]\Iary, 
 is it ? Another potatoe, thank you — a burnt one — 
 thank you. Why, you ought to know that I don't 
 care for eating. ^lary, you should never laugh at 
 dinner-time; you'll spoil the onion sauce— what, forget 
 onion sauce ? Oh ! ^lary, Mary, do you hope to go to 
 heaven ? " (Mary was routed back to her kitchen.) 
 
DINNER DISCOURSE. 57 
 
 '* Father, I've been making the acquaintance of Mr. 
 and Mrs. Dwyorts — the young couple — to clay." 
 
 " Well, do you expect me to be your second in the 
 duel?" 
 
 '• On the contrary. I am to breakfast with them in 
 the morning. But he showed fight ; was fierce enough, 
 considerino; the duckino; he grot." 
 
 He possessed his reverence of the story. 
 
 " Well," said Emmett, finishing his frugal meal, 
 " I don't think the acquaintance will come to any 
 good." 
 
 " Why not .^ they might take pity on me. ]\Iight 
 make me huntsman, or private secretary, or give me a 
 good clerkship in their counting-house at Liverpool. 
 In fact, when I signed and sealed the last of my lands 
 away, didn't the old fellow offer to further my views if 
 they were of a commercial kind ? " 
 
 " Civil enough, too, from his point of view. But 
 these things rankle, and you would be insulting them 
 in your pleasant manner by and by, and " 
 
 ''- Get turned out of the Hall." 
 
 " You would be looking back to the past if you see 
 much of these people, and you have no friend but in 
 the future." 
 
58 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 " I think the future is a humbug — a ready pro- 
 miser and a practised insolvent. The future will not 
 buy me back the old Hall, the sacred soil of my race ; 
 and to me there is no other reward for abstaining 
 from the present, who is a pleasant fellow." 
 
 " Make the present the servant of the future ! You 
 might buy back the Hall ; if not, some other hall 
 where you would be a first Bellars instead of the last. 
 Look at the Moores in this county ; the peasantry 
 will tell you they have been here since the Danes' 
 days. There was an interval of fifty years during 
 which they were swept away — it was in the last cen- 
 tury. It was a Mark ^loore, who, when driven out, 
 went to Spain, became a merchant, made wealth, 
 came back, and settled down in the old place again, 
 which he had bought back." 
 
 " Became a merchant ! Yes — a nice merchant I 
 would make ! " 
 
 " There are political fortunes, too. Warren HastingvS 
 had one main thouo-ht in entering: on his struE^ojle — 
 to bring back to liis name and family an old Grange, 
 with a few hundi'ed acres, in an English county. 
 When he was plundering begums and robbing rajahs, 
 it was to become a squire in a British parish. I don't 
 
DINNER DISCOURSE. 59 
 
 sympathize with these parochial afFectionSj mind you, 
 Brandt ; but I give you the instance." 
 
 " Hastings belonged to an age when politics had 
 prizes. You can't plunder or rob now — not in the 
 regular way. Not being a lord, and not being a great 
 genius, you fawn and grin till fifty, and then they 
 give you an under-secretaryship, or send you out, being 
 of seven years' standing in expectancy, to the judge- 
 ship of Alligatorton. Father, you theorize about the 
 world in urging me to ambition : I know the world. 
 Now, don't smile contemptuously : smart men are 
 awfully plentiful, competing for the places and the 
 liveries of the political peers ; and my chance is a 
 small one. I have a knack at French : I think 
 I'll join the Eussian service. There all places, big 
 and little, are open to tact and talent ; here, in 
 Great Britain, the lords and their families shut 
 out the adventurers from all that is worth fighting 
 for." 
 
 " This is your London philosophy ! Did I ever 
 urge you to regard yourself as an adventurer — to 
 look at the world as a game — to aspire to ' prizes.^'" 
 
 " My dear Father, if I were a duke I should take 
 your grand views : let us have a glass of punch." 
 
60 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 " These two years have spoiled you, Brandt," said 
 the priest, calling for what his guest had asked. 
 
 " Why, Father, to see the luck of some men. Here's 
 this DwyortSj without an effort, by his father's gold, 
 in possession of the land my ancestor won with his 
 sword, and never paid a rap for. One can't establish 
 a family that way nowadays. What is there to do ? 
 Trade — turn pedlar .^ You must be born into the 
 trading class to catch its cleverness : you can't go in- 
 to trade as you can into an omnibus ; particularly 
 when you have no capital. The professions are mean : 
 the Bar a villany: Medicine, foul. Wish you'd let 
 me, and waive the faith, and I'd be happy as a parish 
 priest. To get into a corner of the world — you could 
 get rid of restiveness — of envy — and take in the 
 weekly papers." 
 
 " You can get into a corner in London. Remem- 
 ber the philosopher who went to Amsterdam as the 
 quietest place he could find for study. But my 
 corner has its passions, too." 
 
 '• Ah ! but the serenity that comes from a rehnquish- 
 ment of the world ! The delicious certainty that your 
 circle is bounded for ever ! What calm ! — What ex- 
 cellent whisky you have, father I " 
 
DINNER DISCOURSE. 61 
 
 " See, I got this letter this morning : you see my 
 cahn and circle are not so complete and certain as 
 you fancy/' 
 
 " What I you, Father, elected a bishop ! It never 
 entered into my head that you sought such a thing. 
 Hurray! It's irreverent this, I know, but I can't 
 help it. Pass the materials : I must drink your 
 health in paiiihv.s. Dear Father, don't look so 
 severe." 
 
 " I don't like your reckless manner, Brandt." 
 
 " Well, 111 be gi^ave ; pray, accept my congratula- 
 tions : the world will now know you as I know you 
 — the Church has its career." 
 
 " I do not aim at the tiara, Brandt. Let me speak 
 of you. You are now hesitating : you have thrown 
 away your youth ; and, as Macaulay finely expresses it, 
 you are inclined to throw your manhood after it in 
 despair. You think you are not ambitioas ; but the 
 envious Hne you take suggests that you are ambitious, 
 in a bad way — ambitious of social position." 
 
 " What else is there ? A fellow who has tumbled 
 as I have in social rank, ought to have some notion 
 of what he has lost." 
 
 " That is a ^Tilgar ambition. Piaise your thoughts 
 
02 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 beyond the London squares : be a priest, and an 
 artist." 
 
 '• Father, you must allow me, really, to take a little 
 punch. You stagger me : I do not understand you. 
 Will you put your idea into Hebrew ? — I haven't 
 forgot all you taught me." 
 
 " The duty of intellect is to join in the government 
 of manldnd — by religion, literature, art : all who are 
 thus governing are priests, or artists. These are not 
 of society : and social position is unnecessary to them. 
 The great minds that founded our church, gave us the 
 government of the world by isolating us from the 
 world. They forbade us marriage: they sentenced 
 us to a morality and a system ; not that which we 
 preach to the world. You cannot be a priest, in my 
 sense. Do not — you who, still young, have got that 
 London cynicism of old men — surmise an hypocrisy. I 
 tell you, Brandt, that I do not believe in the mysteries 
 with which I wield the superstitions of my people. It 
 is enough that the Church is necessary to humanity, 
 such as it now is : and I am of the Church, heart and 
 intellect, her faithful son. But you are fitter for 
 another priesthood — -journalism and politics. I know 
 you, and have compared you with other men. Where 
 
DIXNER DISCOUESE. 63 
 
 is that energy that made you the scholar ? Recall it; 
 and you will be a great man, in the great sense : you 
 will be one of the class that governs." 
 
 " Father, intellect does not obtain success even in 
 priesthoods. It is character. It is the men who im- 
 press themselves on other men. I am asked to dinner ; 
 but I don't get on." 
 
 ^' Character is conduct — caution. Burleigh was pro- 
 bably a naturally reserved man : but it is not difficult 
 in a man of sense to be patient." 
 
 " You do not say that character consists in holding 
 vour toBOTc ? " 
 
 ^' A good deal. Character is reliableness : convincing 
 other men that you can be trusted. I should put it 
 differently to an' older man : to a man of your age I 
 say — caution." 
 
 " Yes — age ! Here are you, fifty or so, with aU 
 your wisdom and goodness, eloquence in the pulpit, 
 — why are you only noio a bishop ? " 
 
 ^' Rome has its intrigues. There is a freemasonry in 
 age. It is old men who decide your fate, and they do 
 not comprehend you — are not certain that you compre- 
 hend them, if you are much different from themselves 
 iu age. But youth, now and then, has its chances,"' ^ 
 
04 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 " What are mine ? " 
 
 "I'll return you to parliament for this county. 
 The rest is easy. But I must go out. How it blows ! 
 Will you come down to the village with me ? I 
 promised the people to be with them in the little 
 festivity I got up." 
 
 " I am with you." 
 
TEEASURE-TROVE. 65 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 TREASURE-TROYE. 
 
 They walked together, arm-in-arm, against the 
 fierce gale, down the long hilly street or road. All 
 the doors were closed. There were few lights in the 
 little cabins. But one large building, slated, barn- 
 like, showed a blaze through its windows. They 
 looked in. themselves invisible a^^ainst the darkness. 
 Men, women, and children were feasting and revelling. 
 It was such a scene as Maclise has painted in his 
 '• All-Hallows Eve." An immense turf fire gloated at 
 one end of the room, and candles lit up its comers. 
 The elder men — some fishermen, some cotters, and 
 some farmers — were drinking, smoking, conversing. 
 The elderly and married women were grouped also, 
 generally among themselves. Young couples were 
 flirting or dancing. The children were quarrelling 
 or dancing, or listening to the babble of their parents, 
 
 VOL. I. p 
 
66 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 or nursed in the anns of their mothers. Tables ran 
 round the room, heavy with plates, and knives and 
 forks, and glasses — evident preparations for a supper. 
 
 ^' It is a pleasant scene ! " said Bellars. 
 
 ''Look on it well. It is to produce such scenes 
 that there are priesthoods and artists. You fret that 
 you are not happy. Few wise men hope for other 
 happiness than to secure that of the foolish mass 
 around them." 
 
 He was a sagacious person this priest, but very 
 benevolent by disposition ; and, accordingly, talked 
 and acted some fallacies. 
 
 All who had been sitting stood up respectfully as the 
 priest entered, smiling and greeting. When Bellars, 
 following him, came into the light, the " young mas- 
 ter," as they called him, was received with cheering 
 by the men and curtsying by the women. 
 
 The tables were lifted and ranged in the centre of 
 the room. The potatoes were declared to be jumping for 
 j oy — quite ready. Beefsteaks, boiled bacon, fried bacon, 
 testified to the father's liberality. He was wealthy, a 
 rare instance in the Irish priesthood ; and he helped 
 the poor population through a hard winter. What 
 winter is not hard to the poor ? 
 
TREASUKE-TROVE. 67 
 
 AYliat to that happy company was the blast 
 without on the enraged sea ? Full of food, and drink, 
 and merriment, they basked in the smiles of the Father, 
 and the jests of the young master. 
 
 A gun at sea ! Startled into silence, they gazed at 
 one another. Another gun ! It is a ship signalling 
 distress. 
 
 A Babel of tongues. 
 
 The village was situated at the head of a wide and 
 sheltered bay. Any vessel that could work in was 
 safe, of all but being driven on a not very cruel shore. 
 Outside it was a fatal coast. The vessel off now was 
 certainly a stranger, who would be lost in this storm, 
 without help. 
 
 Brandt led the fishermen. They saved the vessel. 
 Diego had ridden from the Hall, roused by the fre- 
 quent guns. Late in the night he and the priest stood 
 on the shore, at the little landing-place, awaiting the 
 return of the boat's crevr : Diego to give a splendid 
 reward ; the priest to see that Brandt was safe. 
 
 The boat returned. There was only one stranger 
 in her. Two of the fishermen had been left behind. 
 No — no — no — they were not lost ! The crew of the 
 vessel had been washed overboard — all but two ; this 
 
6S FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 gentleman^ who was the captain, and one sailor, who was 
 left with the ship. A brig: she had lost her foremast : 
 she had sprung a leak. 
 
 Diego offered the captain hospitality : it was a long 
 way ; but the priest had no bed. lie could return in 
 the morning to his ship. Well, he would : he was 
 obligated to them. If the other fishermen would go 
 back and lend a hand aboard her, they should have 
 five pounds apiece, money down, if they liked. Well, 
 that was all right. 
 
 He was a boyish-looking man — light-blue eyes, 
 long fair hair, very slight. 'But he had a stately, 
 commanding manner, and a deep base voice, that 
 didn't altogether seem to belong to his inevitably slim 
 lungs. Both the voice, in its intonations, and the 
 queer mismanaged words he used, indicated the 
 uneducated man. 
 
 Although he had just escaped a great danger, and 
 was among new people, he was quite cool. Brandt 
 said he was so on board. 
 
 The brig was from the Mauritius, he said. He 
 wasn't captain, but the cargo was his, and the vessel 
 was his. And a right down valuable cargo it was — 
 mixed cargo, that was it. The captain and five of 
 
TREASURE- TROVE. 6 9 
 
 the crew had been wash'd off ; he didn't know how, 
 as he stuck to the cabin until Kennet — that was the 
 man left — called him up, and then he fired the guns. 
 Well, no, he did not calculate that he should be lost. 
 He thought his time hadn't 'rived yet. You see that 
 day was his birthday, and it didn't often happen as a 
 chap was drownded on his birthday. 
 
 At breakfast next morning at Bellars Hall, this 
 stranded young gentleman was quite at his ease. 
 Brandt poured down a lava of irony on him; but he 
 felt none of it Diego, who took the high ground 
 that he was a vulgar fellow, was distant. Nea only 
 stared ; elder I\Irs. Dwyorts liked neither of the 
 guests, but kept quiet. 
 
 " I'll trouble you, governor," said the sea-stranger, 
 addressing Brandt, "for the cold beef Very good 
 it is I" He spoke with great deliberation, in odd, deep 
 tones ; and Brandt cut the meat, in a most risible 
 condition. 
 
 " Any mustard, Mr. ? By the by, I don't 
 
 think you have told any of us your name yet." 
 
 '•' No more I have. A chap should never be in a 
 hurry a — advertising himself. My name ? Well, 
 this is Ireland, ain't it ? Yes ! I don't see why this 
 
70 FEIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 liere country is put right slap in tlie wa}", to stop you 
 as you are getting to England, which is where you do 
 want to go. Well, my name is De Yere, and a very 
 good name to the ear it is. And now, governor, what 
 may your'n bo .^" 
 
 Brandt laughed outright; for Mr. De Yere, incon- 
 sequehce of eating slowly, and eating while he talked, 
 was staggeringly deliberate. 
 
 " My name is Bellars, sir." 
 
 ''Ah! Bellars. Any bellows to mend, eh ? Well. 
 And this, the flunkey that brought my hot water 
 told me, is Bellars Hall. Yes ! I suppose you are 
 the squire." 
 
 It was an awkward question, but Brandt had tact, 
 and explained quickly. 
 
 "Dwyorts!" mused Mr. De Yere, not doubting his 
 absolute right to lead the conversation. " Dwyorts ! — I 
 ought to know something of Dwyorts. There's a 
 a Dwyorts old fellow that I mean to call on in London 
 — soon ! Tliero's a Dwyorts was lighting Kio with 
 gas when I was there ; and there was a Dwyorts mak- 
 ing the railways in New Brunswick when I was there ! 
 That chap was rather turning in the mopusses, I 
 'spect." 
 
TREASURE-TEOVE. 71 
 
 ^' I have no doubt you are referring to my father/' 
 said Diego, haughtily. 
 
 "My eyes! just to think ! Well, sir, you'll have a 
 tidy lot of tin when the old chap gets vexed with the 
 bucket — not a doubt of it, not a doubt of it. And 
 you're the young man's mother, Mam ? Aye ! aye ! 
 And youWe on the wrong side of the wall, governor. 
 There's ups and there's downs. I was poor myself 
 once, but I rather think I've done the trick this time." 
 
 He favoured the company with a wink of a solemn 
 character, wiped his mouth with the tablecloth, and 
 asked how was he to get to his brig ? 
 
 They were very glad to get rid of him. But in 
 time, when they met afterwards in London, they 
 became more polite. That cool little fellow, with his 
 heavy voice, mastered most people. 
 
 Before he left the Hall, he took Brandt aside — 
 
 *^ Now, governor, I owe you a good turn. If you 
 want tin, this is the shop. If a matter of £500 would 
 
 suit you, book me to have a d d bad memory 
 
 thereof, as I engage you shall have it ! I comprehend 
 from this here jabber about the Hall, as these folk 
 (he jerked his head) have cleared you out." 
 
 Brandt could not but express thanks while declining 
 
72 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 the benevolence ; and was so softened that he gave 
 his address in London, and offered to put De Yere 
 " up to '' the great city when he called. 
 
 So De Yere showered his gold among the servants, 
 and rode off to his brig at a very deliberate trot. 
 
THE FAMILY. 73 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE FAMILY. 
 
 Im the Battle of Life — which means such a series of 
 skirmishes, comhats, affairs of outposts, and pitched 
 battles, that it should be more accurately called the 
 Campaign of Life — the Eetreat of Gentility in London 
 is singularly interesting. It is as touching as the 
 Eetreat of Xenophon, Wallenstein, Moreau, Welling- 
 ton, Xey, or of any other great General who has de- 
 veloped great capacity in running away. 
 
 The Bohemians, Shopocracy, Lodging-house-holder 
 troops, Blackguards, and Camp-followers, are perpe- 
 tually pouring their battalions west^vard through the 
 Strand, and through Holborn and Oxford Street. 
 They come in such hordes, like the Huns, that they 
 sweep every thing before them — but not quite clean. 
 The timid of the Army of Gentility have fled in affright 
 to extreme limits, and have intrenched themselves 
 behind and among the solid fortressed residences of 
 
74 FEIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 the affluent and the aristocratic in Bayswater, Chelsea, 
 St. John's Wood, in little side streets where the re- 
 spectability shrinks, half hoping to be seen, slightly 
 trusting to be overlooked. The mass of them have 
 made flank movements off to Camden and other Towns 
 northward, across the bridges to Brixton and Clapham. 
 The enemy shows signs of himself in the captured 
 regions. He has thrown his advanced shops right up 
 to the corners of Kussell Square, where a species of 
 neutrals reside that are certificated by the invader, 
 under some mistake, as aristocrats. He has broken 
 out in Bloomsbury Square in religious, philosophi- 
 cal, philanthropic societies ; but chiefly in piano- 
 forte manufacturers and liquid glue agents. On 
 the other side of Oxford Street, where the defences 
 are of a still weaker character, he has got all but 
 complete possession of once pleasant and free Soho. 
 The square is riddled with bazaars and music-shops. 
 The streets leading off are of complicated turns, pre- 
 senting great difficulties to the hosts ; but, generally 
 speaking (just as poverty, according to Mr. Thackeray, 
 attacks the extremities first — the elbows and the 
 toes), the nether ends of these streets are given up 
 to the green-grocery line. 
 
THE FA]MILY. 7o 
 
 Bat a sullen stand has been made by some fierce 
 Anglo-Saxon here and therCj at corners, gallantly 
 facing and yet ignoricg the aliens around — like 
 the house of Cedric in districts of Norman holds. 
 Where these stands have been made, the habita- 
 tions look curiously out of place. At one side of 
 them is a watchmaker's, the shop filled with a class 
 of soiled French and Swiss, who, though devoted to 
 the time business, have obviously very little to do 
 with the eternity business ; and on the other side is a 
 cigar shop, with an Absinthe room furtively at the 
 back, lodgings to let for single men up-stairs : one 
 of the single men, with a dishevelled single woman in 
 the background, leans always out of the window, 
 smoking a painfully filthy pipe, and employing his 
 mind in wondering what o'clock it is. The fierce 
 Anglo-Saxon seems to try to shame these uncleanly 
 neighbours by the washed and polished looks of -his 
 exterior : the very bricks, bright against the London 
 smoke; the steps of the door blanched as a lady's hand; 
 the door black and glossy as a lady's wig ; the window 
 panes clear as a bishop's conscience ; and the window 
 blinds pure as an archbishop's lawn. 
 
 At such a house in Frith Street, Soho, lived Jacob 
 
76 FRIENDS OF BOIIEIMIA. 
 
 Dwyorts, Esquire, of the Jubilee EDgineering Works 
 (so called because " Jubilee 1809," stood in red letters 
 over the workmen's entrance), Yauxhall, Lambeth. 
 Go back to the dark ages of Mr. Kelly's Post-office 
 Directory, and you will find that Jacob Dwyorts is a 
 respectable man, who has paid his way for a most 
 reassuring period. 
 
 On this Christmas day, !Mr. Jacob Dwyorts is in 
 his dramng-room awaiting guests to dinner. He and 
 a son and two grandchildren,' girls, are there. The 
 girls are aged about thirty — perhaps a little less : the 
 son is about sixty — perhaps a little more. Jacob 
 Dwyorts is about ninety — or, say a hundred. The 
 venerable man is capable and alert — " 'cute as ever he 
 was, he is,'' say the clerks ; whom his physical powers 
 rap over the knuckles, as they term it. The son is a 
 much older man, so far as age implies vitality; he sits 
 before the fire with his hands crossed and clasped, his 
 eyes open but seeing nothing. 
 
 The youngest grandchild — who is subjected to the 
 falling off of her hair, and to make it grow long 
 (some years hence, when she will be buried, no 
 doubt) has kept it cut short like a boy's for some 
 years— is looking out of the window into the gas- 
 
THE FAMILY. 77 
 
 lit street, to see what some doubtful characters are 
 talking about over the way. The eldest grandchild is 
 sitting upright in a stiff genteel chair, with her head 
 in one position, and her eyes fixed. The only part 
 of her person that moves is her nostrils : she appears, 
 eveiy now and then, catching chance draughts of 
 air with them, smiling singularly. 
 
 " Don't do that, Jane!" said the venerable man, who 
 was lying on a hard sofa, brushing his bald head with 
 his hand, as if in search of the hair, that went with 
 Napoleon's power. *' Don't do that, Jane!" 
 
 He had said this daily for some years. 
 
 *• Don't do what.^" asked Jane, moviuG: her head. 
 
 ^' You know very well what grandpa means," said 
 Ellen, looking in ; as the doubtful characters, having 
 counted their money under the lamp-post, went off. 
 
 This was a common dialogue, taken quietly; for 
 Ellen looked out again, and Jane returned to her 
 enterprise after air. 
 
 " Why do they keep that child out in those thin 
 clothes, such a day as this.^" said Ellen, looking in. 
 
 "What child .^" asked Jacob, who noticed every 
 thing, inquired about every thing, and interfered in 
 every thing. *• What child .?" 
 
78 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 "Some parcel of stuff in the street I"* exclaimed 
 Jane, awaiting a draught, and ^ust pouncing on it. 
 " Ellen is always looking out of the window." 
 
 " It's a story, Jane ! " 
 
 " It's not a story." 
 
 'at is, Jane!" * 
 
 " Tut— tut !" said Jacob. " No quarrelling." 
 
 He was always saying this ; but there was always 
 quarrelling. The old son took all this as he took the 
 little flames in the coals — an incident to the room, 
 too familiar to excite any remark. 
 
 " Here's some one," said Ellen looking in, and 
 looking out again. '^ Yes, it's papa and his wife : 
 Jane, you're the eldest ; you must see to stepmother 
 taking her bonnet off. I won't !" 
 
 'a won't!" 
 
 '^ Tut — tut ! No quarrelling. Go, both of you." 
 
 They both vrent. 
 
 The arrivino; -^^uests knocked once at the door ! 
 
 o o 
 
 knocked twice. It was Kimbletts, the parlour-maid's, 
 duty to open the door. But she had seen who it was 
 that had come ; knew that a little indignity would be 
 acceptable to the '-young misseses," and procrasti- 
 nated. 
 
THE FAMILY. 79 
 
 Mr. Jolm Dwyorts found his wife's elbow nudging 
 liim, and knocked again. 
 
 Kimbletts opened the door in her usual manner, 
 and appeared to scrutinize the arrival with her ear. 
 Kimbletts suffered from an odd optical derangement ; 
 andj on the slightest indication that you wished to 
 converse with her as to the persons at home, she has 
 to turn rather her back towards you, to get a good 
 view of you and your interrogation. This has often 
 puzzled strangers; as they say a tiger runs if you ad- 
 vance backwards on his jaws. 
 
 '•' Oh, it's you Mr. John ! " said KimblettSj not 
 choosing to see Mrs. John, "Deary me, if I didn't think 
 it was the beer ! Master's in the drawing-room, sir. 
 Walk up, sir." 
 
 Mrs. John was repudiated by Kimbletts and the kit- 
 chen in Frith Street generally: almost, a] so, at the head 
 of the stairs by ^' the misseses/' They said, " How do 
 you do, papa?" and kissed him, and passed him into the 
 presence of his father and brother. They merely said 
 to Mrs. John, without kissing, and both together, 
 " Won't you take your bonnet off? " as if they were in 
 doubt whether she had come to stay any time. She 
 would take her bonnet off; and, to overpower her, and 
 
80 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 support one another, they led her, one before and one 
 behind, like a murderess, to do her hair. 
 
 *' Happy Christmas, father!" said Mr. John heartily, 
 on entering. A round man, of pliable physiognomy, 
 who buttoned and unbuttoned his coat with an activity 
 and frequency irreconcileable with a lazy nature : and 
 yet he was a very lazy man, according to his father 
 and his daughters. 
 
 ^^How are the books this end of the year?" John, 
 inquired Jacob. 
 
 " Pretty well. How are you, Bob .^ Jolly ? cold 
 day." 
 
 *' Bob's always the same," explained the sire. ^' Bob 
 likes the fireside. It's long since Bob gave up trying 
 his hand on the Thames — aint it, Bob? Gad — he knows 
 what's comfortable and easy !" 
 
 Bob was the butt of the family : the family agi-eed 
 in nothing but laughing at and torturing Bob. Bob 
 didn't in the least mind it. He laughed now, with 
 the laugh at him ; but there was a little affectation of 
 glee : perhaps, after all, he didn't like it. But this had 
 never occurred to his relatives. 
 
 The guarded murderess came in. A thin, sharp- 
 featured, but not uncomely or ill-natured woman : 
 
THE FAMILY. 81 
 
 very dressy, and narrow about the waist. She escaped 
 the guard and dabbed the bald head of Jacob with her 
 lips. Jacob shook hands with her, and said she looked 
 wonderful. She then dabbed Bob, who nodded at her 
 kindly ; and then she went and sat down on a low stool 
 out of the way, interchanging glances with her hus- 
 band. The guards took their posts, as before : one at 
 the window, with her head cut off by the curtain, and 
 the other in a good draught. John talked to his father 
 about the ^' books," but in an ill-constrained way that 
 was not candid and cordial; and the fact is, Jacob, who 
 believed nobody, didn't expect frankness. 
 
 ^' Cousin Crowe Dwyorts," said Ellen, looking in. 
 
 Nobody seemed moved. 
 
 " By the by," said Mrs. John, speaking as if she 
 were not sure of the language, and putting the words 
 into the smallest possible space, to diminish the chances 
 of blundering in pronunciation, *^ why was !Mr. Crowe 
 Dwyorts christened Crowe ?" 
 
 The grandchildren looked sharply at this intrusion 
 on family affairs. 
 
 "Bob's particular friend in those days — Bob was 
 always having bosom friends fresh every year — was 
 named Crowe; that was it," explained Mr. Dwyorts 
 
 VOL. T. G 
 
82 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 senior, who had no secrets : particularly if they told 
 against his offspring, whom he was always telling not 
 to quarrel. 
 
 Mr. Crowe entered the room, and shook hands first 
 with his grandfather, and then with liis father, who 
 was Bob. The general company he took in with a 
 glance, and the salutation " sharp frost ! " He then 
 disposed himself perpendicularly before the fire, and 
 avoiding Jacob's eye, and treating his father as fur- 
 niture, waited with a nervous appearance of unconcern 
 for conversation. He did not seek it, he seemed to 
 say ; but if any one wished to ask the prisoner at the 
 bar why sentence should not be pronounced, he was 
 ready with some observations. He knew that he was 
 among his enemies, and was watchful. He did not 
 wish to disguise that he was there, as a matter of cal- 
 culation, to keep up the connection with the head of 
 the house, who could not live long. He was insolent 
 and cynical, but not com'ageous. He had a very keen 
 sense of the ridiculous, and an intense appreciation of 
 success ; and he was daunted, among the family who 
 knew him, by a recollection that he and his father be- 
 fore him were rather failures. Likewise, Crowe Dwy- 
 orts had only some coppers — his all — in pocket. 
 
THE FA3IILY. 83 
 
 When in cash he was a dazzling character, but 
 slinked when poor. His sunflower turned towards the 
 Mint, in his metropolitan garden of Hope. 
 
 '' Mrs. Chessey," said Ellen. A commotion. 
 
 Mrs. Chessey, wife of Gilbert Chessey, of the firm 
 of Chessey and Sons, Manchester warehousemen, 
 Little Yard, St. Paul's, was a grand-daughter of Jacob 
 Dwyorts, daughter of his favourite child, who was an 
 only daughter, dead — dying in producing Mrs. Chessey. 
 Mrs. Chessey, herself an heiress, thanks to a lucra- 
 tive papa, married Gilbert Chessey for love, though 
 he was very rich. She was a pretty, impudent little 
 woman. She did not care about Jacob's wealth, and 
 affected the most perfect indifference to his liking for 
 her. For the family, which she scarcely considered she 
 belonged to, she expressed generally hon^or. But 
 Gilbert didn't choose to throw away a chance, and 
 made her come often to cultivate Jacob. 
 
 *• They've new grey horses to their carriage," said 
 Ellen. '• What they do with their horses I don't know. 
 Always new." 
 
 " Eat 'em, perhaps," said Mr. Crowe. 
 
 *' Ha — ha 1 " said Mr. John, the hilarity endorsed 
 by his wife. 
 
84 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA, 
 
 " With pony sauce," added Mr. Crowe, who pushed 
 his jokes when he could ; " the shoes arranged round 
 the dish, like lemon slices with roast veal." 
 
 " Don't be ill-natured, Crowe," said ]\Ir. Jacob. 
 
 " I, sir — not I, sir ! But, as one of the family, I 
 wouldn't like the young Gilbert Crowes to turn out 
 centaurs. \Yould you, Mrs. John ? " 
 
 Mrs. John laughed ; and Crowe drew near and 
 whispered — " Though the fact that Gilbert is an ass, 
 would naturally affect the composition." 
 
 Mrs. John disappeared in her handkerchief, charm- 
 ed to be so familiarly noticed by one of the 
 family. 
 
 The truth is, Mr. John had married a barmaid of 
 the tavern he frequented in the city for luncheon ; 
 which was his favourite meal. The family resented 
 it for a long time. The daughters laid their grievances 
 before Jacob, who took the young woman into his 
 own house. But Jacob would have no nonsense, he 
 said, about the poor girl: she was a fool to marry 
 an old fellow like John, who was a still greater fool ; 
 but they mustn't be ill-natured: she was one of 
 the family, and must be treated with civility. They 
 had to submit — harder to the daughters especially, 
 
THE FAMILY. 85 
 
 because the young wife looked so much younger 
 than themselves. 
 
 '• Here we are ! " said Mrs. Chessey, entering. ^' I 
 and Gill. How's the pudding ? How do you do — all ? 
 Here Jane, dear ! take my bonnet and shawl. Til 
 not go up to your rooms — why should I ? Now, 
 grandfather, there's a kiss. I need not ask how you 
 are ; nobody ever heard of your being ill. Shall I 
 ring the bell ? — there. What a nice family party we 
 are ! — no strangers. Oh ! how do you do, Mrs. John ? 
 You made yourself so little there, I didn't see you. 
 Any baby yet ? (a ivMsper.) How lucky to have 
 none ! (aloud.) Well, Mr. Crowe, what do you mean 
 by having such a tie on ? Let me put it right for 
 you. Why, you've given up your dandyism. How's 
 your wife — in Boulogne still ? Settled with your 
 creditors ? How nice ! Gill, give me that snuff-box 
 I brought — there's a snuff-box for you, uncle Bob ; 
 isn't it nice ? Haven't got any thing for any body else. 
 Presents all nonsense, as you always said, grand- 
 father." 
 
 " I'll give you all a dinner — nothing else," said the 
 grandfather, getting up as the servant announced 
 that the repast was ready. " Take my arm, Fanny." 
 
SQ FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 " No, no ! Take Mrs. John — she's the stranger, 
 ril go with uncle Bob. Come, Bob, dear ! Now, 
 gu'ls, how you must miss beaux ! It's dreadful for 
 unmarried gii'ls, these family parties. How you can 
 smell the pudding ! Horror ! plum pudding : but it's 
 something to do with Protestantism, and church and 
 state, I believe. What nan'ow stairs ! How dreadful 
 it is, gi'andfather will stick to this piggy street ! 
 How do you do, Kimbletts ? — not married yet ? Gill, 
 pour me out a glass of sherry." 
 
 The family were got out of their huddle, and into 
 symmetry at their family dinner. Jacob sat at the 
 head of the table ; but, too feeble to carve, confined 
 himself to directing every body else. There was no 
 grace, and there were no toasts : and every body 
 was glad when it was over. Mrs. Chessey and 
 Mrs. Crowe did the talking, with now and then Jacob 
 contradicting them both, and telling them not to 
 quarrel. 
 
 Grandfather went up with the ladies, and went to 
 sleep on the sofa. Mrs. Chessey cut " the girls, dears," 
 and talked to Mrs. John about her children in a low 
 voice; Mrs. John appears marvellously interested, 
 looking with awe on the happy and daring pretty little 
 
THE FAMILY. 87 
 
 woman, who could talk so freely in the femily. Ellen 
 cut her head off with the curtain, and Jane read a 
 novel, and now and then lifted her head for a little 
 air, like an attenuated porpoise. 
 
88 FBIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 WEAK SONS AND STRONG FATHERS. 
 
 As the grandfather and the ladies left the roomj 
 Mr. Gilbert Chessey took the bottom of the table, 
 vacated by Miss Jane. 
 
 Crowe, who had drank a good deal of wine, and was 
 very impulsive, said — 
 
 " I don't see, Mr. Chessey, that you are the proper 
 person, while my father and uncle John are here 
 to take, as it were, the lead of this party by taking the 
 chair.'' 
 
 Mr. Chessey leaped out of the chair. 
 
 " I had no such intention, I assure you. Ridicu- 
 lous 1 Lead, be hanged ! While old Jacob is above 
 board, I don't think any one else will lead in this 
 family. Come, Crowe, you're angry that I declined 
 further money transactions with you. But my 
 partner, Kons — I couldn't : it's so irregular to business 
 men." 
 
 J 
 
WEAK SONS AND STEONG FATHERS. 89 
 
 " Don't let's talk of business now. I'll take wine 
 with you with pleasure." 
 
 " The old un doesn't get good wine," said Gilbert. 
 
 " He would never listen to reason on that point," 
 remarked Mr. John. " We talked to him about it 
 when we were young men — didn't we, Bob ? and I've 
 spoken of it constantly to this day. But he 
 doesn't care. He's not any judge himself, but he'll 
 always buy it himself, and buys the cheapest. He's 
 just the same as ever : interferes in every thing, does 
 every thing himself, and does every thing badly." 
 
 '^ Well, I don't know," said Mr. Chessey, mixing 
 water in the cheap wine ; ^- they say he's got a little 
 money, ha — ha ! No proof of talent like making 
 money. He's a wonderful old man, I say ; and let's 
 drink his health." 
 
 " It's a general supposition that he is selfish," said 
 Bob, weakly. ^' But that's quite a mistake ; he's not 
 selfish ; he's only egotistical. Every thing must be 
 subordinate to him." 
 
 " No one was attacking him, father." 
 
 " Ay ay, Crowe ; but we all have complaints 
 against him. We all know that this is an unhappy 
 family. He is rich — worth a million ; we are all 
 
90 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 poor, John and I here ; and they were telling me, 
 Crowe, that you were in the Bench again last week." 
 
 Mr. John unbuttoned and buttoned his coat very 
 fast. He was going to say something. 
 
 Mr. Chessey interrupted — " I am sure, Mr. Bob, 
 that I have no complaints to make against the old 
 gentleman — nor my wife." 
 
 '^ Nor I," said Crowe ; " but my father has, and 
 uncle John has. It's quite natural. There was a 
 great business ; they got no share in it. There it is 
 now ; they have no share in it." 
 
 " No, no ! " said Bob, who was now never roused 
 from imbecile apathy but on this topic. "Not a 
 farthing ! It's turning in £15,000 a-year at least ; 
 and I could keep boolvS, at least, if I have no head for 
 inventions. But he won't let me go near them." 
 
 " Well, well, ^Ir. Bob ! He's made his own money, 
 and he has a right to his own way. It will all come 
 to you in the end." 
 
 " Not a bit, sir ! " said Crowe. " What brought me 
 into difficulties ? The general belief that I was 
 likely to come into property. And when I got into 
 difficulties, what did he tell me ? That we must all 
 stand by ourselves." 
 
WEAK SONS AND STRONG FATHERS. 91 
 
 " That's it," said Mr. John. '' If I had money I 
 could develop my business as a commission merchant 
 with certain — absolutely certain results. But he 
 will not advance a farthing." 
 
 " He does not want the family to get on. He 
 is the family ! I believe he likes to gloat over 
 my father being a dependent on him from, bad 
 health." 
 
 " And Besoms — my friend, Mr. Chessey — who ran 
 away with £7000." 
 
 " Hans Besoms ! " exclaimed Mr. Crowe, filling a 
 glass. 
 
 " What's become of Nick Dwyorts, Jacob's nephew ?" 
 inquired i\Ir. Chessey. 
 
 "Working as a foreman still, at the works. 
 That's his system. Nick has been there twenty years, 
 and has a large family ; but he's kept down because 
 he is related to father," said John, whose buttons 
 were giving way. 
 
 "John Dwyorts — of Liverpool — is making more 
 money than ever, I hear." 
 
 ^^ And married his son to a lord's daughter," added 
 Crowe. 
 
 " The devil ! — when was that ? " 
 
92 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 " I heard it only yesterday. It seems to have been 
 kept secret. I didn't like to mention it before grand- 
 father. I believe he hates that John Dwyorts for 
 being so successful." 
 
 " Quite a mistake ! " said Bob ; " quite a mistake ! 
 He hates no one. Loves no one." 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Bob," said Chessey. " Too bad ! Seems 
 a most benevolent old gentleman." 
 
 " So he is, sir," said Crowe. " He wishes you well. 
 He is glad if you are well, and do well ; but he'll do 
 nothing towards it." 
 
 " His own vast works must occupy his mind. But 
 tell us about the lord's daus-hter : what lord .? " 
 
 "Slumberton. I looked at the Peerage; tenth 
 baron. Park in Warwickshire ; town-house ; just 
 appointed to the government of Saccharinia." 
 
 " Bravo ! " cried Mr. Chessey. " The family is 
 getting on. I'll tell you what : I'll marry my little 
 girl to a peer — hanged if I don't ! " 
 
 "When your little girl is marriageable, Mr. 
 Chessey," said Crowe, " there'll be no peers." 
 
 **ril take my chance," said Chessey, laughing. 
 " But I am surprised at this. John Dwyorts is such a 
 coarse, abrupt, vulgar man, with a regular squaw for 
 
WEAK SONS AND STRONG FATHERS. 93 
 
 a wife — how could he have caught such a match ? 
 As to the son, he's an out and out fast one." 
 
 John said — "John Dwyorts of Liverpool will die rich 
 enough to make his son fit for a duke's daughter." 
 
 " Ay, ay ! " murmured Mr. Chessey, musingly. 
 " He's a bold man — and pluck does a good deal in 
 business." 
 
 Crowe had a theory about business to which he 
 called attention. 
 
 " Now, I am a barrister, and a journalist, and an 
 author, and all that sort of thing, and I daresay you'll 
 think I am prejudiced, Mr. Chessey. But I really 
 can't see that any thing in the way of cleverness is 
 required in regular trade. Take grandfather. Do 
 you mean to tell me that his small works would ever 
 have become great, but for the accident that this 
 period has happened to be the steam period — a sud- 
 den demand for steam machinery .^ Of course not. 
 'Tis all luck. Suppose I am a grocer, and I settle 
 into a good neighbourhood — it's the neighbourhood 
 makes the shop ; I am civil and clean, and sell at fair 
 prices ; and I retire and become a conservative." 
 
 "Ah! you despise us business men." 
 
 ** Not at all ! I envy you. If I had been put into 
 
94 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 business, and hadn't been a fool and ambitious, Vd 
 have done well." 
 
 " If father had advanced you money." 
 
 " Well ; perhaps he could, diive a bill now and 
 then, in regular trade." 
 
 '' Not a bit of it," said Bob. 
 
 " I think," said Mr. Chessey, " that luck has a little 
 to do with success in trade. There are some unlucky 
 men, I know ; and there's some men who have had 
 the lucky opportunity, and haven't grasped at it. But 
 the men who succeed are energetic men ; people whom 
 other people like, too — like my father, and like Korns. 
 I don't pretend to be a good business man, myself ; 
 but I can see that it takes a devilish clever fellow to 
 make his way in the city." 
 
 " Give him capital," said Crowe grandly, " and it's 
 easy enough — give him a father ! " 
 
 ^' Yes, yes ! but devilish clever fellows who haven't 
 capital get necessary to you, and get so among the 
 connection that you must take them into partner- 
 ship." 
 
 '^Exactly!" said Crowe. '^ They don't earn or 
 save the money. They get it lent to them, or get 
 into partnerships with those who have money. Talk 
 
WEAK SONS AND STRONG FATHERS. 95 
 
 to me of fellows working their own way up. Stuff! 
 They got some one to do their bills, or otherwise 
 take them in hand." 
 
 Kimbletts backed into the room. 
 
 " Coffee, masters, if you please ! " 
 
96 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A NEW YEAK S OLD BLUNDEK. 
 
 New-Yeak's Day ! No particular festival this at 
 Jacob Dwyorts' mansion. He rather knew what 
 years were, that patriarchal person: not such new 
 things to him, or so much different from one another, 
 that he should sit up to see one out and the other in, 
 or celebrate either the going or the coming. And 
 that was enough for all others of that mansion. The 
 grand-daughters, unaffectionate, unsentimental young 
 ladies, not nourished on poetry in any respect, but 
 with manners, and hopes, and thoughts between the 
 two ; and the servants in the kitchen, less hardly 
 reared, who with some associations in connection with 
 time, that their hearts might be disposed to ponder 
 on, to weep, or to caress; might, under other influences, 
 have put the day apart from other days in the year, 
 in the red-letter collection. But Jacob Dwyorts, of 
 the Jubilee Works, Lambeth, had never been said to 
 
A NEW teak's old BLUNDER. 97 
 
 excel in caltivating the old-fashioned s}TQpathies, 
 long as he had lived ; and he was not going to begin 
 now. 
 
 As he was leaving the room in which the family 
 breakfasted, Jane, who had the nominal position of 
 housekeeper, said — 
 
 " Kimbletts wants to have a day out to-day." 
 
 " Well, well ! " said the old man, stopping in his 
 slow and stooping walk, and turning round slowly too, 
 *• can't you say yes or no, without bothering me ? " 
 
 " You'd have been angry if I had let her without 
 telling you ; and if I hadn't let her she'd have been 
 sulky, and you'd have asked her why." 
 
 '*Tut — tut!" He would never admit that there 
 could by any chance be any thing wrong or inconsis- 
 tent about his arrangements. " Let her go — the fool ! 
 If she'd sense, she'd keep out of that east wind." 
 
 " I'm going out, too, gi'andfather, and I want some 
 money," said Ellen, speaking with promptness, and 
 to the point. 
 
 " You always want money ! What for ? some 
 rubbish : women never have a bonnet — never." 
 
 " Gloves. Some calico. My subscription is due to 
 the Lost-Found Society. I want to get my hair cut." 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
98 FRIEXDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 " Eh ! what rubbish — what rubbish !" Still stand- 
 ing, he hauled a long silk purse from his pocket. 
 " How much ? " " One pound seven," " Why, girl, 
 j^ou're the most extravagant child I ever had." 
 
 Jane, standing up for air, and walking to the win- 
 dow for the east wind, grumbled — " You said that 
 from the beginning of the year you'd give us pocket- 
 money, not to have to ask you so often. No matter 
 how small, I'd rather have it." 
 
 Bob was watching, with a feeble smile. 
 
 " Ay ! " said Jacob, with angry energy ; '' you want 
 to be independent : like the rest of them. As much 
 money as possible. No — no : throw away money in 
 that style, indeed ! Here's two pounds for you, Ellen ; 
 and — both the same — here's two pounds for you, 
 Jane. Make it go far." 
 
 He caught Bob's smile. "You, too, I suppose. 
 Snuff .^ Beastly ! Here's a five-pound note : let it 
 go through the year." 
 
 He hobbled down-stairs, and with difiSculty got 
 into his phaeton, and was driven to the works. Up 
 to the last few years he had always himself held the 
 reins, and it took an accident to warn him that he 
 must trust the groom. 
 
A NEW year's old BLUNDER. 99 
 
 Kimbletts got out, tacked down the street with re- 
 spectable looking sails flowing, and fetched a young 
 man leaning against a lamp-post and waiting for her 
 at the first corner. He was somewhat startled at her 
 accost; for, in consequence of her peculiarity, he had 
 not seen her advance. 
 
 A broad low-sized young man, this young man ; 
 witli short legs and arms ; puffy about the face ; a not 
 quite dressed appearance ; the unwashed hand of 
 time having obviously taken liberties with his shirt 
 bosom. 
 
 " Dear Fritz ! " said Kimbletts, in rapturous tones, 
 looking in the direction of Hampstead, '^ I was so 
 afeard. Them cats — the misseses ! I was afeard 
 the3^'d say I mustn't go out. Just a toss up. Didn't 
 feel out of the house till I was out. You might have 
 knocked me down with a feather, Fritz — dear Fritz!" 
 
 Fritz was discomfited by her excessive aO'ection, 
 and seemed anxiois that she should postpone kissing 
 him till they secluded themselves. But he was very 
 fond of her, and didn't knock her down with a 
 feather. 
 
 " Come on, Kimbletts ! Let's go : I've made up 
 my mind." 
 
100 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 " My sweet Fritz ! Oh, my love !" 
 
 " Now, don't, Kimbletts ! Look at that policeman 
 staring at us — and he knows me. Now, walk quietly, 
 and I'll tell you/' 
 
 But the reader must have a preliminary explana- 
 tion. 
 
 Kimbletts (so the Dwj^orts called her, in avoid- 
 ance of her Christian name, which was Julia ; Julia, 
 according to Dwyorts senior, being stuff and nonsense 
 in a maid-servant) had been about ten years in the 
 Dwyorts' family, and was now a healthy, vigorous, 
 natural woman of about thirty. She was a widow. 
 Her husband had been killed by an accident in the 
 Jubilee Works ; and Dwyorts, feeling that the case 
 compelled charity, took in the bereaved young girl as 
 a domestic. She was an excellent, active servant. 
 People who had seen her face by chance, said that she 
 wasn't bad-looking, for all the optical misfortune 
 which made her movements so shyly eccentric. 
 
 Her " young man," though having legally ceased to 
 be an infant, was a baby and a booby. His mother, 
 who had just died and been buried, had been a pros- 
 perous lodging-housekeeper, in a house in Frith 
 Street, opposite that of the Dwyorts. The boy had 
 
A NEW year's old bluxdee. 101 
 
 been occupied since lie had been able to -^alk, as a 
 household drudge; as a waiter; helping to make 
 beds ; helping to cook. His mother said he was fit 
 for nothing else, and it kept him out of mischief; 
 and as he was very fond of eating, which was always 
 going on at liis mother's, and saving the coppers and 
 odd sixpences he got from the lodgers, he cannot be 
 said to have lived unhappily. 
 
 Kimbletts and his mother had been great friends, 
 with frequent quarrels ; and Kimbletts and Master 
 Molly had long had an established flirtation. Dull 
 boys generally begin the romance of their careers by 
 a passion for women ten years older than themselves 
 — women who, neglected by men, accept and encou- 
 rage the soothing but less business-like adoration of 
 urchins. Molly had overcome the first ardour of hLs 
 feelings ; but poor Kimbletts was possessed with a 
 wild affection for the youth. It was in all honesty 
 that she worshipped him. With both sexes a passion 
 at thirty is serious ; especially if " the object" (who 
 will pubUsh a dictionary of silly phrases ?) be 
 twenty. 
 
 " There's a letter, you see, Kimbletts (now, don't 
 squeeze my arm — go quietly), from the drawing-room ; 
 
102 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 and ]\Ieg Cook lias been drunk again last niglit, and 
 so was the postman I found in the coal-hole ; and he 
 wanted to fight me — very likely I'd fight, isn't it ?" 
 
 "My sweet Fritz!" 
 
 " And the new chambermaid will always be up on 
 the tliird floor, where that foreigner, that hasn't paid 
 these three weeks, is." 
 
 ^^ Poor, sweet Fritz ! Such troubles ! " 
 
 " That's it, Kimbletts. They didn't mind me : I'm 
 too young." 
 
 " Not too young, Fritz, love." 
 
 " Yes, I am — hang me ! It never was before in 
 history, that a lodging-house with five lodgers was 
 kept by a chap only twenty-one. The drawing-room 
 has written, I tell you : he'll be back from some foreign 
 part in three days ; and he likes order, and things 
 regular, and pays like a brick, besides what he gives 
 me ; and he gives lots of dinners, and I can't bear to 
 lose him, and I know he w^oulJn't stay if the house 
 was like the devil to pay, as it is this day, so that I 
 daren't go back. That d — d foreigner has got pistols, 
 and when 1 went to ask for a little money for the 
 expenses, he showed 'em to me." 
 
 " My Fritz in danger ! Oh, Fritz ! Like Allgive, 
 
A NEW year's old BLUNDErt. 103 
 
 in the ^ Family Herald/ last number, I'll stand be- 
 tween you and death." (Kimbletts believed it.) 
 
 " Yes, I know you're fond of me, Kim ; and tliat's 
 it. I asked Mr. Hafnaf, as we takes beer from, for 
 his advice ; and he said it was church in a week, or 
 a fire and the bailiffs in a month. Don't you under- 
 stand ? We must get married at once, Kimbletts." 
 
 "That's what-- I'd like, Fritz, of course, and I'm 
 not going to deny it ; but so soon — your mother, you 
 know." 
 
 " It can't be helped. Mr. Hafnaf said the neigh- 
 bours wouldn't say any thing, knowing about the 
 house 2:oin2: wrono* ; and if I am to <2:o wTonsr I must 
 sell off the things, he said ; and I don't want — do 
 you, Kimbletts ? Why should we ? If you'll get 
 things into order, and manage right, and I know 
 you can, we can live very jolly, and I can sleep as 
 long as I like in the morning, when I know you're up." 
 
 On this unimpassioned prospect Kimbletts said 
 she would work her legs off; not considering that 
 that deprivation w^ould interfere with her arrange- 
 ments. 
 
 The couple walked on a little way considering, 
 and then Molly pulled up against a quiet lamp-post, 
 
104 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 leaned a!]:ainst it, studied the ribbons in the back 
 of Kimbletts' bonnet as it was presented at his face, 
 and said — 
 
 " Well, Kim, what do you say ? I've made up my 
 mind." 
 
 Kimbletts put a purse in his hand and said, " There's 
 my savings — sixty pounds. I'm ready !" and looked 
 down the street. ^ 
 
 '• jNIy eyes, Kim ! who'd have thought you had all 
 this ; and ready, too, in a purse ? Why, with what 
 mother left, we're rich — and no mistake ! Well, then, 
 come along. I've been this morning to a lawyer's 
 clerk as I sometimes play billiards with, and he's to 
 meet me at Temple Bar, and tell me how the marry- 
 ing of yourself is to be gone about — quick, you know ; 
 and cash down for the doing it quick, as he tells me is 
 the case. So, come along f Ritts expects half-a-crown 
 for his trouble and a pot of beer ; but we'll go in and 
 drink two glasses of it ourselves, so he won't get as 
 much as he thought." 
 
 Frugal young man. But at his age education 
 tells ; and his mother was a mistress of meanness. 
 Perhaps he may, by the influence of character, escape 
 from education by and by. 
 
A ^'EW YEAE's old BLU^T>EK. 105 
 
 Eitts, eager for unaccustomed prey, was waiting at 
 Temple Bar. As lie stood about there, with his 
 hands in his pockets, he looked a young vulture in 
 good training. He was plump and slimy; the yellow 
 eye seemed appeased with confidence of carrion ; his 
 elate beak smelling the feast afar off. Like all his 
 class he was dressed in black ; perhaps because it 
 endured best the defiling through which it went from 
 the moral sewage in which it is engaged on behalf of 
 society: perhaps because, as a solicitor looks black 
 for the sake of respectabilityj his garments come in 
 due time, with other perquisites, to the clerks. A 
 poor attorney's clerk never buys new clothes. The 
 passion of the pure Sepliardim for old clothes is a 
 portion of the Asian mystery. 
 
 Pdtts, a sharp youth, had never come across such 
 a chance as this. It is a common theory that clients 
 are, generally speaking, innocents in the hands 
 of the law. Ritts knew that the profession seldom 
 encountered a lamb, but rather wolves, on the 
 whole. Kow he relied on making a good thing of 
 Molly, who was by nature a fool, and was artificially 
 a fool during the condition in which he was getting 
 married. 
 
106 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 Eitts pounced on tlie pair as they came up, and 
 would at once have proceeded to business. 
 
 " Come, come, I say; not in the street," said ^folly. 
 " We'll go to a public, and talk quietly — and I'll 
 stand a quart, Kitts." 
 
 Eitts turned short round, and led the way. The 
 public, at that hour of the morning, was, like all 
 publics, in the dishevelled state in which publics are 
 not intended to be seen. The landlady was eating a 
 red herring in the private bar. The landlord was 
 adulterating the goods, plunging through a trap-door, 
 and refreshing himself with a well-directed series of 
 those drams that make him a sliortlived animal, and 
 leave so many inns in the hands of widowed land- 
 ladies. The barmaid, with her hair in Times 
 Supplements^ was polishing brass knobs and glasses, 
 and thinking, '■ Could that Mr. Jones have been too 
 elate to remember that he had proposed at eleven 
 the preceding evening ?" The potboy was brushing 
 out the stale sawdust, the broken pipes, the debris 
 of cigars, and, as far as possible, the entire smell of 
 the preceding day's jollity — which nevertheless did 
 stick in the barmaid's hair, and made itself more 
 manifest even than the ^' wants," stuck about those 
 
A NEW year's old bluxder. 107 
 
 latent ringletSj like so many little hints for the ]\Ir. 
 Joneses as they turned up. 
 
 But the little room there at the side liad been 
 cleaned out, and the Morning Advertiser^ looking 
 clean too, was there to warn the customers, in large 
 type, that the Pope had his eye on them ; and there 
 the three first customers sat down, being supplied 
 with the quart stipulated for by Eitts. 
 
 ^- Well, old chap, how's it to be done ? " 
 
 Eitts drank and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of 
 his mantle, and answered — '•' I caught the Archbishop 
 of Canterbuiy just as he was leaving Lambeth palace, 
 and got all the particulars at once, and he blessed 
 me." 
 
 *' Lord ! "Well, you are the impudentest chap. Only 
 think, Kimbletts, of Eitts going bold as brass to a 
 bishop ! " 
 
 Kimbletts felt disposed to assault the young lawyer 
 for not coming to the point, and nudged her betrothed. 
 
 " But, to bisyness," said the youth, perceiving the 
 natural impatience of the widow. 
 
 " What'll you pay if I gets you a special licence, 
 to make it all right for you to go for to do it to- 
 monrow morning, straight, and no questions asked, 
 
108 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 and tlie law complied with, and a liappy couple by 
 twelve, noon, and many returns of the day, eh ? " 
 
 " Can't do it to day, then? " asked Molly, who wanted 
 the trouble compressed as much as possible. 
 
 *' Nor I don't believe to-morrow, neither," said Kim- 
 bletts. " It's three weeks always. I ought to know, 
 seeing I've been married before ; and Kimbletts went 
 on his knees to the clerk, almost, to look sharp." 
 
 ^' Yes, ma'am ; your health, ma'am. I'm sure our 
 mutual friend Molly will find his interests answered 
 well — regularly well — by marrying a lady up to snufi". 
 But you see, ma'am, that was a case of banns — that's 
 not licence. And a licence, that's not a special licence, 
 and I can get you — if ]Molly will stump — that.'* 
 
 " I don't believe it. I don't know how you could 
 trust such a hobbledehoy, Fritz, as that young man. 
 He's laughing at you." 
 
 ''What I I laugh at Molly ? Not a bit, ma'am ; 
 we're all fond of Molly, ma'am. I tell you I can get a 
 licence, that you'll show to the clergyman at the 
 church nearest where you're living; and if the clergy- 
 man, on seeing that, marries you, what more have 
 you to say — that's what I want to know ? " 
 
 " Well, of course not," said Kimbletts, appeased. 
 
A NEW year's old BLUNDER. 109 
 
 " Well, let's see this licence," said Molly, yawning. 
 
 " Stump !" replied the lawyer. " What'll you 
 stump ? I can't do it under five pounds." 
 
 ^' I'll give you four pound," said Molly, instructed 
 by his mother never to pay the price asked. 
 
 Kitts took a gulp of beer — ^' Well, as you're a friend, 
 and there's two shillings and sixpence — which just tip 
 over — already on the business, I'll do it for four 
 pound, cash down." 
 
 " And you might bolt with the money. Very 
 likely ! " answered Molly. 
 
 Kimbletts nudged him, and whispered that it was 
 better to trust him. Women change their opinions 
 so quickly. 
 
 ^' Molly, you're a muff ! " added Kitts. " Give me the 
 four pound, and keep me in hand till I get you the 
 licence, and get the promise from the clergyman to be 
 at the crib in the church in the morning — won't that 
 do ? Wliy, you must come with me, or I can't get it 
 done at all." 
 
 It w^as agreed, and they went to Doctors' Commons ; 
 and shrank, in the usual way, from the eyes of the 
 porters waiting about the arch ; and appeared as 
 much at ease as possible under the eyes of the deputy 
 
110 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 of the Archbisliop of Canterbury, who sent them 
 greeting on a piece of paper from an inner room, 
 where he never was in his life. The}' tried to laugh it 
 off, as they paid the money; and went down the 
 stairs with fearful doubts if tliey hadn't i)aid for 
 liberty to leap off a precipice ; and didn't know what 
 on earth to do, when, passing again under the knowing 
 eyes of the porters, they found themselves beneath the 
 shadow of St. Paul's, whose dome rises fungus-like, a 
 symbol of the supererogatory — religion in the city. 
 
 " Kow for the clergyman," said Eitts. '^ A cab ? 
 That's right. ISTow's your time to be liberal." 
 
 ^' You don't seem to know the law, Molly," screamed 
 Ritts in the cab, as it dashed down tlie din of Ludgate 
 Hill. " ^Tien you get a licence like this, you're to 
 show in the presence of a witness that you approve of 
 it by kissing the young 'oman right off." 
 
 " No ! " screamed Molly. 
 
 '' Stuff ! " screamed Kimbletts, who had caught the 
 Dwj'orts' word. 
 
 " Fact. Always ! Not right marriage without," 
 screamed Ritts. 
 
 The fat-faced youth deliberately saluted his bride, 
 who thereafter looked sweetly at a passing bus-man, 
 
A NEW year's old BLUNDER. Ill 
 
 tlie glance being theoretically for Molly. Kitts gazed 
 with his head completely out of the window of the 
 cabj winking frightfully at the passengers on the foot- 
 path. 
 
 Kimbletts passed an agitated afternoon, and still 
 more agitated night ; not going back to the Dwyorts 
 till they had gone to bed (they convinced that she 
 had gone to ruin), and being let in furtively by the 
 cook, who was her friend. Molly over-eat himself 
 that day. 
 
 Piitts burst upon the public he used of an evening in 
 a great state of spirits, and lost some money, and vroke 
 with a headache : a vulture penitent but savage. 
 He gave Kimbletts away ; she cried, and kissed 
 Molly, who said, " Xow, don't,'"' to cook. Cook being 
 promised the place over the way, and being sick 
 of "them cats," had left Dwyorts' without leave. 
 The clergyman was unmoved, and uninterested, and 
 solemn. He regarded all his duties of this kind as 
 having reference to " bodies." Some bodies get buried, 
 and some bodies get married. It was all the same to 
 him. 
 
 The indignation of the Misses Dwyorts when thus 
 deserted. The ungrateful hussies ! They forgot that 
 
112 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 they had treated these domestics as slaves, without 
 sympathy or cordiality, and that there was no claim 
 to gratitude. The best Christians among us act, in 
 regard to their household drudges, as if the injunction, 
 to love our " neighbours " as ourselves, could not 
 possibly apply to the inhabitants of our own houses. 
 
BUTTERFLY-LIFE. 113 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 BUTTERFLY-LIFE. 
 
 Town is filling: Mrs. Molly is busy washing, shaking 
 carpets, putting in new curtains, new covering the 
 sofas, fiUing in the gaps in the crockery, settling 
 accounts and terms "with tradesmen, providing sweet- 
 bread and mulled beer suppers for Mr. Molly, and 
 hiring a housemaid of emphatic ugliness. Mrs. Molly 
 was very busy — but very happy ! Molly, being made 
 comfortable and well-fed, and left to doze in the 
 morning, endured her attentive affection with great 
 manliness and good-humour. 
 
 Mr. Brandt Bellars, who was '•' the drawing-room," 
 arrived in his Hansom cab late at night, left his 
 portmanteau, took his latch-key from the astonished* 
 Mrs. MoUy — whom he wished joy to, in a happy way — 
 and strolled off to his night-club. The ver}^ next day 
 she let the second floor to a " single lady," (who ga\e 
 her card " Therese Desprez,") who spoke EngHsh so 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
114 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 well that Mrs. Molly at once detected that she was 
 not an Englishwoman, "as she couldn't be indeed 
 with those little gilt boots ; " and the house, No. 70, 
 Frith-street, was in full work. The foreigner in the 
 third pair back, had got his remittance from the 
 Friends of Death and Italy in Turin, and now fre- 
 quently took ]\Ir. Molly out to billiards, very affably. 
 
 Mr. De Yere was at the Palmerston Hotel, in a 
 grand suite, crushing the waiters with the calm 
 comprehensiveness of his orders, and sending his 
 compliments to the foreign prince's ambassadors in 
 the next suites, telling them he would be glad to see 
 them at pot-luck any day. 
 
 Mr. Diego D^vyorts had had a furious row with his 
 motlier, and, leaving that dame, had come up to 
 London with his wife, her maid, and Kees: Kees going 
 on a day before, and — with every sort of mystery 
 in his dealings with the agent, and refusing to give a 
 name, but paying a quarter's rent at once — taking a 
 furnished house in a proper quarter. The father of 
 Mr. Diego was expected soon from Canada. 
 
 Poor gentle Nea had been all but annihilated in the 
 fierce encounter between mother and son, and was in 
 an apprehensive state of mind while being whirled up 
 
BUTTERFLY-LIFE. 115, 
 
 to London. The little woman thought very seriously 
 of things now, and wondered was she happy. 
 Di meant to be very kind, she was sure. But his 
 strong, sensual, hard, fierce, nature was not altogether 
 comprehensible to the delicate, yielding, young wife : 
 the caresses of the tiger were tigerish, after all. She 
 tliought of jMrs. Triste, and of duty, and of self-denial, 
 and of God, and of her sister, and prayed. 
 
 It was the morning after her arrival at the new 
 resting-place, whose household gods let themselves out 
 for ten pounds a-week, that she prayed. She crept 
 from her husband's side, as he lay in heavy slum- 
 ber, snoring (as husbands do sometimes, even in 
 romantic matches), and knelt and prayed for strength. 
 Then she wrapped a white robe round her fair 
 shoulders, pushed back the curtain, opened the window 
 a little, and looked out. A busy, dusty street, seen 
 through a haze of sunned smoke. Nea felt sad: 
 alas ! she loved the country so much. 
 
 But the sun has poured into the room. Xea had 
 brought up with her— girls are so childish — a little 
 case of caterpillars, that she had nursed with fragrant 
 salads, and that she thought to watch over, to the end. 
 Her care is rewarded. Behold ! a butterfly is born. 
 
116 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 Nea clasps her hands, and gives a pretty scream. The 
 inexperienced butterfly is let out; flutters his gossamer 
 wings in the heavy air of the bedroom ; feels sure 
 there is something wrong in the world. No : he gets 
 into a streak of sunshine. Briskly he flies into the 
 glare ; it leads him out of the window. The butter- 
 fly is a butterfly about town. 
 
 Who can tell his fate ? What he thought of the 
 scuffle and struggle of mankind — to him so meaning- 
 less ? What the chib-man, whose hat the soft wings 
 but just cleared, thought of Mm — so out of place in 
 Pali-Mall ? What boys ran after him, what bus-men, 
 whip in hand, cut at his brief beauty ; and how he 
 fell, bruised and baffled and broken-hearted at last, 
 and gave up the ghost in the kennel ? 
 
 The pretty scream awoke the sleepy spouse, who 
 d. d the butterfly, and slept again. 
 
SELF-RELIANCE TOO SELFISH. 117 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 SELF-RELIAXCE TOO SELFISH. 
 
 EoAR, clang, row, rattle ; rattle, row, roar, clang ; 
 hammers falling on anvils, on boilers, on beams ; men 
 shouting ; horses pulling ; furnaces blazing ; chimneys 
 smoking ; coils upon coils of ropes, and chains, and 
 straps, intertwined in inexplicable order, and rushing 
 horizontally, perpendicularly, circularly, one after the 
 other, in such hopeless, endless, ceaseless hunt, that if 
 you stand and watch the sport, your mind will become 
 weak. That's what goes on at the Jubilee Works, 
 from five in the morning till seven at night, begin- 
 ning in 1809 and going on still; wearing out men, 
 and iron, and wood, and leather, and coal, but always 
 going on : and a very profitable business it is under- 
 stood to be. You can get an order to see the works, 
 by ^vriting for it one day in advance ; and, when 
 you go, and are within about a mile of the place, 
 don't be frightened home again by the din afar — • 
 
118 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 the Yulcanic din of a thousand hammers falling, 
 from morning till night, on anvils, boilers, and beams. 
 
 See that bent old man in glossy black, who gets 
 feebly down from his low phaeton at the Jubilee 
 door — that is the master-mind, the owner, director. 
 His face is that of a corpse, you say. Xot at all ! 
 That grey eye is alive, now that he lifts his head and 
 walks in. No mistake about that. The din percepti- 
 bly increases in the works. That eye is known to be 
 thoroughly alive, by the thousand " hands " in the 
 Jubilee vard. 
 
 Mr. Dwyorts passes to the stack of buildings — 
 registered in stone letters ^' Office." He knows the 
 way ; has not missed a day since 1809. He passes 
 through rows of young gentlemen, who are drawing 
 plans, and a crowd of middle-aged gentlemen who 
 are at books, and little rooms of elderly gentlemen 
 who are having inter^dews, and writing letters, and 
 reaches his own least room, which has one table and 
 two chairs, one ink-bottle, one pen, one portfolio with 
 one sheet of blotting-paper in it, and a map of the 
 county of Cumberland, tattered and dusty. This is 
 where Jacob Dwyorts, Esq., does business. No city, 
 no George-street, Westminster, for him. If you want 
 
 i 
 
SELF-RELIANCE TOO SELFISH. 119 
 
 to see him, lie must make the appointment, and it is 
 here. 
 
 He sees a series of head clerks, who are checks upon 
 one another, according to Mr. Dwyorts ; but who now 
 and then conspire so that the check shall be of a 
 profitable pattern to them. As they come in they all 
 say, " Hope you are well to-day, sir;*' not in the least 
 so hoping, for he is undisguised in his distrust of 
 them, and in their self-respect they detest him ; and, 
 when they haye said that, they, knowing their man, 
 plunge into business. They are all well-selected men ; 
 each made use of in the direction in which he excels ; 
 badly salaried, and then paid per centage on the profits 
 to stimulate him; not staying in the works from 
 affection or comfort ; getting away and into better 
 or worse positions elsewhere, sometimes ; but, the 
 mass of them, married, parents, without capital, 
 without original force of character; and so, years 
 after years staying, the steady tools of the inexorable 
 old man who cared for no one, who had capital, 
 who had got the start, and who intimidated and 
 impressed by the serene selfishness which made him 
 really a superior being. His absolute candour in 
 unfolding his own selfishness, disarmed the resent- 
 
120 FEIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 ment which is so often so terrible to men who affect, 
 or really attempt, the combination of making their 
 own fortune and yet making those of other people. 
 Jacob Dw}'orts had never talked of Christianity in his 
 life — nor of social duties — nor of charity ! He had 
 never asked a clerk after his wife ; nor asked where 
 a " hand " lived ; nor given dinners to the hands ; 
 nor built reading-rooms for them. But he never 
 professed hardness of character, as a matter of taste. 
 
 Not given to analyse himself, he was perfectly 
 natural ; and it was his nature to occupy his mind 
 with liis own afiliirs, and to be indifferent to those of 
 the rest of the world. He had often been asked to 
 go into politics ; to " stand" for Lambeth ; would he 
 not like a baronetcy ? — and he had laughed contemptu- 
 ously at such "stuff." The longest laugh he ever 
 had was when his sons, at about their fortieth year, 
 joined in a proposal that he should sell the business, 
 buy an estate, and retire. He never took any body's 
 advice in his Kfe. 
 
 One result of this was, that not being equal to the 
 superintendence of the expansive works — not taking 
 hints and counsel from his clerks and foremen, making 
 no one absolute deputy under him — there was a great 
 
SELF-RELIANCE TOO SELFISH. 121 
 
 deal of confusion, and mncli bad arrangement. It was 
 also the general belief in the works that there was a 
 good deal of robbery and peculation. But, felicitous 
 Dwyorts, the works carried themselves on wonder- 
 fully ; and the profits were so large that a good deal 
 of robbery could be endured for the sake of the egotism 
 in which the old gentleman was comfortable. 
 
122 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 SELF-RELIANCE DISTRUST OF ALL MEN. 
 
 A VERY handsome carriage — of tlie mail phaeton 
 species — drawn by a very handsome pair of chestnuts, 
 appeared in the street of the Jubilee Works. It was 
 not a carriage in a hurry. The 3^oung gentleman, in 
 a bright blue coat and a dazzhng white shirt, only 
 beaten in dazzling whiteness by the diamond studs, 
 and a burnished new hat and blazing yellow kids, 
 who was driving the mail phaeton, kept the horses in, 
 and smoked easily, and looked about him. He 
 chaffed the heavy waggons, and nodded to pretty girls 
 standing at doors or leaning out of windows, and was 
 making comments on every thing to his groom, who 
 sat beside him with a broad grin. 
 
 " Ay, ay, Tom ! This is the place. The Ju-by-lee, 
 1809. That's the figure I Hold that off horse : t'other 
 follows suit, and you need not mind him. So ho!" 
 
 " No order.?" asked the porter, respectfully. 
 
SELF-RELIANCE DISTRUST OF ALL MEN. 123 
 
 *' No, Sam — no order ! Tm no visiter. Business is 
 the ticket. Glad to see you, Sam/' and he passed in 
 quietly, and Sam stared aghast after him. 
 
 He sauntered about, quite at his ease. Avoiding 
 the offices, he made for a work-room. There was a 
 perceptible decrease in the din. By and b}^, it 
 stopped altogether in that part of the yard. 
 
 " HoAv are you, mates? Grlad to see you. At the 
 old work. How are they all at home ? JSTicely, eh?" 
 
 " Why, blest if it ain't Jack Wortley !" 
 
 " So it is!"' said a Yulcan chorus, dropping the 
 hammers, but hesitating to be profuse in gladness 
 with such a swell. That is the modest name for 
 Dandy, or Beau. 
 
 '• That's me, no doubt. Shake hands." 
 
 A great fuss of congratulations. 
 
 " Ay, Tve got on since I see'd you, boys. Lots of 
 tin, now ; and treat is the word. Here, foreman — 
 here's a ten-pound note ! That's to go in beer to the 
 yard: boys a pint each — no more; the men as much as 
 they like. The old governor can't object: it's from 
 an old pal as has riz in the world, and is glad to see 
 the old place. I'll make it all right : and on Sunday 
 I intend to give a regular dinner to the whole yard, 
 
124: FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 and their wives and families ; of whicli due notice will 
 come to you from the proprietor of the gardens over 
 the way, where tents are to be laid out, and Fun shall 
 be the ticket. Bring the whole lot of the twins, 
 foreman ; and good-bye for the present." Great 
 cheering, which startled the offices, as he picked his 
 way towards them. 
 
 He would be permitted an interview with Mr. 
 Dwyorts, if he would take a chair for a few minutes. 
 He declined the chair, but moved among old friends, 
 the draughtsmen and the clerks, who were all hurry- 
 ing to shake hands. He had been a great favourite in 
 the yard — that was clear. 
 
 " Walk this way, sir." 
 
 He was shown into the presence of the master 
 mind, who said, ^' Well, sir ! " and waited for business. 
 
 " No change in you, Mr. Dwyorts, at any rate," 
 said Mr. De Vere, as he calmly gathered the blue coat- 
 tails around him, and took the second chair. " Not 
 a bit ; hang me if there is ! " 
 
 " Well, sir, what business have you to speak of ? 
 My clerk tells me you were formerly employed in the 
 yard. What's your name ? I don't recollect you. 
 My memory is not so good as it was." 
 
SELF-RELIANCE DISTRUST OF ALL MEN. 125 
 
 " Isn't it, now. Well, you are devilish old — you 
 know." 
 
 " What is your business, sir? Your name.^" 
 
 " Wortley— John ^^^ortley, Esq." 
 
 *' Wortley — Wortley ! I once had a cashier of that 
 name: but he was older than vou; and it's some 
 time ago." 
 
 " Yes, it is ten years ago since you shipped him off 
 in a convict ship ! " 
 
 " I didn't ship him off. I made the charge against 
 him, and the police took him in hand, and I had 
 nothing more to do with it. I only know I never got 
 the money. Yes! I remember now. You are his 
 son. You were clever, and we kept you on after he 
 went: your mother was poor. Yes! I remember." 
 
 ^* She was poor! You are right, old gentleman. 
 She couldn't live very jolly on the twelve shillings a 
 week you gave me ; and though the men about, and 
 your own nephew. Foreman Dwyorts to begin with, 
 gave me prog enough, she died of being poor ! Do 
 you remember that?" 
 
 " I had nothing to do with it — stuff! What have 
 you come here for ? Be quick — I am busy ! " 
 
 " ril make short work of it. When she died, I 
 
126 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 left YOU — twenty I was then — and got on board a ship, 
 and worked my way to Australia, and I saw my father; 
 and I saw liim die, too, and on his deathbed he swore 
 a solemn oath that he never did take that money : 
 wliich somebody else must have taken, d'ye see. 
 Now, you don't care about that. But I do. We 
 come of a good stock, the Wortleys, and we held our 
 heads up, till you transported my father. Well, 
 don't be in a hurry, and I'll finish, as I know you're a 
 testy old cove. I have been in trade, and made tin, 
 and I've brought you the money you said my father 
 stole or embezzled, and interest, old gentleman, to 
 the first of this year; and there it is : you'll find 
 it a rather oddish thing that, altogether, it comes to 
 one thousand eight hundred and nine pounds — 
 Jubilee 1809, and no mistake ! Give me a receipt, 
 and then good-morning, and settle the rest when you 
 see my father in the other world ! " 
 
 " Stuff! You bring the money because you know 
 your father took it — he must have told 3'ou. Stuff! 
 young man — don't talk to me. You're a fool ! The 
 money was gone, and I didn't miss it. But if you 
 make restitution I'll take it. Be good enough to 
 touch that bell. Keceipt for £1809, Mr. Quills. Bad 
 
SELF-KELIANCE DISTRUST OF ALL MEN. 127 
 
 debt recovered, enter it. Take this young man Tvith 
 you." 
 
 " Room preferable to my company. Tiiat's the 
 ticket! Well, a-jew, old governor, and when you, 
 ahem ! — down there, you know — oh, pray remember 
 me! Thank you, Mr. Quills (the intervening door 
 being shut) : what an old beast that is, eh ? Well, 
 come and dine with me, Mr. Quills — this afternoon — 
 at the Palmerston, and I'll tell you all about this 
 1:8:0:9 account, that I see is raytlier puzzling you. 
 Do. Good-morning. Who's this coming in ? Is it, 
 now — Dwyorts of Liverpool, is it ? A tidy lot of tin 
 he's making, too! He looks savage enough at a 
 fellow : but, hang him, I have got tin enough of my 
 own, Mr. Quills. At seven! That's the hour for 
 swells — and they gets two dinners out of a day 
 thereby. A-jew !" 
 
 John Dwyorts, finding that his uncle was not 
 engaged, walked in without having himself announced. 
 He found the old man, who did not notice him, 
 buried in thought, his head leaning far forward, his 
 hands clasped. John Dwyorts studied hard the lines 
 on the bloodless face, the attenuation of that muscle- 
 less form. Was the undying Jacob giving in at last? 
 
128 FKIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 Speaking in low mutterings to himself, unconscious 
 of the visitor, Jacob was certainly not himself. 
 
 He roused, but with a cautious start, as John 
 said loudly, '* AVill you do any business to day?" 
 
 " It's you, John Dwyorts. Back from — where was 
 it you went?" 
 
 '• Where from? Why, you ought to know." 
 
 " Yes, I ought ; but I can t remember at tliis 
 minute. My head is troubled. There has been a 
 man here who took my thoughts back many years, 
 and I have been puzzling to recall things. It's 
 strange!" 
 
 The younger man watched his relative with a keen 
 eye. He was sure the old man was giving way. 
 
 " Do you remember a clerk I had some years ago 
 being tried for embezzlement and forgery?" 
 
 '• You've had a good many that way." 
 
 " That's what's confusing me. But this Wortley 
 
 " Wortley ! Why, I remember him ; I recom- 
 mended him to you. That was ten years ago." 
 
 " You recommended him ? That's odd, too. Ah, 
 yes ! Now I see what vv^as floundering in my head. 
 Why, John, you're done." 
 
 i 
 
SELF-RELIANCE DISTRUST OF ALL MEN. 129 
 
 *'Done! How?" 
 
 " ^ATiy. didn't you take that pauper peer's daughter 
 because she would inherit the madwoman's money?" 
 
 "Yes— well?" 
 
 " Well— that's it! That Wortley would have had 
 it, if he had lived." 
 
 ^* Well, but he's dead : and they advertised for years 
 for the son ; so he must be dead." 
 
 ^' He's just been here." 
 
 John Dwyorts scowled savagely. It was a great 
 blow, if this was the truth. 
 
 ^' What proof did he give ?" 
 
 ^' Why, they cheered him in the yard. Quills knew 
 him at once: and there is no doubt about it, as he 
 brought the money his father swindled me out of ; 
 with interest too — the idiot ! " 
 
 '• I don't think his father ever did take the money." 
 
 '' How do you know? The son says his father said 
 not, too, on his deathbed; when I suppose people 
 don't lie much. I've been thinking it over. If he 
 didn't, who did ? and I can't recollect the people who 
 were about me then. My memory is not so good as 
 it was." And he fell to musins: a^jrain. 
 
 o o 
 
 John Dwyorts paused, too, to think of the blunder he 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
130 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 had made in marrying off Diego in such a hurry; and 
 he turned to look at the old man. They had business 
 of extreme importance to transact, and here was Jacob 
 not thinking of it. Jacob Dwyorts not thinking of 
 business ! 
 
 " Well," interrupted the nephew, " I suppose you 
 are beginning to recollect that I have come back 
 from Canada?" 
 
 "Canada — ay — Canada! Bad voyage. Cunard 
 line?" 
 
 All this was quite unlike Jacob Dwyorts. 
 
 "What the devil does it matter — good or bad 
 
 voyage — or what line ? Here I am, and with d d 
 
 bad news ! " 
 
 " Bad news ! What ? " 
 
 " Do you want your money for those engines ? Do 
 you expect those debentures cashed or paid interest ? 
 for, if you do, by the L — d, you'll be disappointed ! " 
 
 " Don't walk about the room. I detest that. Sit 
 still. What's your news ? " 
 
 "There was £320,000 of mine lost in that 
 steamer that nobody has heard a word of You 
 know that ; and that I never insured it : for who 
 would think of such a ship being lost? You 
 
SELF-RELIANCE DISTRUST OF ALL MEN. 131 
 
 kuow how that squeezed mej what with the inun- 
 dations in the south of France; over my part of the 
 contract for the new line ; and that my chief hope 
 was to keep things straight by getting the Canadian 
 Legislature to renew the guarantee : which would have 
 kept my shares up. They won't ; and IVe had to 
 stop the works there, and have lost my start alto- 
 gether ; and now I'm here to raise every shilling I 
 can/' 
 
 The old man looked steadily at him, and rang the 
 bell. 
 
 " Quills, give me the account as it stands between 
 John Dwyorts of Liverpool and me."' 
 
 '^ Where's your memory ? £46,000 for rolling 
 stock shipped to India and Canada ; and £24,000 in 
 debentures on the Canada Hue." 
 
 Mr. QuiUs brought in the book — a small red book, 
 specially devoted to John Dwyorts. Jacob examined 
 it, and returned it. 
 
 " Mark that," said he, quietly, " a bad debt ! " 
 
 John Dwyorts sprung up, his face convulsed with 
 passion, unable to articulate. 
 
 " Stuff, John ! I saw it long ago. You can't 
 retrieve. You're finished. Stuff : listen ! There are 
 
132 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 several suspect the state of your affairs ; they'll be 
 down on you directly. I tell you, you can't stand. 
 Money will be awful next week. Tut, man ! I've 
 seen many a fellow go in my time, and know the 
 symptoms." 
 
 He was so wise from old experience. The nephew 
 sat down again, glaring, but making no answer. 
 
 " Is the Irish estate you bought — what silliness ! — 
 settled on your wife ? " 
 
 "No!" 
 
 " What did you give ? " 
 
 "£60,000!" 
 
 " 111 give you £1,000 for it. Tut, take the money ! 
 Leave all else to your creditors, and go to America. 
 "V\Taat with the bad debt jou. leave on my books, you 
 will have had a fair price for the estate." 
 
 " I tell you, old man, Tm not ruined — nor near it ; 
 and I'll fight through!" 
 
 " Very well, try. (He rung the bell.) Mr. Quills, 
 don't make that a bad debt ! Sue at once. Tliis 
 afternoon begin ! " 
 
 " Why, gracious God, Jacob Dwyorts ! am I to find 
 my hardest creditor in my own blood ? " 
 
 "Your father did not keep blood in mind, John 
 
SELF-RELIANCE DISTEUST OF ALL MEN. 133 
 
 Dwyorts, when, because lie was stronger tlian I, he 
 beat me at schooL" 
 
 *^ Why, you have a memory ! Do you remember 
 your quarrels as a schoolboy ? " 
 
 " iTot a bit — not in anger. I only shew you that 
 on your side there is no passionate love for the sama 
 blood. I am to remember you are of my blood be- 
 cause I can do you a service. TVhat would you do 
 for me if I were poor ? Tut ! Stuff ! Business is 
 business. We have dealings together ; and I forget 
 relationship. When they are settled we'll talk of 
 relationship. IVe given you advicCj which is more 
 than I would do for most men. I offer you £1,000 
 for land that, if you don't take the offer, you will 
 never get a farthing for ; and that £1,000 would 
 start you again in America. £1,000 ! I had £G00 
 when I took the Works here." 
 
 ^•' And they say you are v/orth a million ! The 
 command of £30,000 now would save me. Come ; 
 you can't live long — you never enjoyed your money — or 
 cared to see your muffs of sons enjoy it. I never 
 asked you a favour out of the way of business before. 
 I was too proud. Help me now ! " 
 
 " You know me well enough, John Dwyorts. No ! " 
 
134 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 " I don't care for myself. I have seen clear enough 
 tlie scampishness of the world, (specially of the rail- 
 way world, and I need not care about any other,) 
 to mind one curse the cry thej^'ll raise when I'm 
 down. If it was choice, I'd go to the furthest hunt- 
 ing grounds in America, and be happy — happier than 
 here: and I'm strong enough yet, for I've got the 
 Dwyorts' constitution. I don't ask for myself, mind, 
 Jacob Dwyorts. I've got a son — a son to be proud 
 of I've made him a gentleman, brought him up to 
 equal dukes, and he feels like a crown prince. He's 
 married a spooney girl to please me. It would kill 
 Mm— the fall ! " 
 
 " John Dwyorts, men must stand or foil by them- 
 selves, and take the consequences, on all sides, of 
 their own acts. You've been too fast, as men 
 are now-a-days — too speculative ; and you are gone. 
 Don't squeak out. Three times, John Dwyorts, 
 have I been near bankruptcy from my own fault — 
 for breaking out of my fair business, and speculating. 
 I fought through. If I liad fallen, I wouldn't have 
 cried. I'd have begun the world again without 
 flinching." 
 
 " We think so — I did — when I was prosperous and 
 
SELF-RELIANCE DISTRUST OF ALL MEN. 135 
 
 safe," was the lialf-suppressed and broken answer of 
 the ruined man. 
 
 " Stuff ! It might happen me to-morrow — d'ye 
 hear that ? — and I'd do what I say." 
 
 The old man rose excited from his chair, and fell 
 back exhausted. 
 
 John Dwyorts walked away. 
 
136 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 CHAPTEE XVII. 
 
 DINNER AND DESERT. 
 
 " Mr. Quills ! " announced the servant at the Pal- 
 merston Hotel^ giving ingress at the door of Mr. De 
 Vere's dining-room to that important personage of 
 the Jubilee Works. 
 
 " Welcome, Quills ! " said De Yere, who was stand- 
 ing with his back to the fire awaiting his guest. 
 " Serve the dinner, you chaps ! Look alive ! And how's 
 Mrs. Quills, and all the little Quillses ? That's all 
 right. Take a glass of sherry ? Ko ? Sit down ! 
 Eh — L — d ! I've been doing nothin' since I saw you 
 but tliinking of that rum old customer at the Works. 
 He is the devil ! " 
 
 <^ Yes, sir!" 
 
 "No 'sir' to me, Quills! Jack, or John, if you 
 like ; or Wortley, to you. De Yere to the flun- 
 keys." 
 
DIXXER AND DESERT. 137 
 
 '' Well, Mr. Wortley, I was going to say that he 
 is rather an eccentric gentleman — old gentleman — 
 Mr. Dwyorts. But he means well." 
 
 " Does he, now ? Well, when a man means well, 
 the more he means the better. But that fellow only 
 means well to his-self. 1 — 8 — — 9 : that's the 
 figure ; but it's the first that lie looks at. Here's 
 soup ! Sit down. Kow, white choker, champagne — 
 slap ! " 
 
 " Before the fish, sir ? " 
 
 " Ay — and after the fish, and alongside the fish, 
 and all round it, swim the fish ! Ay — say, this soup 
 is what you may call hot." 
 
 " Mulligatawney, sir. Sir James Hogg gave us 
 the receipt." 
 
 " Did ghe ? What did you pay him, then ? Here, 
 take it away ! I'd as soon swallow red-hot coals. 
 What do you say. Quills, old fellow .? " 
 
 " Oh — it's very good, this cold weather ! " 
 
 " Glad you like it. A glass of wine ? Waiter, a 
 full un. I drink the Queen. Be loyal, if you're 
 nothing else. It's easy, with drinking. It excuses 
 the glass. Like the lass. What's the fish ? Turbot. 
 Better than red herring. White choker, you're not to 
 
138 FniENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 laugh at youT superiors. Champagne, Mr. Quills ? 
 Frappy, is it ? That's the grower, I suppose. Doesn't 
 it look like melted gold, with bits of diamonds jump- 
 ing through ? Nice nip is champagne. Another glass, 
 white choker, and now take one yourself!" 
 
 '' Waiters never do that at dinner." 
 
 " Don't they ? Fashion to take it afterwards ? 
 Very well. Quills, look after yourself. Here's the 
 groaning board — that is, it would groan if it wasn't 
 well bred." 
 
 Quills began to talk. Shghtly abashed by the 
 waiters, but conscious of his superiority to the young 
 savage opposite him, he sipped his wine with the air 
 of a man of experience, and cast the conversation on 
 fashionable life. 
 
 " Been moving much on town — in the liaut ton — 
 ]Mr. John.?" 
 
 "Been up to Hampstead in the trap. High 
 enough, that. Here's the scraps." 
 
 " Entremets^ sir." 
 
 "Ay, ay — what was left yesterday, done up as 
 nobody can see 'em. None for me, of that style of 
 thing. Don't try to choose, Quills. Shut your eyes, 
 and take your chance." 
 
DINNER AND DESERT. 139 
 
 " I assure you, sir," said tlie waiter, " they are 
 freshly prepared dishes. There's pigeons, in this, sir, 
 and a " 
 
 " Oh, ay ! names enough. But don't tell me that 
 I'm to eat them, when I can get a steak or a joint. 
 Beef and mutton for me. What is there ? " 
 
 " Turkey, sir." 
 
 " That'll do. Bring him up, and then I think 
 we'll do — eh. Quills ? You've got a good appetite, 
 Quills, for your age. You're just about the age my 
 father would have been. Quills. Just. He talked 
 a good deal about you, Quills, when I had the plea- 
 sure of seeing him. The old chap gave you and 
 him just the same salary — £3 a week each." 
 
 Quills had paled at the mention of old Wortley ; 
 but reddened in his grey hair as this allusion to his 
 circumstances took place before waiters, who looked 
 capitalists : as waiters should at the affluent Palmer- 
 ston, as being, if not the rose, near it. 
 
 " Old skinflint, old Dwyorts is, and no mistake ! I 
 don't know whether you remember that he only 
 gave me twelve shillings, though I was handy at 
 drawing and working, and invented a new hammer- 
 handle, hke a genius as I was." 
 
140 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 ''" You were a sharp boy. Wild, but sharp. A 
 glass of champagne, shall we have together ? " 
 
 " Your health." 
 
 " Some hock, sir ? " 
 
 " Hock ? " (In the deep voice of the delicate young 
 gentleman, the wine sounded portentous.) " By all 
 means. Ah — h ! that's the tipple I Ay, white choker, 
 this is what I lived for. Another glass. I never tasted, 
 that but once. We were a party going across the 
 Eocky Mountains to Californey. Ay, listen and you'll 
 laugh, waiter. We were starved almost, as lots were 
 outright in those days. No water for three days, 
 and the horses were nearly done. We came at last 
 on a little encampment — a broken waggon, dead, liorses 
 here and. there, two men with shots in their l)loody 
 sconces : they'd killed each other, in a friendly duel, 
 you may call it — better than starvation ; and there 
 was, worse than all, a little girl with tiny feet — dead, 
 too. Well, we ought to have cried for pity; but we 
 thought of nothinc: but rummajrin^ their stores. 
 Not a morsel to eat. Saddles — but we had them 
 for ourselves. There was hardware in the waggon, 
 not as good to swallow, you can guess, as this pudden. 
 But there was a case of something to drink; and didn't 
 
DINNER AND DESERT. 141 
 
 we drink it ! It was wine, like this. We poured 
 two bottles into a bucket and gave it the horses — 
 mouthfids. Well, then, hadn't we a caper ! Those 
 horses were drunk. Lord, didn't they lead us a 
 game ! And hadn't they a headache, and was in 
 favour of Father Matthew in the morning ! " 
 
 Tliis anecdote over, the gentlemen were shortly 
 left to themselves. 
 
 " Now, fill your glass, 'Mi. Quills," said the host, 
 his boyish look going, and his manner steadying into 
 more coolness than ever ; " and I'll tell you another 
 etory. When I was in Mexico city, I met a chap 
 named Flane — Eobert Flane. I see you've heard 
 ^-he name. He had been trying a store there, but 
 had failed ; and I lent him money to get back to the 
 States with, and what's become of him the L — d only 
 knows. What name I went by there I don't re- 
 member. I have a curious taste in names, and, as a 
 freeman, takes the last that hits my fancy. But I 
 said one day to liim — Eobert Flane — that ^ I'd shoot 
 somebody or other that had done me, as sure as my 
 name was Wortley.' ^ Wortley ?' said he. ' Yes,' said 
 I ; ^ and a good name it is.' ^ I once knew a Wortley 
 in London/ said he. ^Did you.^' said I. * He was 
 
142 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 a clerk at Dwyorts' Enginc-House/ said he. ^The 
 same/ said I — ' my fatlier/ And then he asked me 
 about my father ; and I tokl him of his death. He 
 knew all about the transportation ; which you remem- 
 ber, Mr. Quills. Take a glass of wine — you are 
 nervous. Well, things went on, and he got smashed, 
 and when I lent him tin he got confidential; and, 
 afore he went, he gave me some letters. Don't shake 
 the table, l\Ir. Quills. You know the rest of the 
 story. You and Flane did the swindle, and it's under 
 your own hand. You murdered my father and my 
 mother, and you soiled an honest name : and now, I 
 rather think, your time has come, old gentleman !" 
 
 ^' Think of the years that have passed ! On my 
 knees I ask mercy ! Pity my grey hairs ! I have 
 been a miserable man since Flane led me into that 
 villainy. I knew he had the letters, and that this 
 hung over me. He had mercy on me. He considered 
 my wife — my daughters. Oh, God ! have mercy 
 on me ! " 
 
 " Ay, I should think that you haven't slept easy, 
 afearing this would turn up. Flane said as much as 
 that he led you into it, and that you was a poor hum- 
 bug. I can't find liim — and, besides, it is not to punish 
 
DINNER AND DESEET. 143 
 
 I want. There, don't whine ! I will consider your wife 
 and daughters. They sha'n't want money. They are 
 not guilty ; but you are. I don't want vengeance, 
 I tell you. If I did, I'd have asked you to a less pub- 
 lic place than this, and cut your throat, you hound ! 
 But I want my father's name cleared ; and so now I 
 ring for the policeman I ordered to be here at half- 
 past eight, which it is." 
 
 It was soon over. It made a great noise in the 
 London papers. Quills was locked up in a warranted 
 unhealthy penitentiary. Jack kept his word about 
 the unhappy family. 
 
 When the scandal was settled, he put " Wortley " 
 on his visiting cards. Of these he had a vast supply, 
 having a large acquaintance at the Jubilee Works. 
 The Works had a grand banquet in celebration of the 
 result of the trial ; and, under the influence of public 
 opinion, Mr. Jacob Dwyorts returned the £1809, 
 which Jack funded for the benefit of decayed and 
 sick persons connected with the Works. 
 
144 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIxV. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 LONDON HERMITS. 
 
 Me. John Dwyorts of Liverpool was a gentle- 
 nicin who was not very like other gentlemen, without 
 any happiness, but he never had any pleasure. 
 
 " Plaisir est le bonheur des fous, 
 Bonheur est le plaisir des sages." 
 
 No doubt ; but when a gentleman is neither a fool 
 nor a philosopher ? Mr. John Dvvyorts did not 
 tremble at the thought of ruin, for he had never been 
 ecstatic in his prosperity. If he had any feeling on 
 the subject, it was an out-of-humour feeling. 
 
 Euin is relaxation to some Bohemian people. 
 After years of struggle, in perennial brain fever, the 
 certainty of there being no hope — the repose of a 
 prison — the Lasciate ogne speranza lounge in a com- 
 missioner's court — are sensations of relief Mr. John 
 Dwyorts was not one to feel these. Of vast energy 
 
LONDON HEEMITS. 145 
 
 and little reflection, he had got on as steam-engines 
 do : it "was his nature to get on. If you stopped him 
 he would burst. Work was his only gratification : 
 scheming, combining, corresponding, interviewing, 
 managing committees, contriving chairmen. 
 
 When other gentlemen have closed their business in 
 the counting-house of an afternoon, they have some- 
 thing to look forward to : domestic bliss, the concert, 
 the theatre, dinner-party, love-making, cards, horses — 
 something. Mr. John Dwyorts of Liverpool was 
 without a taste, except for work. His wife he had a 
 hori'or of: which was very natural. His son he wished 
 to make happy, and he thought he did that by giving 
 him plenty of money, and letting him do what he 
 liked : which, in the case of the youth, happened not 
 to be to remain at home, as j\Irs. Markham or Mrs. 
 Somerville would approve, for the sake of enlightened 
 conversation with his male parent. So, as Mr. John 
 Dwj^orts walked away from the Jubilee Works, what 
 principally occupied his mind was — supposing he 
 declared ^' to smash," how he should kill time as a 
 ruined man. 
 
 TvTien Mr. John Dwyorts was puzzled and had to 
 reflect, he walked. He now walked across Yauxhall 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
146 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 bridge, wliicli was a liigli-road to Boliemia once upon 
 a time : he walked throiigli polite Pimlico ; he got 
 among great squares ; he was, where he was seldom 
 to be met with, in the west end. Every now and 
 then he stopped at corners, to the astonishment of the 
 policeman, and mused grimly. He at last seemed to 
 have settled on a plan, and thought of inquiring where 
 he was. He was in the district between Kegent street 
 and Bond street. ^^ Sloth street!" Sloth street was 
 Job Walworth's address. Well, he would call on Job. 
 " Job Walworth, dealer in cigars," was the legend 
 over the gate of this Englishman's castle. It was 
 the darkest shop in that dingy but fashionable street. 
 But it was a very thriving concern. Job was a 
 student of human nature, and was of opinion that a 
 certain class of Englishmen, possessed of means, will 
 take dear things because they are dear ; and that 
 another class of Englishmen, with or without means, 
 will have good articles whatever their price : the 
 result of his calculations being, that in his ^* store" 
 there was to be found only two sorts of cigars at one 
 price, and that a very high one. It was consequently 
 an exclusive shop. This was what Job Walworth 
 wished it to be. Not that he had a fancy for "aristocra- 
 
LONDON HERMITS. 147 
 
 cy/' as he described the pubHc he dealt with; but \Yith 
 whom he seldom interchanged a word, confining his 
 treatment of them to shoving the box of cigars ov^r 
 to them, and watching the number they put into their 
 cases : they themselves being bored by the mental 
 occupation of counting. But that he had a distinct 
 taste for as much solitude as was compatible with 
 earning his living, Job was eastern and epicurean 
 in his aspirations. He was not energetic. He wished 
 to be left alone, to read, to smoke, to dream ; and his 
 view was, that the cigar store presented the only 
 chance of getting rational existence in the fretted 
 ci\alisation around him. His dingy street was to him 
 a monastery, in some measm'e ; and his shop a cell. 
 Sometimes he went into the street, to look up and 
 down it, and ponder on the advantages of living there 
 out of the din ; but for weeks and weeks he never left 
 his shop. 
 
 John Dwyorts and he were old schoolfellows and 
 old friends, so far as John Dwyorts could be said to 
 cultivate the emotion of fraternity. Job was the only 
 man to whom John wi'ote letters, now and then, not 
 on business ; and John was the only man Job wTote 
 to at all. 
 
148 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 " Why, it's tlu'ee years since you called, John." 
 " IVe been in London often, but never got this far. 
 This is not a region that suits me. I don't know why 
 I am here now, very well ; but come into your back 
 room there : I want to rest. Give me one of your 
 pet Cabanas. Could you get me some coffee ? I'm 
 down, and want stimulant." 
 
 Job placed his boy, like a watch-dog, over the two 
 trunk-like cigar-boxes, led. the way into his innermost 
 retreat, which was a shade darker than the shop, and 
 prepared coffee with his own hands, by one of those 
 bachelor machines which are the born enemies of the 
 female. That done, and pondering the while upon 
 the strange demeanour of his friend, he got upon his 
 bed, crossed his legs, and smoked interrogatively at 
 Dwyorts. The boy, peeping beneath the red curtains, 
 satisfied his mind that he was safe, and proceeded to 
 spoil a cigar by an imaginary smoke, cmiing it be- 
 tween his lips, holding it, in the most approved manner 
 of the century, between the two middle outstretched 
 fingers ; walking on the stage of the shop with all the 
 airs of a swell of 185G, and mimicking that ^^aw, 
 yos " species of conversation in which that personage 
 indulges. 
 
LONDON HEEMITS. 140 
 
 The London boy is tlie natural enemy of the swell. 
 The London boy does not philosophize. Eepose 
 of manner is the sim of hiirh breeding^: breedinsr 
 producing self-respectj self-reliance, calm and collective 
 energies, not to be crooked by the fuss of petty affairs ; 
 and the swell is a fine social symptom. The slowness 
 and breadth of his speech are but admirable exag- 
 gerations of the serenity of his nature. 
 
 " You're getting old. Job." 
 
 " So are you — faster, John." 
 
 " Well, reason why. I have troubles enougli." 
 
 ^' Well, who told you to be reasonable, years ago, 
 and when you'd got enough to retire on, to get into a 
 corner .^ aSJ"ot you. The middle of the rush and the 
 crush for you. And all for what.^ Lord, Lord, 
 what fools men are ! I do believe, John Dwyorts, 
 that you have as much enjoyment out of that Mocha 
 and tobacco as you ever had out of any thing. You 
 don't care about wine, nor fine dishes, nor mistresses ; 
 and I never saw you wear ' purple/ and I'll be bound 
 your ^ fine linen ' is the forty-shilling a dozen shirts 
 that Dives would have given to Lazarus for bandages. 
 True enough, you say . Well, then, why don't you 
 do'^ Give up. ' It's your son?' Always the same. Lay 
 
150 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 up for your children ; and the sons will spend it in 
 the inverse ratio, and your daughters cut off with'a 
 broad-shouldered fellow who calls you the old governor, 
 and only cares for bleeding you as soon as they can. 
 Ha, John ! you always thought I wasn't as clever as 
 you; but who's the wisest?" 
 
 '' That's all wrong, Job. You liked quiet, and I 
 liked rattle and fighting. Just now, I haven't got 
 the best of it: but I'm used to squeezes. What do 
 you say to the word ruin. Job?" 
 
 " Can't be. You lent me the money to start this 
 place after all my failures, and I've made £7000 — that 
 is to say, I've saved that ; and it goes to your son, any 
 how. If the father wants it first, the son will let him 
 have it, I suppose. Besides, I intend to live to get 
 the great Wortley property, you know : only the two 
 old Methodist women left." 
 
 " Not come to that yet. Job ; though I know you 
 mean what you say. It's a tidy sum to have made 
 out of smoke. But I knew you'd turn up on your 
 legs some day, when you got over wild schemings." 
 
 " They weren't wild. They only wanted capital. 
 I haven't given one of them up, and I've got dozens 
 more. If I was such a fool as to exert myself, 
 
LONDON HEEMITS. 151 
 
 you'd hear of me. But I like the thinking better. If 
 a great capitalist comes to me, I'll do the thinking 
 for him. I am the most suggestive man in England. 
 Ministers of state might come here, and not lose time. 
 Lord Clarendon does come, and fills his case very 
 often ; but, as he never speaks to me on foreign policy, 
 I don t ad\dse him." 
 
 ^^ T\"e all know you have got deuced fine ideas at 
 times, but in advance of the age — eh, isn't that it. Job? " 
 (Job assented, with a shrug suggestive that the age 
 was not much to speak of.) " You see, Job, it isn't 
 merely to have the idea, but you must have fellows to 
 work it out. I've heard men say that a steam-engine 
 model was made two hundred years ago, but nobody 
 had the ^loiis to apply it. Gad, think of men missing 
 that chance ! " 
 
 " Things are not brought out till they're wanted ; 
 though, to be sure, there are a good many things not 
 wanted — such as tobacco." 
 
 " And nephews! That's what I came to you about, 
 I think. Your brother's son has turned up — the boy 
 advertised for so long by the old women." 
 
 "No mistake .?" 
 
 "Not a bit." 
 
152 FFJENDS OF BOHEMIA." 
 
 '* Then my chance of the property goes ! Not that I 
 care for it, or want it. If Bob's son is worthy, it's all 
 right." 
 
 " Not at all. For ony chance goes ! Old Mother 
 Wortley left the property this way, didn't she ? It 
 was to go, being her husband's, to her husband's rela- 
 tives first; and, they failing, it would go to her own 
 kith, being females." 
 
 " That's it." 
 
 " Well, I calculated that Lord Slumberton's daugh- 
 ters would come in after you and the old women: not 
 calculating upon there being a fourth Wortley alive ; 
 and so I and his lordship had transactions, and to 
 settle them we spliced our children, his eldest daughter 
 to my son, Diego. Now, of coiu:se, that's a failure!" 
 
 " Well, but if there was love, and she's a good girl, 
 why not ? If the tin comes to me, it shall be passed 
 on to your boy." 
 
 " There's no chance. The young chap won't give 
 you the chance." 
 
 "Is this what you meant by being ruined .f^" 
 
 ^^No ! I have had losses : things have gone wrong; 
 and I'm in the west end, to tell the truth, in doubt 
 if I dare go into the city." 
 
LONDON HErailTS. 153 
 
 • <' Take the £7000." 
 
 Hesitation. 
 
 " Things are worse than you admit ; perhaps than 
 you fancy. If so, £7000 is a trifle ; but, if you play 
 as you have generally played, the card may help." 
 
 " I'll take it, Job, if I want it. But what I want 
 you to do is — see the nephew. I want to get 
 hold of him. Til tell you why by and bye. Let him 
 come to me at my hotel as soon as possible ; you'll get 
 his address from the Jubilee Works people, no doubt. 
 Suppose he doesn t know for what fortune he's in. 
 What can the old women want with him, advertising 
 as they have done .^" 
 
 "To take care of his religion, and to make him 
 scientific : one, one thing ; and the other, the other. 
 They'd have taken me up, if I'd have let 'em." 
 
 John Dwyorts was emptying his coffee-cup, and 
 asked — "Has the natural-philosophy old lady been 
 spending any money in book-publishing lately ?" 
 
 " I see she has, by an advertisement. She's done a 
 treatise to prove twenty colours in the prism, and 
 dedicated it to Mr. Gladstone." 
 
154 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 PHILOSOPHIC GOSSIP. 
 
 The old tobacconist got to his old chair and old 
 book, in the old misty corner, behind that counter- 
 barricade he had erected against the world. The 
 merchant strode through the streets to his hotel, to 
 concoct plans, carry on correspondence, and combine 
 against his bad fortune. Each thought the other very 
 foolish. 
 
 Some people make a good life of it ; and other 
 people make a good story of it. Other people, again, 
 do neither this nor that, and yet argue with one 
 another which is the most wise. When they sum up 
 their sad philosophy, they resent the follies of man- , 
 kind in the mass, and pity their own individual sins. 
 
 We are informed, on scholarly authority, that the 
 purposes of Providence, in allowing the Romans to 
 flatten out the historic earth into a good desolate 
 tabula rasa, was in order that Christianity might 
 
pniLosopnic gossip. 155 
 
 start under favourable auspices in reproducing confu- 
 sion. So also, no doubt, we Anglo-Saxons, who know 
 not very well what we do, are engaged in God's busi- 
 ness when rooting out other races in all climes ; appro- 
 priating the Indies, the Americas, the Australias : and 
 it must be a comfort to us to have a destiny, though 
 we do not comprehend it. Conquering and colonis- 
 ing by instinct is unpurpose-like ; but is done very 
 well, notwithstanding. When we put a bullet into 
 a Kaffir, and give delirium tremens to a Red Indian, 
 we have military, missionary, and merchant at him 
 at once : each in his vocation. The ants and bees and 
 beavers have not an Adam Smith, that we hear of; 
 but their manufacturing interest is very prosperous. 
 Let us trust to our instincts : those who have given 
 up having leaders, either for this world or to the 
 next. After all, instinct is perhaps more potent than 
 the intellectual civilized person would like to confess. 
 As I write, this spring, my canaries, in the cage 
 opposite to me, are chirping charmingly to one another. 
 It is flirting : singularly like human flirting. I never 
 saw a young lady of our Puritan land bridle and toss, 
 and twist and ogle, under the eyes of admirers, with- 
 out wonderinsr how she would blush if informed 
 
156 FKIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 that licr manners and Iier deportment are innocently 
 natural : that she is as gracefully and exquisitely sweet 
 a little Avild heast as a fawn, a calf, a tigress, or a lap- 
 dog. Calisthenic exercises are not as agile and as 
 alert as Satan — whose chief dependence is on our 
 being human — on our being saved from artificiality. 
 
 John D\vyortSj like the Anglo-Saxon race in general, 
 does good without knowing it. The scream of the 
 steam whistle is surely a blessing in the American 
 forest ; and, as an Irish landlord, reducing or raising a 
 pastoral race to the severe material prosperous British 
 standard, is he not a blessing to the wild country on 
 which his capital has alighted. He employs clerks 
 and artificers ; he is an Anglo-Saxon energy, at work 
 incoherently. The cohesive selfishness, and intentness, 
 and blind doggedness, have made the race. Our 
 Constitution is so perfect for all governing purposes, 
 because it was never designed : because eacji class 
 struggled against one another into a sensible balance 
 against each other ; each taldng care of himself, with- 
 out other theory than that was the point, and so 
 arranged best for the whole. 
 
 Thus, we are a great country hecause John Dwy- 
 orts is labouring hard now at a mass of letters and 
 
PHILOSOPHIC GOSSIP. 157 
 
 figures, in a little sitting-room in a city hotel ; quite 
 uncognizant who lives and works in the next num- 
 ber, what the parliament is at that evening, what 
 the queen wished for, who are the majority, and 
 what are the rights of a minority — the minority not 
 beinir of one ! He was workins" for himself and his 
 family. 
 
 He did not believe in any one being likely to go to 
 work for him, and loved no one so well as to work for 
 the world. The destiny of the Anglo-Saxon race he 
 did not understand. The will of God in respect to 
 commerce and railways he did not know. If parlia- 
 ment attacked him or his interests, he'd turn politician. 
 Meanwhile, he catches the post. 
 
 A defect in one physical quality is a lucky thing for 
 the rest. If you are short-sighted, considerate nature 
 gives you an extra allowance of hearing. So with 
 moral quaKties. If a man be destitute of the bump 
 of conscientiousness, his bumps of ingenuity are 
 alarming. We know that when a girl is rather ugly, 
 other girls can tell you she is so good ; and when a 
 girl is pretty, she is such a silly thing. Wc English 
 have no imagination, faith, or aspiration, as a poUti- 
 cal body ; and see how we gain in business ! 
 
15S FRIENDS OF BOHEMI.V. 
 
 Listj a wise German, has ^y^itten a great book on 
 political economy. Its principle is the duty of selfish- 
 ness in nations ; and he warns the Germans against 
 the English tendency to philanthropic and universal 
 systems. Poor List ! He did not quite understand us. 
 
IDLE BUSYBODIIIS, 159 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 IDLE BU3TBODIE3. 
 
 When ]\Ir. Diego Dwyorts was informed by his 
 progenitor that money was scarce, that the future 
 was uncertain, and that 3Irs. Diego's chance of the 
 Wortley property was gone, he naturally lost his 
 temper. The teasing silence of Therese as to her 
 intentions, had disturbed the natural serenity of his 
 nature when perfectly prosperous. His aftections 
 were not definite just now. His mother was a savage 
 to be avoided, he decided : pitied, perhaps : but at a 
 distance. The question had recently occurred to him, 
 should he love his father, Dwyorts senior, sinking in 
 the world, and having bungled Mr. Diego's married 
 arrangements ? Of his condition in respect to Xea 
 he had doubts. She was a perfect little wife to show 
 about, with pretty face and winning manners. She 
 was gentle, assiduous, obedient, and placed herself 
 entirely at his ^mercy, at his feet. Bat he could not 
 
160 FRIENBS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 altogether comprehend this : a human being without 
 will of her own, passionless, subservient I She didn't 
 amuse him ; she had no set to bring about her to 
 amuse him ; and he began to leave her : with shame 
 at first, knowing her loneliness. She saddened more 
 at this, and wrote more and more to her sister ; and 
 began to tremble in her bed when he came in, in the 
 depth of the night, feverish, sullen, irritable. But, 
 then, Mrs. Triste had settled her, and she knew she 
 ought to be grateful. 
 
 Diego met Jack Wortley every where, now. Jack 
 Wortley had patronised Diego's father in his usual 
 way : done business with him, advanced money, and 
 entered into a sort of partnership. He overwhelmed 
 Diego with easy dogmatism and blunt inquiry. He 
 replaced Diego, in that sort of set, as the young Timon 
 of the time, and afflicted Diego by casting him into 
 the shade. Bellars got Jack into several clubs, and 
 steered him, as much as such a craft could be steered, 
 in the shoals of the London Demi-Monde. The 
 Bellars Hall estate had been mortgaged to Jack 
 (whose useful acquaintance the embarrassed Mr. 
 John Dwyorts had duly made), and Jack told Bellars 
 that, when it fell in, his friend should have it cheap. 
 
IDLE BUSYBODIES. 161 
 
 He would advance Bellars money to fight the county, 
 or to start a morning newspaper, or otherwise to get 
 on. Bellars, as of wont, ginng consideration to each 
 suggestion, and biding his time, as he said— a fa- 
 vourite expression of gentlemen who don't know what 
 to do. Every one was delighted with Jack ; and he 
 did bills for a great many, but without sul)jecting 
 himself to consequent patronage, being pronounced a 
 '^ deviUsh cool hand." 
 
 There was no end to the money. Where did he 
 get it from ? He patronised his uncle, and sought 
 to bully him out of the dusky shop, and into an 
 extensive trade, and only gave up when the 
 uncle threatened to appeal to the magistrate for 
 protection from this benefactor. He went down to 
 call on Mrs. Foreman Dwyorts, who had five sets of 
 twins, kissing each child, learning all their names, 
 talking housekeeper with the mother, and staying to 
 smoke a pipe in the evening, and to chat the condition 
 of England question, with the father. 
 
 Foreman Dwyorts, being of the Jubilee family, 
 apologised for not getting beyond a four pound 
 a -week state of life himself, considering that, 
 generally speaking, twins had kept him down : not 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
162 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 that lie was unhappy, except that his love for his 
 offspring was of a very collective character ; he not 
 always being able to tell one from the other, and 
 trusting to accidental bruises and measles to estab- 
 lish identity. As regarded the Works generally, 
 why, there was plenty of work on hand, and all 
 those who were at work were content; while the 
 fellows that wanted work were not content, you see : 
 and it would be the same with the others when jobs 
 fell off ; and, if bread rose, you'd have Chartism and 
 Socialism the same as ever, be sure of that. There 
 was this to be said, that a strike wasn't likely to be 
 tried again, whatever the grievance : they had had 
 enough of that with old Jacob, who'd no more give in 
 than Gibraltar ; and, while things went on pretty 
 decentish, they were a happy class of men ; for, you 
 see, what money they make goes to their real comfort. 
 They aren't like clerks, who are maldng very little 
 more than artisans, but who love to keep up appear- 
 ances ; working men could live in small houses in 
 small courts (which might be better sewered to 
 be sure), and wear barrigan, and their wives could 
 wash and cook, without any thought of what was 
 genteel: and that was something; and a man 
 
IDLE BUSTBODIES. 163 
 
 enjoyed his pint of beer honestly, and read his paper 
 honestly, and talked out honestly, and was no 
 social sneak or poor humbug, going in for appearances. 
 Would he leave the yard and start in some business 
 for himself ? Xo. He was part of the yard now — 
 chairman of the benefit fund ; and he got enough to 
 live on ; and though his good-woman did go on 
 sometimes because Uncle Jacob never sent to see the 
 twins — they might be threes, for all Jacob cared — 
 yet he got on and was steady, he was, for life there. 
 
 Then Jack Wortley came down on the Clapham 
 villa of his cousins, the two old maiden women at 
 present in possession of the Wortley money life 
 interest, which was devoted to ministers of religion 
 and professors of ologies. He kissed them with 
 decorum, and sat out many an afternoon with them ; 
 accepting their counsel on all points with great 
 respect, and pleased to make them happier. But the 
 ministers and professors he played havoc with; 
 jesting them into frenzy, and interrogating each as to 
 the amount per annum they got out of the " old ones." 
 They declared he was an infidel and an ignoramus, 
 and attempted to set the old ladies at him. But the 
 ministers and professors were beaten ; for each sister 
 
164 FEIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 believed the other was cracked about her own pursuits 
 and favourites, and each aided Jack in putting 
 the truth before the other. He read the tracts and 
 the treatises poured on him, conscientiously, to find 
 out what all the noise was about ; and he so obviously 
 improved his mind, that he was permitted to clear 
 the house of the theological and scientific priests, and 
 to become tyrant over the spinsters. They needed 
 guidance even in small matters, and it was lucky for 
 them that their heir, an honest young fellow, took 
 them in hand. The pretty maid-servants of the villa 
 were delighted at the change, and were eager to open 
 the gate to the cavalier, and to receive his smiles and 
 presents as he came down that way for his afternoon 
 ride. 
 
 Where he was least successful was in his intervention 
 in the affairs of the Dwyorts family. Crowe Dwyorts 
 having made acquaintance with him, laid his griev- 
 ances before his new friend ; the old friends being 
 weary. " I am neglected by my natural guardian and 
 protector," said Crowe, " and where am I ? " 
 
 In tlie Queen's Bench, undoubtedly. Would his 
 grandfather do nothing for him ? Perhaps he might, 
 out of shame, if a stranger set at him ; and, if he 
 
IDLE BUSYB0DIE3. 165 
 
 didn't, why the detainers would come in pretty fast : 
 and, mean while, would Mr. Wortley favour him 
 with the loan of a £5 note ? Of com*se he would ; and 
 the little sum went to the other little never-to-be- 
 paid smns, which tortm^e, and debase, and degrade 
 the debtor who is proud of owing large sums — who 
 goes through the Insolvent court with a high hand 
 and a respectable schedule, but in secret groans that 
 he cannot pay a sovereign here and there, — that has 
 filled in the interstices of the ruin. So, Jack called 
 on Mr. Jacob Dwyorts, and introduced himself to the 
 grand-daughter and Bob, and opened his business 
 straight forwardly in the family counsel. The old 
 man was getting rather "feeble now, and withstood 
 the attack spitefolly rather than strongly; but still 
 with a vehement scorn that made the girls pale and 
 the son frightened. 
 
 '' Now, Mr. Dwyorts, don't get into a passion. I 
 come here, at your grandson's request, which gives me 
 the right to come ; and, being here, hear the truth you 
 shall. I represent public opinion against you, old 
 gentleman. They cry out at you — the whole town : 
 that I know ; and I agree with 'em, you're not doing 
 the tiling that's right. You must do something for 
 
166 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 the ladies and gentlemen you've brought into the 
 world, first or second hand. Here's delightful young 
 females, I'm sure ; why haven't you married 'em and 
 made 'em mothers and jolly, stead of pale and 
 puking ? — 'cos you don't let the young chaps know 
 that you'd give 'em tin. Ko girls get married with- 
 out tin, little or great. I would net marry myself 
 without some. And here's a nice old gentleman : 
 he's down in the mouth. I see — you have broken his 
 heart ; bullied him out of hope. There's your other 
 son, in the city, not bright, but regular — why didn't 
 you give him a partnership, and he'd not have married 
 a barmaid : he'd have thought of the family if the 
 family had thought of him. As to your nephew, John 
 Dwyorts, why, if you'd worked ^dth him, he'd have 
 been a Eothschild, and an honour to you. There 
 now, I've done. I'm the last trumpet pro tern, to teU 
 you your duty ; and good afternoon : and ladies, I 
 looks towards you. A family row is a bad business : 
 but I hope I'll do you all good." 
 
 " If I were not old, you jacknapes, as you know, 
 I'd throw you out of the window ! If Bob there were 
 not a fool, he'd have done it. The vouns: villain — 
 
 •' I/O 
 
 he has made me ill ! Now, do you mind — you girls 
 
IDLE BUSYB0DIE3. 167 
 
 and Bob — let that fellow's name and Crowe's name 
 never be mentioned to me. A glass of water — 
 fiuick r 
 
 As one grandchild and Bob hurried to tend the 
 strange, indomitable old man, Jane followed Jack 
 out of the room. She was very eager for air, being 
 nervous. She begged his pardon, would he step a 
 moment into the dining-room? By all means. Closing 
 the door, she spoke hurriedly: — 
 
 " She could offer no opinion as to his interference in 
 the family affairs. Gentlemen knew best what gen- 
 tlemen might do. But she hoped what he had said, 
 for Crowe, who never dared to speak up for himself — 
 as how could he, his nerves being broken by dissipa- 
 tion and that vixen he married and that lived apart 
 from him, in France, Hke — she meant only improperly 
 — she fMiss Jane) hoped that what he had said would 
 have some effect on the old man's mind, for really 
 things were coming to a dreadful pass. But Crowe, 
 if he was going to act further — to keep up this 
 attempt to get an arrangement for the family, so 
 that they might know whether they were going into 
 the workhouse on grandfather's death, and he was 
 sinking every day — if he was going to act, she said, 
 
168 FniEXDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 Crowe must know, and slie would tell Mr. AYortlej, 
 as Crowe's bosom friend, what was going on. Now, 
 Mrs. Chessey had been coming and going a ^reat 
 deal too much lately. She was wheedling the old 
 man, that was certain. He had gone to dine at their 
 place at Hampstead — which he had not done for 
 years — and had talked ever since about the Chesseys' 
 girl — red hair she has — being the living image of 
 aunt Janet, Mrs. Chessey's mother; that was the 
 only child he had ever loved, she (Jane) believed, 
 and there was no saying what would happen. Mr. 
 Chessey was obtaining influence over him. There 
 was Paddocks, the solicitor, here, a long time busily 
 engaged, and a great bag full of papers. If there 
 was a will going on, what was it ? She was a — a 
 woman, and could not act. But Crowe was a man ; 
 and let him see to this. If he wasn't a man, and 
 would not act, let the family know it. What the 
 family had wanted, aU along, was a man to face 
 grandfather; and it was time he showed himself. 
 He (Mr. Wortley) would excuse this confidence on 
 
 her part, but " Here she stopped, and took in as 
 
 much atmosphere as would have appeased the great 
 Nassau. 
 
IDLE BUSYBODIES. 169 
 
 '* All right ! I see how the cat jumps, begging 
 your pardon. But take a bit of advice from a fellow 
 that sees the world. What's played the devil in your 
 family, you see, miss, is, that you have been fighting 
 one another, each to get on the old man's blind side ; 
 and he's rather too 'cute for that game. Now you 
 must join together, and work together on the old gen- 
 tleman ; or he'll be sending his tin to the Charities, 
 and the Hopes, and the Faiths, and do you — of a dark 
 colour, miss. Good afternoon again, and luck be with 
 you, and a husband soon." 
 
 And he went, his impudence and slang comforted, 
 to dine with Bellars. 
 
170 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 PURPLE GLASSES IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 Mrs. Molly, bom Smith, and last heard of as a 
 Kimbletts, was not getting on very well. With an 
 establishment over her head, as she plirased it, rather 
 hard work had come on. jMr. Molly was assiduous 
 in desiring her to get things done, and without his 
 assistance, except as director and sovereign lord ; 
 and she was night and day in activity, her best 
 reward to be permitted an occasional kiss from the 
 youth on whom she had heaped her affections. It is 
 hard to say which women like best — to have a slave 
 and worshipper in a husband whom they do not love, 
 or to be bowing down to and kissing the slippers of a 
 husband who palpably does not care for them. At 
 i:)resent Kimbletts was perhaps too infatuated to be- 
 lieve otherwise than that Molly was only odd, and 
 bashful, and young. vShe was confident, no doubt, 
 
PURPLE GL^iSSES IX BOHEMIA. 171 
 
 thatj when settled down in marriage, he would be 
 pleasingly uxorious. 
 
 As yetj marriage had decidedly unsettled the young 
 man. Ritts had become his companion. Ritts had 
 opened his views of life. He began to dress in high 
 coloured ties, and bought a set of studs from Ritts. 
 He walked in Re2:ent street and the Park. He staved 
 late at billiard-rooms, and later at casinoes. He 
 sometimes washed his hands more than once a day. 
 He began to mourn his hurried nuptials, and to read 
 the wife murder cases at the sumptuous breakfast 
 of boundless rashers which Kimble tts prepared to 
 stimulate the appetite of this sudden but jaded man 
 about town. 
 
 ^Ir. Brandt Bellars marked these symptoms of 
 change in his landlord with cultivated keenness. 
 Not having any pity on the respectable Kimbletts, 
 he encouraged Molly. He consulted Molly as to the 
 causes of the selection of so peculiarly plain a house- 
 maid, and Molly was induced, on this, to insist on a 
 remodelhng of the establishment. Mrs. Molly nar- 
 rowly escaped this danger. The cook who had 
 accompanied her, as her dearest and nearest friend 
 from over the way, had early regretted her desertion 
 
172 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 of an irregular and irritating but affluent establish- 
 ment, and began to resent tlie meanness of Molly 
 in tlie management of the cold victuals; and now, 
 going off altogether in a fury, after the manner of 
 cooks ; not without slapping Mrs. Molly's cheek, and 
 offering to do the same to Molly himself, who quailed : 
 a connubial compromise was effected, by taking in a 
 plain cook that was good-looking, and who there- 
 fore appeared to be known to numbers of her majesty's 
 forces, thence beginning to debouch in Frith street, 
 to the consternation of the refugees ; who are in a 
 constant conviction that they are watched, but of 
 whom the continental authorities are nevertheless 
 entirely unconscious. 
 
 [That is a very long sentence : but we like to show 
 that we could be tedious if we choose.] 
 
 Bellars resolved to give his first dinner for the 
 season. His dinners were celebrated. He rang the 
 bell, and desired an interview with Mr. Molly. 
 
 " Mr. Molly, I am going to give a dinner to-morrow. 
 Now, could you undertake to do what your mother 
 used to do for me .^ " 
 
 " Kimbletts — my wife will — sir, all the same." 
 
 " Stop — stop ! A very active woman and a very 
 
PURPLE GLASSES IN BOHEMIA. 173 
 
 good wife, no doubt, and brushes and cleans well. 
 But I don't think she has your mother's genius for 
 managing these little dinners. How do you like 
 matrimony, Molly ? " 
 
 " Well, I don't know that I have made up my mind, 
 sir. It's a useful thing to have a useful wife, sir, to 
 take care of house, and let you go out with your mind 
 free. But when you get out, sir, you miss another 
 sort of wife — ornamental, and that sort of thing, sir." 
 
 " Why, you are a polygamist, ]\Iolly ! You do like 
 matrimony, only you want more wives than one." 
 
 " Well, sir, I don't know that." 
 
 " Never mind : you are newly married ; you'll 
 develop, I see. But about the dinner. Will you 
 wait .?" 
 
 " Eh, sir ? Well, sir " 
 
 " I see. You are becoming grand ; get dressy 
 and a gentleman. But you must not neglect busi- 
 ness ! " 
 
 " No, sir ; but I'll hire a waiter, sir, and superintend." 
 
 "That's not the way fortunes are made, Molly. 
 However, let me have good waiting, and we can 
 manage the rest." 
 
 Molly took his instructions, and Kimbletts took her 
 
174 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 instructions ; and, having decided on the dishes, Bel- 
 lars considered vvdio should be the guests. 
 
 Lord Koper — the Marquis ^of Eoper — of course. 
 Lord Eoper and Bellars were cousins and companions ; 
 for Bellars had not always been a gentleman of 
 indefinite independent income, living on his wits 
 as novel-writer, play-wright, journalist — and Koper 
 had not always been a marquis. Do you forget the 
 great Koper insolvency case, when Koper was Lord 
 Kobert Koper, fourth son of the not extraordinarily 
 magnificent Marquisate ? Lord Kobert had been a 
 ISTavy lieutenant, volunteer in an Ai'ctic expedition, 
 captain in the Guards, iron merchant, member for 
 Hotchester, commodore of a Yacht club, Lord of the 
 Treasury, and, one way or other, had got into debt 
 for £40,000. He cleared it all off in the Insolvency 
 Court, with a little im^nisonment, and then went to 
 a water-cure establishment, and reappeared in society 
 with a good complexion, to start fresh. Unfortunately, 
 his father and his elder brothers died off rapidly, and 
 he became a Marquis, and then the creditors were 
 down on him again ; and at this moment, out of an 
 income of only £G000, he is paying half to the repos- 
 sessing duns : — he is disgusted with the Law of 
 
PURPLE GLASSES IN BOHEMIA. 175 
 
 Debt, not fond of the House of Lords, and living a 
 good deal in the society of the Friends of Bohemia, of 
 which Bellars is a distinguished vice-president. 
 Koper is very good natured, and affects a horror of 
 Humbug. Really, he is a tenible Tory ; not only be- 
 cause he is a noble, but because he is a cynic. He 
 is " a beauty-man," as the tailors call it, and would 
 no doubt be terrible to milliners and housemaids, and 
 that species of the fair sex, but that he likes men s 
 society better. A provision of Providence ! 
 
 Graffs, a contemplative connoissem- of every thing, 
 sought for in consideration of his dreamy cleverness, 
 and for leading the way in active drinking. Fassell, 
 popular for his amiability and impressionability ; — the 
 proprietor of Hie Teaser, a smart weekly paper, in 
 which this good-natured man could never refuse to 
 insert your ill-natured things. Two or three members 
 of the " Smollett " club, who had just brains enough 
 to understand good talk, be an audience, smoke, 
 drink, and laugh. Crowe Dwyorts, who, when not 
 on the subject of his own miseries, was a shrewd man, 
 and who was a powerful man from connections, but 
 a Bohemian by temperament. Lastly, Diego Dwyorts, 
 and Jack Wortley. 
 
176 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXII. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. 
 
 Bohemians are always punctual — to dinner. 
 
 The party were together within five minutes of the 
 hour named : each man taking liis place at the un- 
 clothed white deal table, specially put up on these 
 occasions ; and seizing a knife and fork for himself 
 from the pile — like a pirate's preparation for battle — 
 in the centre of the board. 
 
 Some asked for the news, others asked for liqueurs. 
 
 " They say there was a row at the Cabinet Council 
 this afternoon." 
 
 " They always say that of the Saturday meetings. 
 It's the last thing invented before Sunday ; the ima- 
 gination for the week being exhausted." 
 
 " It's refreshed, I suppose, by a peep into the Bible 
 on Sunday." 
 
 "Drink deep, or taste not of that spring." 
 
 '' Pope might have referred to drinking generally. 
 A little of any thing is a dangerous thing." 
 
A^' UNEXPECTED GUEST. 177 
 
 " Esjjecially money," said Crowe. " What can you 
 do with a five-pound note ? It is nothing to your 
 creditors. You spend it on a dinner — and the apres" 
 
 " Out again — eh, Crowe .^" commented Eoper. " I 
 wrote you to the Q. B. yesterday. Kot got the letter. 
 Wouldn't like to venture near the place, to look for 
 itj I suppose ? Yet it's very curious ; I remember I 
 used to do it. How fond fellows are of going near 
 the dangerous places ! I used to loiter opposite the 
 sheriflTs office, in Red Lion Square, for hours, defying 
 the Bailiff. The weakness is becoming noticed, and 
 many men are now caught that way." 
 
 " You and Crowe would talk of nothing but debts, 
 if we'd let you. Here's the oysters — a dozen per 
 man, mind.'' 
 
 " He was a bold man who first ate an oyster," said 
 Fassell, shewing one. 
 
 ^* He would be a bolder man who took more than 
 his share here," retorted Bellars. 
 
 " Who has heard the new woman at Jullien's 
 Concerts ? '' 
 
 "1— audi!" 
 
 "What's she like.?" 
 
 " Black eyes, yet fair hair : 'petite, plucky." 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
178 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 " But the voice ? " 
 
 " Splendid and dashing style, but can't sing." 
 
 " She's a hit." 
 
 " Any body's a hit now-a-days." 
 
 Koper doubted it. '^ There were the old sets in 
 every thing — parliament and elsewhere ; nobody com- 
 ing up." 
 
 " A\T3y don't you start a new statesmanship, and 
 lead the House of Lords, Eoper .^" 
 
 ^' Can't lead the House of Lords under £30,000 a- 
 year." 
 
 Bellars thought that in the Commons they were 
 better ofip. They like to be led by an ^' adventurer " 
 there : wanting a salary, they know he works hard 
 to get 'em in, or keep 'em in. 
 
 " The books that come out now are ridiculously 
 bad," said a Mr. Smollett, who had several unpub- 
 lished. 
 
 ^' But then they are cheap," returned Fassell, " and 
 you are not obliged to buy them, as in the dear era." 
 
 " Bravo ! " 
 
 " Very good, that." 
 
 " I tell you what's wrong about books," suggested 
 Roper — "Thank you, I'll take some of the rough claret 
 
AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. 179 
 
 — in pewter, please. We^ men, want men's books. No- 
 body dare write a man's book — a novel, or a poem, or a 
 memoir. Wlien a fellow writes, he considers what 
 can go into a family — what virgin sisters can read. 
 So, because our virgin sisters are idiots, we get idiotic 
 books ! " 
 
 "We speak out in The Teaser" suggested Fas- 
 sell. 
 
 Bellars quite admitted that — " I have often thought 
 of writing a history of your paper, Fassell." 
 
 " Speak it," said Graffs. ^' Let it be up to the 
 mark of tliis currv." 
 " Go on." 
 
 " Fassell might be offended." 
 ^' Not at all ! Your potted grouse is too good." ■ 
 " TJie Teaser J as first started, was the result of two 
 eminent men — one political, the other literaiy — being 
 so reduced in circumstances that they had but one 
 hat between them." 
 
 " How the deuce was that ? " 
 '• Intense as was their fraternity, they could not 
 both wear the same hat at once. They therefore re- 
 solved to send it round." 
 " Round where ?" 
 
180 FKIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 "For subscriptions. They projected a journal, 
 devoted to the exposure of the hideous practicality of 
 the country ; its gross common-sense. They went 
 in for pure democracy, pure religion, pure human 
 nature. Old maids, who had heard of the fraternity of 
 the two eminent men, how they lived in the same house 
 in a moral Agapemone, with several neighbours and 
 country clergj^men — always eager for a speculation, 
 and always getting their fingers burnt, as a foretaste 
 But I am hurting your theological feelings, Koper." 
 
 " Not at all ! I am a cosmopohtan. That applies 
 to the next world, too." 
 
 " These subscribed largely. The paper came out 
 with a General j\Ioan for Purity in Everything. A 
 controversy between ^liss Lutherah and somebody 
 else — both agreeing that there was no God — whether 
 there might not be a Devil. Letters from divorcees, 
 against that monstrous anomaly — Marriage. There 
 was ^ speaking out ' in every page. Why should we kill 
 animals for food — fleas for sleep — and so on ? These 
 were the questions agitated. The clerg}^men subscrib- 
 ers, rampant to write, started each a series on the 
 * Naked Church' that they aspired to : you were to meet 
 on Primrose Hill without umbrellaS; and roar a pro- 
 
AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. 181 
 
 test against the universe by way of recommending 
 yourself to the Creator. The eminent literary man 
 reviewed Holywell Street, and wrote poems on the 
 Loves of the Flies. The eminent political man wrote 
 up William the Conqueror, Pizarro, and the Corsair, 
 and said that Property was a fiction. 
 
 " Well, it made a sensation : it was fresh. London 
 would like to be a City of the Plain for a day or so — 
 as a novelty. But it got tired of the rant. The first 
 number or two had exhausted the indecency, and 
 there were no funds left for illustration. The two 
 eminent men, again reduced to community in shoes 
 for visiting days, sent a circular round that they 
 must stop. One of the clergymen, who had not half 
 finished his series on the * Xaked Church,' came up 
 to town, pledged the church plate, joined with ]Mr. 
 Labm'numash, the atheist lecturer, and they kept the 
 thing going. But they were dull ; nothing but The- 
 ology, and that in opposition on opposite pages : — the 
 two eminent friends being kept down rather — and 
 the literary man avenging himself in his department, 
 by epigrams on the proprietors in Greek — which the 
 public ' took ' of course. 
 
 " In good time a man of sedentary habits — Crowe 
 
182 FKIEXDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 will understand what I mean — took up his abode 
 on the premises. Fassell here, who was just on 
 town, full of money, a friend of purity, and 
 devoted to the two eminent men for their fraternal 
 feelings towards him, took up the paper, and set it 
 ' a-going ' afresh. It made a great sensation again ; 
 for Fassell, it was soon rumoured, paid well, and all 
 the clever fellows in London wrote to him. He took 
 their copy, was no hand at revising — and the ' Eubbish 
 Shot Here' department, where any one could say 
 what he pleased, startled the town by its grand diver- 
 sity in blasphemy. 
 
 ^' ^"^Tien the Purity men had cleared Fassell out, 
 and he had become somewhat convinced that elderly 
 females with disturbed systems were not therefore 
 good journalists, he got tired of the concern, and 
 let it out to the last — that is, the most recent — friend 
 he had picked up. This was a young Irishman, of an 
 undisciplined sense of humour, who won Fassell by 
 caricaturing the former set, and proposed to save the 
 paper by turning its battery upon all its former sup- 
 porters, ignoring the Naked Church and Devil — the 
 last gave great offence — calling every distinguished 
 man an idiot, ridiculing the filth of the masses, jeering 
 
AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. 183 
 
 the Great Briton, and suggesting sensible cynicism, 
 an enliglitened despotism, and cheap foreign wines. 
 This was amusing; but herewith the paper lost one 
 public without getting another, and, while it was going 
 down, it got the last kick from the two eminent men 
 who had started it. 
 
 "Fassell now looked to decorous views as a 
 reaction, and he is now sprightly with a melancholy 
 air, in his paper ; which is democratic with conserva- 
 tive sympathies, and pledged to resist the Xapoleonean 
 system in France — otherwise coming home to our 
 hearts and bosoms as a British organ in a very agree- 
 able and readable manner. Fassell doesn't now lose 
 more than £10 a week on it. That's the career of 
 The Teaser!' 
 
 ^^ I wish you would keep a yacht instead of a weekly 
 I)aper,'' remarked Graffs. 
 
 Jack Wortley " was negotiating for one, and would 
 pro^'ide a cruise as soon as possible." 
 
 Diego ^' would be glad to go halves with liim/' 
 (Applause.) 
 
 ^•' It's very hard to get an amusement now-a-days," 
 said Graffs. 
 
 '* By the bye," asked Bellars, " is it true, the story 
 
184 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 of Sir Drinkwater Drinkwater — that he has taken that 
 extraordinary mistress ?" 
 
 "^Vhat?" 
 
 " AYhj, they say that, in pursuance of his view that 
 women are necessary evils, he has gone to one of the 
 hospitals, and selected a mistress who is deaf, dumb, 
 and blind/' 
 
 " Stuff ! " 
 
 " And he swears he is devoted to her." 
 
 " Do you know," said the contemplative Graffs, " I 
 have been thinking over that. When you see a 
 woman, you see twenty-nine articles walking about." 
 
 " How ? " 
 
 " When a woman is dressed for a walk, she has 
 twenty-nine different articles on. First " 
 
 " Never mind counting." 
 
 Eoper thought the most beautiful dress for a 
 woman was one robe. Fancy the mother of the 
 Gracchi in a bonnet ! 
 
 " You may dress stately figures in stately dresses ; 
 but the Parisian piquancy of nose needs the Parisian 
 provoking apparel." 
 
 The talk of the men's party went on about 
 women. If the skeleton at the Egyptian bachelor's 
 
AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. 185 
 
 feast had only been a stenogi'aplierj what liierogiypliics 
 we should have got for the bewilderment of Ladies' 
 Seminaries ! But it is unavoidable, the beautiful 
 sex may believe, that men's parties should thus talk : 
 women are the only subject on which men agree. 
 
 It is a pathetical sight to see a squalid passenger 
 stop and gaze into a picture-shop, and wonder at 
 Dorothy, and Imogene, and the Princess-royal. 
 Dorothy, Imogene, and the Princess-royal don't suffer 
 from this cheap calculation of their charms. A 
 beautiful woman is omnipresent ; but, as her divine 
 armour, she is unpolluted in the foulest places. Let a 
 beautiful woman sometimes pity her unknown lovers. 
 
 A man's party (I am not speaking of the uncouth 
 puerilities of collegians) proceeds, from talk of women 
 to talk of their friends, whom they abuse ; and then 
 to talk of one another, whom they praise. 
 
 The last stage being reached, Graffs became 
 contemplative ; and over coffee, the silenced revellers, 
 weary of chatting, began to digest, muse, and smoke. 
 The windows were opened. 
 
 A sparkling, high soprano voice burst on them : 
 it was from above. 
 
 '^ Can't be an angel," said Eoper — who was a sceptic. 
 
186 FEIEXDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 "It's the girl ^Yho lives ui>stairs — a singer: but 
 hush ! " 
 
 " That's the voice we were speaking of," said 
 Fasselh " It's superb ! " 
 
 ^'' Why not ask her to come down ? " 
 
 ^^ She's deuced haughty." 
 
 '' I'll go and bring her down/' said Jack "Wortley. 
 
 A deputation was formed, and, when she stopped 
 singingj they knocked at her door. '^ Eh, bien ! she 
 was tired of being above, and would join them. They 
 would excuse her negligent dress ? She would take 
 Lord Roper's arm." 
 
 The little woman — with body and limbs like a 
 child — but a face distinct, marked, finished, and start- 
 ling, from the enormous black eyes breaking out of 
 the dazzling fair countenance — say, to be poetical 
 with a simile, like files in the milk-jug — curtsied to the 
 company an exaggerated courtesy. She and Diego 
 recognised one another ; she with a little scream, he 
 with a coarse oath. The rest, staring, looked for an 
 explanation. 
 
 " My husband, gentlemen ! I have not seen him 
 a long time. I hope he is well/' 
 
 Graffs was in ecstasies. Crowe Dwyoiis went to 
 
AX UNEXPECTED GUEST. 187 
 
 the window and whistled. Eoper, a man of better 
 breeding, said that he thought he must go. 
 
 Therese was not frightened, but amused: she 
 thought how it would tell upon the stage ; and she 
 talked tactfully. But the party broke up. Diego, 
 humiliated at a ridiculous position, requested a few 
 minutes' conversation with her in her own apartments. 
 
188 FRIENDS OF BOHE^IIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XXITI. 
 
 THE LAW OF DIVORCE, 
 
 The character of a woman is subject to suddenness. 
 Men reason about events in tlieir own liistory. or forget 
 women feel about these things ; and one day often 
 gives a tone to their lives. 
 
 Every marriage which is not extremely happy is 
 extremely miserable, with such women as Therese. She 
 had had the courage — not being sun'ounded by that 
 public opinion of friends, connections, family, which 
 restrains the moral world in that misery which is 
 so useful to the best interests of society — to break 
 away from a loathsome lot with a bad man ; and she 
 detested him because she had deluded herself, with 
 the usual equanimity of an injured woman. Therese 
 was greatly changed now from what she had been, 
 when, experimentalising upon her emotions, she had 
 lived with Diego. 
 
 " Pray, take a seat, my husband," said she, as she 
 
THE LAW OF DIYOKCE. 189 
 
 seated herself at the piano, and began to play an air, 
 and to hum one of those songs of mixed tongues 
 which suited her mingled parentage : — 
 
 " Que je vous aime, 
 Das muss icli gestehn, 
 Prenez mon coeur pour tous, 
 Sonst liab icli keine Euh." 
 
 ^' Do you remember when you used to make me sing 
 that to you, Diego ? " 
 
 " D — n the song, and curse the past ! It's the 
 future I want to speak of. A nice mess you've made 
 for me ! " 
 
 " The poor gentlemen down-stairs ? Little me was 
 a bombshell among them." 
 
 "I thought you'd never have come to England, 
 Therese; and that, as I never intended to trouble you, 
 you would never trouble me." 
 
 "Poor Diego! But I didn't marry again. You 
 did." 
 
 "Would to God I hadn't!" 
 
 " Horrible ! Hate her already ? But, mon Dieu ! 
 you mustn't love me again." 
 
 '^ You're very pretty, Therese." 
 
 " So the journals say : and many messieurs. Read 
 
190 FRIENBS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 those notes in tliose baskets — such offers ! It is a Fuiy 
 I liave made in the cold Englisli." 
 
 He cursed the letters. 
 
 ^^ Be not mad ! Aliens 1 I will consult you wliich offer 
 I accept." 
 
 He ground his teeth : and stood up, glaring at her, 
 
 ^' I have pistols — see ! You shall not strike me, as 
 you before did. No — never ! Brave hero ! Only I 
 have seen you fight men, I would think you a coward 
 — and a coward, mein Gott, I would kill him ! Have 
 you struck your new wife yet, monsieur ? " 
 
 '' Therese — it's no use talking this way. You can 
 send me to jail — ^if you like. What do you intend to 
 do ? " 
 
 " To sing : to make Fury still — always : to save the 
 money : — see, I live in cheap lodgings, and I would 
 like apartments like cher Musidora's in ^ Fortunio.' 
 And then, when I am rich, I will go and have lambs 
 and birds, and a lake, and a wood to myself, and die, 
 alone." 
 
 " Why, then, did you tell these fellows here we 
 were married?" .^ 
 
 " Yasus ! I never say but what is true." 
 
 " But what talk there will be." 
 
THE LAW OF DIVOPwCE. 191 
 
 ' " Grood ! More Fury — More money ! " 
 
 " But you'll ruin me." 
 
 " I thought you were a millionnaire." 
 
 '' Xot so rich as we were." 
 
 " Poor Diego ! It was well I stopped taking money 
 from you. Do you know, Diego, you would be a very 
 bad-looking man not rich .?" 
 
 " You've told me that before. But what do I 
 understand ? You will not make any noise about our 
 damned folly?" 
 
 " Be good to your new wife, and I will be a lamb 
 — two, three lambs — so ruhig." 
 
 *^ I can't be good to her. She's a mere log round 
 my neck. !N'o passion of any sort." 
 
 ^•' Poor Diego wants a devil ! And there are so 
 many. Eh, bien ! I will see your new wife." 
 
 ^^You!" 
 
 "Moi." 
 
 ^'As what?" 
 
 " Therese Desprez, of the Crystal Palace concerts, 
 and of the Opera here, when the Fury is very bad." 
 
 " It can't be done." 
 
 ^•' Would the amiable whet-lock ? — that is not a 
 devil object to my profession? " 
 
192 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 " No, not tliat ! But she'd suspect something. It 
 can't be." 
 
 " To-morrow, Sunday, I will dine with you. She, 
 and you, and I — no more." 
 
 " I thought you knew I didn't often give way." 
 
 '^ Not often. Only sometimes. But at first you 
 always gave way — you were so gentle, so facile. Ah, 
 Diego ! you were what the dear M. Jullien calls ^ a 
 cham ! ' " 
 
 He laughed bitterly. " It's time I should come out 
 the real man, now that difficulties are coming." 
 
 '• Tour friends will be very surprised when they find 
 no more the boy Diego, charming; but the fierce, cruel 
 selfish, Monsieur Dwyorts." 
 
 " I'm as good as the rest, I suppose." 
 
 She made no answer, but flung herself on the sofa, 
 and took up one of the books that her table was 
 crowded with. He stared at her, foiled, and not well 
 knowing how to begin again. She looked, he thought, 
 very pretty. Was it coquetry, or mere heedlessness, 
 that made her fling off the slipper, and toss the delicate 
 leg ? Truly, he felt that he could love her again. 
 Was she relenting ? Eegretting, as he did ? 
 
 A knock at the door. " Entrez ! " said Therese. 
 
THE LAW OF DIVORCE. 193 
 
 Mr. John Wortley opened the door, entered, and 
 closed it. 
 
 Therese put her feet on the ground, and smilingly 
 asked the pleasui'e of Monsieur. Diego muttered an 
 oath. 
 
 " Hope I don't intrude. Thought, as there's some- 
 thing wrong between you two, I might be of ser- 
 vice." 
 
 " Of none at all ! " said Diego, fiercely. 
 
 " Ladies speak first," suggested Jack. 
 
 '• The Monsieur was very kind. Would he seat .? 
 She had seen him down-stairs ? Yes ! And he had 
 seen her at the Crystal Palace ? and she was sure he 
 had applauded — so kind 1 " 
 
 '• Why — yes," said Jack, making himself at home, 
 " I think you are a stunner ! " 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 " Well — that was to say, the right thing in singing. 
 Didn't Mr. Dwyorts think so ? " 
 
 There was only one way to end this. 
 
 " Here, Wortley, just come along with me : I want 
 to speak with you. Good bye, Therese." 
 
 ^•' Adieu ! At six to-morrow, Diego. — Don't speak — 
 I will come ! I have your address. Adieu, monsieur ! " 
 
 VOL. I. o 
 
194 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 She hoped to see him again ; and Jack was cer- 
 tainly flurried in parting. 
 
 It was near eleven as they got into the street. They 
 walked club wards, silently. 
 
 " I tell you what," said Jack, " you take on too 
 much. Lord bless you ! I, that have lived in wild 
 parts of the world, don't think any thing of a few 
 wives extra." 
 
 " You're mistaken, Wortley ; it was no marriage : 
 it was all irregular and illegal." 
 
 " And is she — the little un — going to law — Crim. 
 Con. — and so on ? " 
 
 " The idea ! Nothing of the kind." 
 
 " Well — you are a lucky one. Hang me, if I 
 don't tliink as you've got the two prettiest wives in 
 London ! " 
 
 " You looked as if you wouldn't mind taking Therese 
 from me." 
 
 " Mr. Dwyorts — Mr. Diego Dwyorts — I never talk 
 disrespectfully of a woman." 
 
 " Why not, if you think the disrespect ? " 
 
 " W^hich I never do." - 
 
NIGHT. 195 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 XIGHT. 
 
 They walked on again in silence. Diego was turn- 
 ing various plots over in his mind. As lie had 
 phrased it, the real man was perhaps coming out. 
 For a man in jeopardy, in confusioUj losing the game, 
 Mr. John Wortley was an awkward companion. So 
 prosperous, content, and master of the situation : Diego 
 no doubt felt hard envy. How had he attained to 
 this supreme serenity of sensation ? How was equal 
 wealth, a like security, to be attained ? Diego was 
 very manlike. He was not the nature that sinks 
 because it is oppressed — not before a hideous struggle 
 for conquest of men and things again. Calculating 
 every thing, with vehement perceptions of his chances, 
 would it not be worth while to make a friend of this 
 Wortley ? 
 
 " You are upset," said Jack, as they neared the 
 club. ^' It's hot. Come in, and pour ice down, and 
 
196 FRIENDS OF BOnEMIA. 
 
 we'll smoke and tliink. If you like me to leave 
 you alone, you'll say so." 
 
 " Not at all — the reverse ! My father told me to 
 trust in you, and I will. Let us go in." 
 
 Deep was the obeisance of the porter at the club 
 door, as arm-in-arm these two young gentlemen of 
 reno\vned wealth walked up the steps. Eagerly 
 humble were the waiters. Flattering were the nods 
 and smiles of the company, concluding a gossiping 
 week in the languid smoking-room, cool with 
 assuaging sling. Touchingly delicate was the per- 
 fection of the mixture placed before these two last 
 arrivals. 
 
 They stayed late — late into the Sunday morning ; 
 with other gentlemen as good Christians. Diego, per- 
 plexed, had not guarded his potations, and was rather 
 savage. 
 
 What a resource is a cab ! But what an injured race 
 are the cabmen ! They are the sailors of great cities : — 
 sailors in the uniformity of their reckless attire, and 
 their countenances reddened and hardened by weather 
 exposure, and in the peculiar slang with which, using 
 professional terms, they speak of all mundane affairs. 
 They are sailors in their republican contempt for 
 
NIGHT. 197 
 
 worldly dignities and dignitaries. As sailors have 
 deep contempt for all who do not understand ships, 
 cabmen despise any intellect unconcerned with horses. 
 They are sailors in their intense acuteness and decided 
 inclination to swindle. Yet sailors — dirty, improvi- 
 dent, dishonest — have a poetical position among men ; 
 and, except among shipowners and captains, Jack has 
 the merit of a jolly dog, innocent as a puppy, prettily 
 playful. Jarvey has no novelists, and no Dibdins ; 
 for the street is not the sea, and we miss the sixpences 
 extorted from ourselves. When we sit in the cab, and 
 look at the statue-like heap of old clothes on the box, 
 steering us through the traffic of London, we feel to- 
 wards him as if he were the inevitable foe — as Cape 
 settlers regard a Kaffir — as Christians once regarded 
 the Jew. His affecting devotion to his horse, 
 whom he drives slowly in conviction of the risks of 
 a rapider pace, meets with no sympathy from us : we 
 consider the quadruped as in league with his con- 
 ductor. 
 
 It must be a painful trial to the Christian heart 
 of a Prolocutor, or other circumlocutory divine, as 
 he drives from Convocation to the Kail way station 
 in the cab. How he nerves his manliness and his dig- 
 
198 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 nity for the decided encounter with the cabman at 
 the end of the journey ! For he knows the cabman, re- 
 flecting as he goes, is arranging the overcharge ; and 
 his reverence cannot love that cabman as he loves his 
 bishop, his wife, and his other neighbours. The female 
 sex must endure bewildered emotions in their transac- 
 tions with the cabman. The cabman in this respect is 
 like the Eastern eunuch : he has no feeling for, no pity 
 for, weak woman. He may be a good-looldng, brisk, 
 broad-shouldered, young cabman ; but did any 
 lady ever stop to gaze as he chaffed and whipped his 
 way along the Strand ? The Jolly Young Waterman of 
 History naturally took to the cab business when the 
 river was given up to the steamboats ; but no account 
 is given that he ran away with any rich citizen's 
 daughter towards the close of his career. 
 
 Yet, what a resource is the cab ! " Cab, sir ?" — it 
 sounds, that hail, as if the Good Samaritan was at 
 your service for sixpence a mile. And, on the whole, 
 it is much better to organize Good Samaritanism so 
 that it shall pay. 
 
 At the hour at which they left the club, even 
 capitalists must depend upon hack carriages. 
 * " You had better get into a cab with me, and take 
 
NIGHT. 199 
 
 a bed at my house in Park Lane," suggested Wortlcy, 
 always compact and quiet. 
 
 " I'll not go to your house in Park Lane, and I'll 
 not take a cab ! The air is cool, and I'll walk. I like 
 walking the streets as the day breaks. Walk with 
 me. See, I'm steady. AllonsT' 
 
 When a gentleman who has assisted in suppressing 
 Sunday music in the Parks, retires to his couch on a 
 Saturday night, it is, let us hope and pray, with a 
 general notion that the Sabbath commences at about 
 the hour at which he will be looking for his breakfast 
 next morning. Consequently, what to him are the 
 Sabbath desecrations that set in at 12.1 midnight ? 
 The law and the police have closed the public-houses; 
 and Mr. Jones is satisfied. 
 
 Yet a Sunday morning in London is a sad affair ! 
 As the hght of God's day breaks, w^hat sights are in the 
 streets! Like the houses, which stand out in the air — 
 free for some hom's from smoke, clear, well-defined — 
 Sin at these times is acutely visible — sharply ragged, 
 distinctly loathsome : — w^ell-settled sediment of a great 
 capital — kissed by the sun like carrion. There the 
 sinister daughter of Joy reels from coffee-house to cab : 
 brilHant, as other beauties clothes under gas ; but now 
 
200 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 bruised about the gaudy bonnet, unkempt about the 
 robe, tainted about the face. Don't shrink from her! 
 She is a Priestess : a Vestal that came out to watch the 
 gas : a servant of the state, according to statesmen over 
 their wine. And, miss, when you go to Eome, go into 
 a certain gallery, where you will see a piece of sculp- 
 ture representing Venus trampling upon Cupid — you 
 can usefully philosophise on that. The reveller who 
 guards her, or jeers her — and, rather than not any 
 notice, would she have insult : such is the strange 
 craving of the class — is battered, too ; glassy, about 
 the eye, that in the morning is to meet that of mother 
 and sister ; jaded in attire, worn out in walk — a 
 disastrous spectacle for the centre of the universe to 
 flame upon. 
 
 "What a row is here, after greasy debauch! Blood 
 — blood distilled with gin — is drawn : a cry, '' To 
 the Hospital!" But one cab on the rank : the horse 
 asleep with head askant, dreaming of when a lady 
 rode him, when a fragi'ant stable held him, when 
 pastures soft to the feet and sweet to the nose were 
 caressed by his whilom white teeth. Where is cab- 
 man ? Asleep, inside ; wrapped in all the voluptuous 
 uncleanliness of that many-caped coat, which, like an 
 
NIGHT, 201 
 
 oyster's shell, haply shows the cabman's years. '•' Cab, 
 sir? yessir :" — How glad is the gentleman who wears a 
 shirt perfumed as he went into the opera box — now, 
 alas ! again otherwise perfumed — to get into the tent 
 pitched on wheels, to place his curled locks in the 
 corner, warmed by the occiput of uncombed Cabby, 
 to sleep till he is landed at the door of his father's 
 mansion, or his own retreat in solemn and suggestive 
 chambers ! Blessed arrival — he is friendly with Cabby ! 
 In all the meaning of the maudlin, he gives a handful 
 of silver, and, as Cabby steadies him up-stairs, where 
 goes his watch ? Cabby drives fast by the policeman, 
 on his way to the stables ; for the policeman, solitary 
 pacing in the now empty streets, as a young knight 
 watching his armour, would have conversation : at 
 these hours there bein^ a truce between the antac^o- 
 nists. The policeman gazes long down the street after 
 the hurried cab, wondering would it be worth his 
 while to run after it, and make a charge ; and behind 
 policeman creeps out, at a favourable moment, 
 the released lover from that respectable-looking 
 house. 
 
 And, the while, bishops snore and statesmen sleep ; 
 and we all pay our taxes. And the cats slink home 
 
202 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 throiigli the areas; and the birds reappear from impos- 
 sible roosting-places, and begin to sing. The Lord 
 has given us another day; and His providence is 
 upon us. Lo ! already — ^^Milk !" Let us arise and 
 shave. 
 
MOKXIXG. 203 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 MORXIXG. 
 
 Diego Dwtorts, restlessly reckless tliis night, has 
 been showing Mr. ^^ortley queer places — ]\Ir. Wortley, 
 sad to say, nothing loatlh They have stopped and 
 delayed; and drank strange soda water and incalculable 
 coffee ; and at corners they have conversed with all 
 comers. Mr. D. D\v}'ortSj like other happy husbands, 
 had forgotten the lady, his wife, awaiting him at 
 home. 
 
 As, sleepy and fatigued and discontented, he turns 
 into that afEuent-looking square where he resides, in 
 the far west, he might have seen Xea had he been 
 looking to heaven. As it was, his eyes were mostly 
 on the kennel. It is near six o'clock, and, risen early, 
 missinoj him, fri;Thtened, she is lookinor out of the 
 window, cooUng her temples against the sweet morning 
 air — sweet even in London. 
 
 Yes — it is he ! She is rejoiced : she runs down, even 
 
204 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 slipperless, to open the door for him. Standing there, 
 smiling. It is an apparition to him, numbing his 
 faculties. He is angry, and tells her, roughly, to " go 
 back to bed." " "What was the matter ? " She timidly 
 asked. Nothing — what should there be — he was 
 late, that's all! 
 
 He slowly, and not without some difficulty, and 
 therefore more sullen, reaches his dressing-room. 
 How prettily she offers to undress him ! How coarsely 
 he rejects her aid ! Nea is very foolish : but she is 
 afraid he is ill — something has gone wrong — she prays 
 him to tell her. 
 
 '' Can I do any thing, Diego ?" 
 " Do ? AMiat can a woman ever do ? They can 
 die : but they won't." 
 
 ^'Do you then wish me dead, Diego ?" 
 " I wish you unmarried to me : and I don t care 
 about the process." 
 
 " I can go to papa, when you wish me." She sat 
 down on the floor, and cried. 
 
 " Don't whine ! What's the use of your going to 
 your papa, as you call him. He does not want you : 
 he sold you, as he would a horse, or an ass, or any 
 thino; convertible that is his. What's the use of your 
 
MORXIXG. 205 
 
 going to him ? I tell you that wouldn't unmarry us : 
 and that's what I want, for 3'ou and me." 
 
 " But why this sudden hate, Diego ? What have I 
 done?'* 
 
 *• Hate ! There's no hate. You're the only unselfish 
 human heing I ever knew. You're an angel, I believe ! 
 I know you are. But you're not fit for me, and I'm 
 not fit for you. Angels don't suit me : and I tell you 
 the truth. '\Miy not the whole truth? Damn me if 
 I don't. Nea ; "will you listen to reason .?" 
 
 She was recovering the shock. She came of a 
 race of gentlewomen, and was now calm and col- 
 lected : her eye full of courage ; her whole face and 
 figure, as she stood up, full of graceful and enduring 
 dignity. 
 
 ^' I tell you I was sold, Nea, as well as you. It was 
 thought you would inherit £100,000; you know that : 
 and it's a mistake. But my father, when he grasped 
 at that, was on the verge of ruin. He is now. still. 
 I had to give way." 
 
 " You then loved some one else ? I was not so dis- 
 honourable : my heart was free, and I have tried to love 
 you." 
 
 ^•' All wrong: Hiked you at once: I loved you, aw- 
 
206 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 fully, afterwards: and, if you were not so cold, I'd be 
 loving you still." 
 
 She murmured, " I cannot be any tbing but what 
 you call cold." 
 
 He was moving about the room, lost in his own 
 thoughts, and plunging into brutal candour. 
 
 '• Love another ! Not a bit of it. It's worse than 
 that, Nea." 
 
 " For Heaven's sake — what ? " 
 He ground his teeth, and gazed furiously at her, 
 as she again sank on the carpet. 
 
 " Why — do you hear .^ I was married to an- 
 other." 
 
 She sprang up, erect. 
 
 ^- Do you dare to tell me, sir, that my^family was 
 betrayed — that I am dishonoured ? " 
 
 " I dare to tell any fact. That's the fact ! Yes — 
 that's the fact ! That's the scrape : and now, will you 
 behave like a sensible woman ? Sit down on that 
 chair — sit down, I say ! Therese — that's the girl — is 
 a demon. She could do nothing, in reality: it was a 
 boy and girl freak : it was all illegal. All the danger 
 is in exposure. She'll do that, if w^e provoke her. 
 She wants to see you: she is coming here to dinner — to- 
 
MORXIXG. 207 
 
 day. Now, I know what she means — She hates ladies 
 — women who are above her class : she is a singer, 
 and she resents the airs of virtue. If you are haughty 
 with her, she will ruin you. If you play your cards, 
 this secret may go to the grave untold." 
 
 ^^ Have you done, sir ? " 
 
 He was still furious. She would make no answer 
 to his passionate inquiries, what she meant? She 
 was dressing herself rapidly. She put a bonnet on ; 
 he tore it off her head. She moved towards 
 the door. He pulled her violently back, and 
 but that she caught a chair, she would have faUen. 
 She then feigned submission : sat quietly ; and he 
 flung himself on the bed and slept soon. Then she 
 rose ; got another covering for her head ; took a few 
 shillings from her purse ; looked round the room vdth. 
 tearful eyes, and went down-stairs. She opened the 
 door carefully, shut it as quietly as she could, and 
 fled — fled from her husband's house I Brave girl! 
 Why did she look so guiltily back ? 
 
 A change in the dramatis personce of the streets of 
 the Sunday morning I As that slim, lightly clothed, 
 pure-eyed girl flies along, the poHceman, aghast, stares, 
 frankly startled. lie does not know what to make of 
 
208 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 her. The coffee-stand at the corner is puzzled. Tlie 
 sedimental group, enjoying the grouts of Mocha, calls 
 after her, jocosely inquisitive. The sleepy cab-horse 
 of the isolated cab, lonely joint of the vertebra of 
 the rank, wakes up as she passes. The scavenger 
 pauses over his labour : how came this gleam of God 
 among the filth he traffics with ? The sauntering 
 courtesan, without bed, without money, without hope, 
 wandering about till doors are open, turns and looks 
 after the hurrying lady : mutters something : turns 
 again, and weeps. 
 
 Nea is passing Westminster abbey. The swallows 
 are active there: like eminent statesmen, they are 
 passing from one side of the road to the other, ex- 
 changing the new Palace resting-place for the old 
 Abbey resting-place. Under the grey sky, the black- 
 ened pile looks grand and sad, and Nea stops and 
 prays a short prayer to the God to whom the Head 
 Church was erected. Then past the wdiite, daintily 
 chiseled Parliament House, silent of ]\I.P.s ; over the 
 old bridge that the old river sings under, and into 
 Surrey. Through the miles of brick, unmodified 
 brick, apparently tenantless brick — a city of brick — to 
 fresher air in Surrey. It's a long walk ; but, when a 
 
MORNING. 209 
 
 young lady is running away from her husLand^ lior 
 energies are prodigious. 
 
 Before Kea got to the end of her walk, the world was 
 rising around and about her; and, as she was not di'ess- 
 ed for any particular occasion, housemaids arrested 
 mops and paused over pans to study her. She gets fag- 
 ged at last, and purchases a drink of milk, and then 
 refreshed moves on. At last she is before the villa of 
 the Misses Holsom,her relatives at Brixton. One of the 
 pretty maid-servants — it is nine o'clock — comes trip- 
 ping out. Yes : the ladies are up, and at breakfast. She 
 enters. The old ladies clasp their hands and scream, 
 and then, being good old ladies, they make her go to 
 bed : and she tells her story, and is left in quiet : and 
 the old ladies send off an express for Jack Wortley. 
 
 ^•T^"e must keep her mind off her misfortunes, 
 meanwhile," said !Miss Clara, a yellow old lady. 
 
 " Yes, we must occupy her mind," said Miss Bertha, 
 a red old lady. 
 
 ^■' I'll give her my treatise on the rainbow, I think." 
 
 " I would recommend, myself. Dr. Cute's ^ Short Cut 
 to Heaven.' " 
 
 *• Really, Bertha, you are getting more beguiled 
 every day." 
 
 VOL. I. p 
 
210 FRIEXDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 " Upon my word, Clara, your narrow-mindedness 
 is quite unworthy of you." 
 
 " What did cousin John tell you ? " 
 
 " Well, well, he'll be here in an hour ; and we can 
 consult him." 
 
 ''■ Ought we not to write to her aunt, at Hampton 
 Court .^" 
 
 " Yes, and have her come and look down on us vul- 
 gar, moneyed people ! " 
 
 " She does pride herself too much on her father 
 being a peer.'' 
 
 ^^ She's an old fool!" 
 
 '' I think she is/' 
 
 " Well, now, sister, kiss after quarrelling, and I'll 
 go to church with you in the afternoon." 
 
 '• AVe must tell cook to give the poor girl plenty of 
 arrowroot, and have some beef-tea for her dinner." 
 
 " Yes ! Did she say her husband beat her ? " 
 
 " Ko ; only tried to prevent her going out." 
 
 " I'm glad, Bertha, I never married." 
 
 '' Oh ! Heaven be thanked — yes ! " 
 
 Amiable, admirable old maids ! That Old Guard 
 of chastity, — " Qui meurent et ne se rendent pas." 
 
A MAD STORY. 211 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 A MAD STORY. 
 
 Let us go out of town. Are you not weary of 
 this to\vney life ? its diseased, dissipated, fevered, 
 intriguing, pushing, competing, objectless, unholy 
 life ? Of its men and women, scrambling, scuffling, 
 scandaling, sneering ? Pardon the presentation of 
 such personages to yoa : they are blasphemously 
 heartless. But they are human : and it is their side 
 of humanity we are studying. One-half the world 
 is ceaselessly engaged in keeping the other half right ; 
 and I am only suggesting to you that it is badly done. 
 Suppose we leave them a little while. 
 
 You breathe freely as you get clear of the station 
 at Euston. The engine seems glad to get into purity, 
 and rushes with delicious velocity. See — out of 
 London ! — clear of that veil of smoke that Providence 
 has placed there to hide the doings of Man from the 
 Angels. Look, we are under Harrow church ! Boys 
 
212 FrjE^T)S OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 are perhaps playing cricket : certainly there is fresh- 
 ness left in the world. Do you remember — you 
 always do, as you pass — how Byron used to sit on a 
 tombstone up there, and wonder at Nature ! Throw 
 yourself back in the carriage : sit on that likely 
 deathbed — your seat in the train — and muse. 
 
 ^Volverton ! The soup is excellent here ; only a 
 little too hot. 
 
 We are going on a visit to ]\Iiss Mary Dasert, in 
 Staffordshire. I'll tell you her story as we go. It's 
 a long '^ shunt," as Mr. George Hudson would say : 
 but it's interesting. 
 
 About tliirty years ago, among the Surrey hills, on 
 a broad heath, stood the only house for many miles 
 around ; a vast red brick mansion — half palace half 
 farmhouse. It had been commenced by a Turkey 
 merchant retiring from business, and it had been fin- 
 ished by a farmer-smuggler, who rented the heath, and 
 who supplied London with French goods landed on the 
 Sussex coast. It was, many years ago, occupied 
 by a great physician, who was making a fortune by 
 taldng care of the wealthy insane. The Turkey mer- 
 chant's graceful corridors served as wards ; the smug- 
 
A MAD STORY. 213 
 
 gler's vast cellarage served as dungeons. It might 
 have been built on purpose : as the great physician, 
 returning from his regular ride, constantly soliloquized 
 on the Surrey hills. It was a capital madhouse. In 
 those days the lonely situation was not the least ad- 
 vantage observed by the great physician: who had 
 made his money by observation. 
 
 Many, many years ago, then, one Christmas eve, 
 aU was dark without : the restless rain drizzled against 
 the big house. But there was much light within : the 
 upper parts of the house was brilliant. Below, every 
 entrance was barred ; but above there were pleasant 
 windows ; and these windows now threw sheets of 
 light from within upon the dreadful night. Stand- 
 ing close under the walls, you could have heard 
 music ; peering up, you could see figures flitting 
 athwart the light. It was very strange ; for this is 
 a madhouse : a madhouse thirty years ago. 
 
 This great physician was a great Reformer. He 
 knew nothing of his art, as Forbes Winslow knows it; 
 but he was a large-headed man — and was possessed 
 of common-sense and energy : and his common-sense 
 had taught him how to manage the mad ; and his 
 energy had enabled him to press his views generally 
 
214 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 upon a connection formed by his pamphlets : so that 
 he was making a fortune by his common-sense. 
 Ahead of his time, in his department, he startled : but 
 he was winning ; and he was working out his theories 
 in this lonely house on the Surrey hills. 
 
 This theory was, that gentleness and kindness are, 
 after a first cruelty or two, more efficacious in keep- 
 ing patients quiet than blows and bludgeons. He 
 did not believe in cures — he always candidly told 
 his employers so — but he would keep the afflicted 
 creatures quiet : " and quiet," he'd say, " is a great 
 deal, my dear sir." And the dear sirs groaned ac- 
 quiescently. 
 
 But this great physician, who was also a gi'eat 
 Reformer, was making a fortune ; and, as the keeper 
 of a private Lunatic Asylum, he dealt in lettres de 
 cachet : relatives, he said, must know best ; and when 
 a patient was brought to him as mad, he took for 
 granted that the encaptured indi\ddual was mad : 
 and he treated those brought to him according to his 
 theories for tlie insane. 
 
 The great red brick house is therefore not full of 
 the really mad : there are others who are merely weak 
 or silly, and who have been got out of the way by 
 
A IMAD STORY. 215 
 
 afflicted relatives not possessed of money enough^ and 
 desirous of centring family property in their own 
 persons. Very dreadful: but sucli things were, thirty 
 years ago — when the Keformed Keligion had been 
 some time established in this land : and such things, 
 to some slighter extent, are still — when locomotives 
 have whirled great civilisation among us. 
 
 The doctor divided his establishment into three de- 
 partments. The dungeons for the raging ; the ground 
 floor for the restive and the impulsive ; the second and 
 third floors for the moody and the contented — the quiet 
 classes. There was an established system of promotion. 
 The doctor saw every patient, as he or she came in : 
 and generally alone; for the doctor was a strong 
 man. Most were violent, at first ; but, whether 
 violent or not, the doctor walked up to them (the 
 men) and knocked them down. Some wrestled and 
 struggled ; but the doctor always conquered : he had 
 much practice. 
 
 This, he said, was the first step in the right direc- 
 tion : he established his own physical and moral 
 supremacy ; and his theory was, that the mnd na- 
 turally like those who can beat them — that the slave 
 most needs, in his human wants, a master. When 
 
216 FRIEXDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 the knocked down was ])icked up, ho was taken to 
 the dun2::eon — as were women likewise — and there 
 talked to : examined — ascertained. As long as the 
 violence continued, so long was the residence in the 
 dungeon : as the doctor always told the violent — 
 through the trapdoor. Some were never calmed : 
 in fact, the dungeons were nearly full ; and many 
 had already died miserably during the doctor's stay, 
 and had been buried on a '^ consecrated " bit of the 
 heath. 
 
 Those who calmed and made promises, got taken 
 up to the ground floor and smelt the air again ; and 
 they liked the better treatment and better food so 
 well, that they seldom had to be knocked down by the 
 doctor s fist, or crushed by the keeper's leaded stick. 
 Some of these, however, did not get well enough to go 
 higher : those who did, rose to the next floors ; but 
 there they stayed — there was then neither rising nor 
 falling : none, in the doctor's time, had ever got out 
 of that house. Humorously the doctor used to call 
 liis three floors his three estates; and he the king: 
 he would compare his house to the world, and when 
 he got new patients, chuckle over the sinister com- 
 parison. 
 
A 3IAD STORY. 217 
 
 * One Christmas eve, then, the doctor for the first 
 time was trying a great experiment — tlirowing the 
 second and third floor inhabitants together — appeal- 
 ing to their sociahty: they were all of the genteeler 
 classes, and had relics of fashion and manner about 
 them; so he was offering them negus — inducing 
 them into music — setting them to cards, arranging 
 them into dances. 
 
 The men and women had been confined in separate 
 wards, of course ; and now, brought together, they 
 stared at one another, were shy, uneasy, and kept 
 apart, and did not speak when the doctor forced and 
 pushed them into the dance. Their common subjects 
 of conversation were certainly scarce ; and, as each had 
 been tamed enough by the burly doctor to know that 
 they were in a madhouse, there was a shame in the 
 sensations with which the one sex encountered the 
 other, somewhat inimical to the success of the ex- 
 periment now being made upon them. In truth, the 
 experiment was not succeeding. The rooms were 
 alive with light, the holly was abundant, the re- 
 fections overflowing ; and the music — some of the 
 patients, and they were the least unhappy, playing 
 themselves — was not allowed to cease for an instant. 
 
218 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 The doctor was moving about in every direction, 
 like a warm host at a country ball ; joking, laugh- 
 ing, flirting ; urging, roistering, appealing : he merry 
 and brisk and jovial — with a dreadful fear at his 
 heart that he had been too venturous. 
 
 But that the men and women kept apart, talking 
 and staring, in different corners, and that music 
 played even when the compulsory dance was ovei', and 
 that the doctor's wife, cowering on a sofa, did not 
 look the hostess, this ball-room was like any other 
 ball-room, and the thirty or forty persons there, like 
 any other thirty or forty persons enjoying, at that 
 time of the year, the dissipations of British society. 
 Still the keepers — six stout strong^ men, with leaded 
 sticks — who were sitting in an anteroom, and who, 
 one by one, had peeped at the festivities, whispered 
 and grinned knowingly at one another, and had a 
 superior contempt for the great physician, that night. 
 
 The doctor struggled on for an hour, perspiring, 
 despairing ; and had made more negus — a keeper had 
 brought in the hot water — and then sat down by his 
 wife, to wipe his forehead and think what should be 
 the next step. His wife said, " You see they do not 
 understand it : better let me get the females off to 
 
A 31AD STORY. 219 
 
 bed;" he replied, " Xo, no ! perhaps their strangeness 
 will wear off: let us wait and see further." Yet 
 still he thought his wife was right. 
 
 All eyes were on the strong doctor. Madmen and 
 madwomen wondered what ho looked vexed for, and 
 what he expected them to do. The card-tables 
 stopped, too, as with one accord : without agreement. 
 The three mad fiddlers gave in ; and the mad lady at 
 the piano left off her country dance, turning round 
 to look at the doctor. The blind, hired fiddler gave 
 in, too, then ; and put out his hand for drink. He 
 had been one of a band which for an hour had been 
 playing contrary tunes simultaneously ; and as a 
 professional man he was wearied and disgusted : re- 
 solving not to get drunk, lest he should never find 
 his way across the heath. 
 
 There was silence — odd and unpleasant silence. 
 
 A young man came forward. He had a bulbous 
 head, and black, bright eyes ; the glare of which 
 menaced. Tall and graceful, and very strong, but 
 stepping forward unsteadily — with the tread of a 
 lunatic ; '■ Doctor," he said, smiling, and bending 
 his handsome head in deep reverence to the doctor's 
 wife — '•' I have been asked to sing : you know I was 
 
220 FRIEXDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 famous in my regiment for my voice : have I your 
 permission ?" — " Delighted," cried the doctor, spring- 
 ing U13 : '• how is it that we never thought of that 
 before ? Sing, my dear fellow, by all means." The 
 young fellow — he was called the Captain, in the house 
 — smiled acknowledgments. ^^ I will sing a Scotch 
 war song," he said: " it is professional." The men 
 crowded up to the doctor's sofa, and then the doctor 
 invited the ladies, and l^rought them over. 
 
 " I must sing in character," said the Captain. 
 '' Miss" (to a delicate, w^eak-faced girl), " will you lend 
 me your scarf? Thank you. Doctor, lend me your 
 gold-headed cane: it will be a sword. There, now, 
 I've a tartan round, me ; my claymore is in my hand : 
 by God I feel a soldier again!" He walked up and 
 down the room, fronting the company, his head down, 
 thinking, his hand beating his forehead : new thoughts 
 were coming in. He had forgotten a song he wanted 
 to sing. But an exclamation told that he had hit on 
 what he sought for ; he stopped suddenly ; fire and 
 force in his eye and countenance ; and in a rich 
 round voice, with a shout that made the keepers 
 spring up in their den, he commenced — 
 
 " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled." 
 
A MAD STORY. 221 
 
 And as he sung, he marched, gesticulating vehe- 
 mently, lost in the scene the song called up. He was 
 furiously mad : as bad as when he was first taken to 
 the dungeons ; and, when he swore that he was " The 
 Bruce," the doctor quailed. " The Bruce " had called 
 him " proud Edward" when he first entered the house. 
 Should this old idea return ! Ah ! it had returned : 
 the lunatic had stopped in his pacings opposite the 
 doctor ; and the crowd was between the doctor and 
 the door. 
 
 But the doctor was a bold man; he kept his eye on 
 the madman. 
 
 The song had warmed the blood about the hearts 
 of the other madmen ; their breasts were heaving — 
 the madness was becomins: contaf2:ious. 
 
 The doctor s wife leaned back, faintino^ ; the mad- 
 women were pleased, and were beating time with their 
 feet as they stood. 
 
 " This must be put a stop to ! " The doctor arose 
 — quietly. And, as he arose, the Bruce realized the 
 vision of proud Edward. The gold-headed, but leaded 
 cane — his emblem of the sceptre, the doctor used to 
 say—came down with a fearful crash on the bald head. 
 
222 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 The blow was fatal : the doctor fell dead. And the 
 Bruce went ou — 
 
 *' Lay the proud usuii:)er low, 
 Tyrants fall in every foe ; 
 Liberty's in every blow, — 
 Let us do or die." 
 
 The Bruce planted his foot on the slain — renewing, 
 raising, the mighty chorus of his song. And the 
 wildness had mounted and spread : the other madmen 
 roared louder ; they had clearly taken the doctor's 
 death as a matter of course — as part of the play they 
 ■were acting. And the doctor was the proud Edward. 
 He had given them a glimpse of liberty, and they 
 knew they had been prisoners. 
 
 The doctor's w^ife fled screaming ; the keepers rushed 
 in — appalled — and ranged themselves near the body ; 
 from which the lunatics, at the rush, had fallen back : 
 still singing, however, and gesticulating. The keepers 
 w-ere very puzzled. The head keeper said, " Bring 
 our sticks ; " three left the room to carry out the 
 stratagem. 
 
 The Bruce, now yelling his song with hideous em- 
 phasis, saw the w^hisper — saw the expression of the 
 faces. He leaped forward with a bound like a tiger's. 
 
A 3IAD STORY. 223 
 
 Heavens ! He had shot back the massive bolts of the 
 strong door : only three keepers were in the roora, 
 and fifteen raging lunatic raen. 
 
 The Bruce was armed. Waving his hea"\y clay- 
 morCj and standing with his back to the door, lie 
 defied the English and summoned the Scotch to his 
 side ; and the Scotch gathered round liim. The 
 women had retreated, and were playing with the cards 
 on the card-tables, or were lookins; idlv and wonder- 
 ingly on. 
 
 It was a moment of horror to the keepers. They 
 roared, " Break open the door ! " The door was 
 beaten with heavy sticks, and cries were heard, ^^ Open 
 it I " Then the singing ceased. 
 
 The Bruce felt his responsibilities as a general, 
 and was almost calm — rpiite in earnest. One of the 
 lunatics, an old man, was seen to stand on a chair — 
 he pulled down a curtain pole. Three curtain poles 
 were down in a second. The Bruce pointed to the fire- 
 place ; bars of iron were seized in a second. 
 
 Bewildered, the keepers had stood still, this time : 
 the enemy had got the advantage. The pealing at 
 the door was louder, and with heavier blows of some- 
 thing massiver than sticks. 
 
224 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 The Bruce resumed his song ; the chorus was re- 
 newed ; there was a rush at the keepers. Well — they 
 died like men, or rats. 
 
 Then the door was opened ; two men-servants had 
 come to the aid of the three beleaguered keepers. 
 But the madmen's blood w^as up : there was no fire- 
 arms, and they were the strongest. Two of them 
 had sunk, horribly bruised ; but they had been avenged. 
 Those keepers who were knocked down, were beaten 
 or poled to death. One of them fled, the Bruce after 
 him ; he reached the yard, on his way to the heath ; 
 there was a wrestle ; the Bruce crushed him into a 
 well, and he was heard of no more. 
 
 That Christmas eve, the big house on the Surrey 
 hills was in the possession of a small army of mad- 
 men. 
 
 The Bruce took command of the castle. He fast- 
 ened all the doors, and all the w^indows ; and the 
 female servants caught in the kitchen, fainting over 
 their swooned mistress, were taken prisoners to the 
 ball-room. The madwomen were very polite to them. 
 The mad ladies had entered into the spirit of the 
 business : that is, those who were really insane, con- 
 verted themselves into the Bruce's Scottish court ; the 
 
A MAD STORY. 225 
 
 merely weak were too frightened to do more than stare 
 astonished : they were not quite alarmed. 
 
 *' Spread the tables ! " ordered the Bruce. They 
 were spread. A sapper was laid out from the materials 
 already collected in a near room. " Who knows the 
 way to the cellar ? " ^- 1 ! I ! I ! " '' Go, all three ; 
 fetch your king some wine, and let us drink to victory. 
 LadieSj take your seats. Beauty should banquet with 
 valour !" 
 
 The doctor's and the keepers' bodies were removed 
 out of the way. Guards were set over the women of 
 the house. The wounded were consoled. The ban- 
 quet of about thu'ty madmen and women was in 
 progress. These people must be excused ; of course 
 the ladies got excited, and, when they did, they 
 began to neglect etiquette. Such a symposium as 
 this never before took place in the world. 
 
 Characters now came out : before, it was but a 
 crowd. There were more kings than Bruce, and every 
 king proposed royal alliances. The dramatis jpersonce 
 of lunacy are well known — they are at every asylum — 
 they were here. 
 
 There was little acquantance with Scottish history 
 among the banqueters, and Bruce did not get on well 
 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
226 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 in inducinir his knidits to answer to their names. 
 His tone^ as he drank, became too high ; and the other 
 drinkers began to protest. Each announced him- 
 self: every maniac was now inflamed ; and all talked 
 and screamed at once. The women sang, laughed, 
 and cried. 
 
 An old man sitting at the end of the table most 
 distant from Bruce, rose, and said, " Mr. Speaker " — 
 this was his madness ; he was in the House of Com- 
 mons. The odd address secured a silence in the din ; 
 every face was turned towards him. He was hu- 
 moured : lunatics can see one another's follies, and 
 several said, *' Hear, hear — Oh, Oh ! " — '^ Sir," said the 
 old gentleman " I believe, as the doctor has frequently 
 mentioned, and not confidentially, for he had a loud 
 voice, and I may repeat it, — I believe, sir, I say, if you 
 will allow me, unwilling as I am to keep the house from 
 a division, that there are three estates in this house " — 
 (hear, hear.) '' Well, sir, why should not all the estates 
 come up to supper ? " 
 
 It told : there was a screaming applause ; men and 
 women rushed from the room and poured down-stairs ; 
 they were on their way to open the dungeons ! They 
 were going to let loose the wild beasts ! 
 
A MAD STORY. 227 
 
 Guards and all ; so that the servant-girls got away, 
 and by back-stairs out on to the heath — flying, scared. 
 Bruce rose last from the table ; he had been crowned 
 with holly, and was mad with wine. " Let me lead 
 you ! " he shouted, still with his claymore. But they 
 would not stop. The yells, and laughter, and songs of 
 the banqueters could be heard in the rooms below. 
 So the Bruce was left to follow, and he followed. 
 
 As he reached the passage, inflamed, and reeling, 
 and uncertain, a young girl touched his arm. She 
 was the young girl he had taken the scarf from at 
 the ball. She had been sent to the house by afilicted 
 friends as an idiot, and the doctor had taken great 
 pains with her ; and, though she had not understood 
 the scene which had passed, she had shrank from it — 
 had been chosen as a partner by none — merely been a 
 spectator of the banquet. She had heard the doctor 
 speak of the dungeons ; she had a vague horror of the 
 inmates ; and, when the rush down-stairs had taken 
 place, her soul was filled A^ith fear, and she trembled. 
 
 The magnificent figure, the song, the leadership of 
 the captain, had struck her. She felt nearer to him 
 than to the others, and she advanced afiectionately to 
 consult him. 
 
228 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 He knew her again, and liis large bright eyes grew 
 larger and brighter with delight. She had not calcu- 
 lated it ; but then she did not know he was so very 
 mad. 
 
 A singular idea struck the maniac Bruce. He 
 would be married ! 
 
 Now, there was a clergyman in the house. His 
 Bishop and liis wife had sent him there, upon a pre- 
 text that his (since called Puseyite) views on the 
 regeneration by baptism proved his lunacy ; the 
 pretext being sup])orted by his general manner and 
 conduct : which were rather imbecile, and, in that 
 respect, justified the medical lettre-de-cachet. 
 
 Tlie Bruce collected a small company of ladies 
 and gentlemen, charmed and further excited at the 
 idea of a wedding — as indeed sane people are — 
 and the trembling girl was married to him, accord- 
 ing to all the sacred forms, and there was a wedding 
 feast. 
 
 It was two days before the magistrates collected 
 their courage and their military to march upon the 
 mad fortress. 
 
 On the second day there was a great battle among 
 the garrison. The dungeon demons warred on the 
 
A MAD STORY. 229 
 
 Bruce; the house was set on fire, and many were 
 burned to death. 
 
 The Bruce escaped, with his wife, and hid for three 
 days among the hills. But he had been severely 
 wounded, and bled to death at a farmhouse. There 
 assistance was ridden for, and there he was found, 
 with the girl ; who — herself singed, bruised, and now 
 almost mad in reality — tended on him. 
 
 The gossips — there were gossips then — talked that 
 Christmas more than gossips ever talked before. 
 
 They told how, when the Bruce was at his last gasp, 
 he whispered to the girl, in a hoarse whisper that made 
 the flesh creep — 
 
 " "Welcome to your gory bed." 
 
 What most perplexed them was, that the victim-girl 
 turned out after all quiet and well-behaved, and not at 
 all the raging lunatic that she ought to have been. 
 She was nursed into health by a beautiful brunette 
 lady, who came from London to that farmliouse ; and 
 who, it seemed, was very fond of her, and did think 
 her better than she ought to be. 
 
 Miss Dasert of Beechton, Staffordshire, then an or- 
 phan, rich and handsome, but mourning the madness 
 
230 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 of tills Bruce, to whom she had been engaged, went up 
 to London when she heard of this dreadful aifair, and 
 adopted the wife-widow of her lover. The poor young 
 creature died in giving birth to a daughter, and this 
 daughter, taken possession of by ^liss Dasert, was at 
 twenty-five years of age left by that lady as mistress of 
 that snug little property Beechton, and of £50,000 in 
 the funds. The will described the young lady as " my 
 adopted daughter," and that was all the solicitors or 
 the county found out ; for Miss Dasert, during all the 
 time that her adopted daughter was reaching twenty- 
 five years of age, had lived either in London (for 
 " masters "), or with her abroad, and had concealed the 
 story. The young lady had been christened ]\Iary 
 Dasert, and now was, in her turn, Miss Dasert of Beech- 
 ton, Staffbrdsliire. 
 
 Perhaps, among the many theories which afilict and 
 confuse mankind, there is no greater delusion than 
 that Magna est Veritas et prcevalehlt, and " Murder will 
 out." There is such a thing as a secret being kept 
 sometimes, and of permanently successful dishouesty, 
 and of undiscovered murders. In the plots of three 
 volume novels every thing is revealed in the last chap- 
 ter :— the "who killed Cock Eobin? I said the Sparrow" 
 
A 3LVD STORY. 231 
 
 form of fiction requiriDg these unities. But, in life, 
 are we not aware of knowing one or two things about 
 our families and ourselves which we never mention — 
 not even to the wives of our bosoms ? — For every pick- 
 pocket who is taken, ten pickpockets escape ; and why 
 not apply the calculation to other modes of thieving 
 and outrage on conventionalities ? Bigamy is very 
 common, but few are brought up before a magistrate 
 for justice ; though we may be sure the criminal is 
 deeply punished for his sins, by private torture at the 
 hands of his second wife, thus made an agent of Pro- 
 vidence. It is the minority who are found out. We 
 know very little of one another. 
 
 Miss Dasert, deceased, was intensely religious, by 
 temperament and conviction, nature and logic. Her 
 Christianity, after her great sorrow and sacrifices — not 
 that she did not become a perfectly contented and 
 happy middle-aged lady — was without flaw, carnally 
 or morally. But she kept her secret about her adopted 
 daughter. The main object of her life, when this 
 young lady had reached her eighteenth year, was to 
 see her happily married and settled ; and she accepted 
 for her the addresses and attentions of numerous gen- 
 tlemen of rank, or respectability, and honour. To all 
 
232 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 inquiries with respect to the young lady, she answered 
 that she was the daughter of a dear friend of hers, and 
 that her father and mother had died in the child's in- 
 fancy : and she gave a wrong name, and utterly baffled 
 all traces of the real fact. I suppose this was very 
 dishonest of Miss Dasert — she did not think so. 
 
 And as nobody, not even the girl herself, ever heard 
 what Miss Dasert could have said as to the fact, so 
 Miss Dasert never heard what people, piqued, did say 
 in a guess. They said young Miss D. was old Miss 
 D.'s natural daughter. That was the universal faith 
 on the point. The reader, now acquainted with the 
 circumstances, can appreciate the justice of the w^orld. 
 If the world had advertised, or made a pilgrimage to 
 the Surrey hills, to see the house in which Dibdin lived 
 and wrote the songs that conquered the French, they 
 would have got at the truth from an old woman, to be 
 seen any day in that neighbourhood. The world pre- 
 fers to guess, and then applauds the novelists who de- 
 clare that Magna est Veritas et prcevalehit, and who 
 represent their murderers as invariably possessing 
 bloodshot eyes and a restless manner. 
 
 I never knew but one murderer, and he is a very 
 pleasant, gentlemanly, easy-tempered, calm, unregret- 
 
A MAD STORY. 233 
 
 ting man. To be sure he is French ; but French 
 nature cannot be so very different from human nature, 
 as Mr. Addison and, since, Sir Edward Lytton have 
 represented. 
 
234 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 A TRUE-LOVE STORY. 
 
 When j\Iary Dasert was nineteen or twenty years 
 of age, her mother, guardian — whatever you please to 
 call her — resolved that she must be taught German, and 
 took her to Footunder ; as the best German-speaking 
 city in tlie Fatherland, and as possessing some tradi- 
 tional knowledge of English cookery, which had been 
 taught to all the court cooks by his late Royal High- 
 ness the Duke of Gobble, when viceroy of Footunder 
 for his brothers Fuddle and Diddle. The ladies 
 went to a fashionable boarding-house, which was on 
 a garden, as Germans phrase it ; and thither one day, 
 during their stay, came a certain Mr. Saxon Worn- 
 ton, en route for Bierberg from London, and idling 
 in the capital in order to pick up a few words with 
 which to face that dreadful university. He engaged 
 a room, took off his hat to every body about, and 
 strolled into the garden, feeling very sad and lonely; 
 
A TRUE-LO\'E STORY. 235 
 
 SO young among so many strangers, the most ac- 
 complished of whom, so far as his first introduction 
 had gone, only knew, of the English language, that 
 the Vicar of Wakefield " vash always of hopingon dat, 
 &c. (fcc," — meaning to quote, as Germans will, from 
 the first lines of the great Irish poet's beautiful book, 
 which is the first lesson in En^iish for all forei^'ners. 
 
 o o 
 
 As he strolled about the extensive garden, he saw a 
 young lady unaffectedly up among the branches of a 
 cherry-tree. She was eating the ripe cherries with 
 great assiduity. She was showing her ankles and 
 stockings in a shocking manner. Her mass of golden 
 hair was all in disorder, strewn over her stained mus- 
 lin-covered shoulders, and entangled in the branches 
 of the tree. Her grey eyes were startlingly, purely 
 bright, as she stared down at the stranger. The fair 
 sweet face would have struck you, even if you met 
 it in the proper way, in a ball-room. Saxon thought 
 of pictures he had seen, of nymphs lying in Italian 
 landscapes among bunches of red grapes, and clusters 
 of black Bacchuses, and heaps of green leaves. He 
 thought, he says, in telling the story, of a variety of 
 things which are more or less credible. 
 
 ^' Wollen Sie?" — said she at last, after a long, calm, 
 
236 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 unnrfflecl stare. She held out some clierries, thinking 
 that he miMit like some. 
 
 She thought he was a Grerman, and he thought she 
 was a German, He shook his head and said — " Can't 
 speak German." 
 
 "Goodness!" she exclaimed, " an Englander ! What 
 a comfort!" And she sat down on a branch and left 
 off eating. ^^ Except to the chaplain in the king's 
 chapel" (this was in Ernest's time, for he adhered 
 to the forms and ceremonies of the faith of his father 
 George the Third, and would never go into the Lutheran 
 churches of his subjects), "and his wife, I haven't 
 spoken to an English person for six months." 
 
 He did not know what to say. At his age, gentle- 
 men are not at ease with ladies. We got over it ; but 
 a youth's horror of a woman should guard him in his 
 manhood ! 
 
 She took another stare at him, while she tied up 
 her hair, and that done, she said, " Please, help me 
 down. [Minna was to have come, but I won't wait. 
 She helped me up." 
 
 There was no bashfulness about her. To get her 
 down, he had to put his arms round her, in the way 
 that Paul carried Virginia across the rivulet, and so 
 
A TRUE-LOYE STORY. 237 
 
 laud lier; and, when lier feet were on the ground, she 
 said without the least confusion — " Thank you ! You 
 are stronger than Minna. Am I heavy?" 
 
 Heavy I He was only too happy. To find a country- 
 woman — unexpected pleasure ! So beautiful, too. 
 
 " They say I am pretty. I am glad you think so. 
 How did you come here.^" 
 
 He explained — just arrived — brought there by the 
 commissioner from the British Hotel. How rejoiced 
 at his luck ! 
 
 ^^ I'm glad you're come. So will mama be. Come 
 into the house." 
 
 ^' With pleasure — will you take my arm ? " 
 
 '•' Oh, that is not done in Footunder ! They'd think 
 we were engaged lovers." 
 
 "I am sm-e I wish we were, then," burst out the 
 boy. 
 
 " Do you really ? That's strange ! I should like to 
 be enjiased to you. Let's ask mama." 
 
 Saxon was overwhelmed, and felt the blood in his 
 head with stinging suddenness. Here was a young 
 lady, whom he had not seen five minutes, accepting a 
 compUment of the idlest sort as a proposal of marriage; 
 and he was being straightway led into the presence of 
 
238 FKIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 that young lady's mama. His first impulse was 
 to run away back to the hotel. But his character was 
 adventurous, and he resolved to see it out. 
 
 Perhaps there was no resolution in the case. He 
 couldn't help himself. We are always talking of our 
 resolutions when we relate our accidents. 
 
 She walked by his side up the long walk, looking 
 a great deal at the ground, but a great deal at the 
 young gentleman. His comely English face was a 
 novelty to her. Before they reached the door they 
 were arm-in-arm. 
 
 He whispered — " Had you not better delay men- 
 tioning any thing to your mama? — She will be 
 surprised." 
 
 ^•' Yes, she will be surprised ! " was the answer, quite 
 collected, unaccompanied by any laugh. " But I'll 
 tell her, of course." 
 
 The directness about this young lady abashed Mr. 
 Saxon Wornton. 
 
 They passed into the house and up-stairs, entered 
 a room in which sat an elderly lady dressed in 
 half-mourning. There are women who are always in 
 mourning, and to whom the garb looks natural : this 
 was one of them. She was a little old lady, with 
 
A TRUE-LOVE STORY. 239 
 
 black bright eyes, massive black-grey hair, surmounted 
 by a little slate-coloured ribboned cap ; long white 
 hands. She was writing — copying music. 
 
 The young lady went up to her and kissed her. 
 " Mama, here is a young gentleman from England ; 
 come to lodge here. I was glad to see him, and I 
 thought you would be. He said that he would like 
 to be engaged to me." 
 
 She sat down on a stool at her mama's feet. 
 
 " Engaged to you ! What is this ? — Tell me who 
 you are, sir, and what you have said to my daughter ? " 
 She rose, astonished ; and when ladies are bewildered 
 they are rather hot and angiy. 
 
 Saxon had a tendency to run down-stairs. He felt 
 like a fool, and humiliatingly confused. He had 
 never met such an imposing little lady — so powerful 
 in the dignity of the thorough lady. 
 
 " Indeed, ma'm, I don't know how it happened. I 
 meant no wrong. 1 helped your daughter down from 
 a tree, and she was so frank that — I suppose I was 
 indiscreet." 
 
 " Wlio are you, sir ? " 
 
 " I am Saxon Wornton, ma'm. ]\Iy father is Mr. 
 Wornton of Wornton Hall, Staffordshire. I have 
 
240 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 just come from Hamburg and am going to Bierberg. 
 There are my letters, ma m, to Mr. Blind, the minis- 
 ter here." 
 
 " I take your word, sir, of course, for the letters." 
 She was quite mollified. " In fact, as you are the son 
 of Mr. Wornton, you are the grandson of the Mr. 
 Wornton who was my trustee, and we are great 
 friends. Very odd to meet you that way ! But, pray, 
 explain how you came to propose to my daughter ? 
 You cannot have known her half an hour : it is not 
 so long since she left this room to walk in the garden. 
 It is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of ! 
 How did it happen ? " 
 
 '' I — I — have no notion. I don't think it was a 
 proposal altogether — I wouldn't have been so rude, so 
 soon : merely a compliment." 
 
 The young lady now took her fine eyes from the 
 young man, looked up into her mama's, and repeated 
 the precise words of what he had said, and what she 
 had answered. 
 
 '^ My dear child — ^how extremely wrong ! what 
 childishness ! Pray, sir, how old are you ? " 
 
 " Nearly eighteen, ma'm." 
 
 ^' Why, you are younger than she is ! " The old 
 
A TRUE-LOVE STORY. 241 
 
 lady smiled, and was thorouglily amused. '•' What 
 a pair of innocents ! Come, sir, sit down and let us 
 talk. Do you know who we are ? " 
 
 ^' Haven't the honour," said Saxon, seating himself, 
 and feeling more comfortable. 
 
 '' That's excellent ! You proposed to a lady whose 
 name you did not know. Talk of first love, indeed ! 
 There never was any thing like tliis." 
 
 The old lady laughed happih', till the tears came 
 to her eyes. Saxon joined with great zest. The 
 young lady did not laugh in the least. 
 
 " But, mama," she said with great deliberation, 
 " you have often told me that first love is real love. 
 You want to see me settled. If Mr. Saxon Yrornton 
 — she had caught the name very accurately — wishes 
 me to many him, and I would like, why do you 
 laugh?" 
 
 The laughers were immediately grave. 
 
 "Will you go into your bed-room for a few 
 moments, my da,rling ? " 
 
 '' Yes, mama ! " and she rose. He rose, too, and 
 she went over to him and offered her hand, which he 
 took and pressed with confused gallantry. She then 
 left the room. 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
242 FKIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 Miss Dasert, the elder, had no great knowledge of the 
 world. She was not shocked by her daughter's 
 behaviour, and saw nothing in it to shock any one 
 else. She had no conception of the bewilderment of 
 Saxon. Sweet, foolish, IMiss Dasert ! 
 
 " You will of course understand," said she to him, 
 " that I cannot sanction any conversation whatever 
 on what has passed, until you have made inquiries 
 in respect to us. If you stay here you will see a good 
 deal of us, and you will always be welcome in this, 
 my part of the house. Young marriages (she spoke 
 musingly) are generally the happiest, I think. We 
 shall see ! " 
 
 And then they gossiped about the house and its 
 inmates, Footunder, England, German students, 
 German dishes ; and in half an hour the old lady was 
 in a state of enchantment with the boy, while he was 
 quite happy. 
 
 When the ladies, after his departure to his own 
 room, conversed together, the indiscreet old gentlewo- 
 man expressed her charmed astonishment at the 
 interview in the garden, her admiration of the young 
 man, and her perfect faith in his moral character and 
 respectability of social position. This inflamed the 
 
A TKUE-LOVE STORY. 243 
 
 simple girl ; and, when she went down to the table- 
 d'hote, she considered that a great change had taken 
 place in her life, and that she was a '^ Verlobte." In 
 Germany all girls are, and she took it as she had 
 taken the most natural transitions in her physical life. 
 
 He occupied, at a dinner, a seat between the two 
 ladies. The gentle creatures almost waited on him 
 in pressing food, and were further delighted with his 
 tone of talk. He was so smart in his sayings, and 
 took such bold views of things, that to the young lady 
 his conversation was like the acquisition of a new 
 language. Such a beautiful, bold lover ! she was 
 quite content with him : and the content was thrown 
 to him out of her large caressing eyes. She was 
 very happy, and ate very little, and was very rude 
 to the company in general. Saxon was puzzled that 
 she only lauglied with her eyes ; but he admitted 
 that he had never before seen such grand eyes. 
 
 After '•' Essen " they sat at a table under the 
 linden and took coffee ; and Saxon, in that new scene 
 on that gentle summer evening, witli a beautiful 
 woman in love with him, thought that God was very 
 good. 
 
 And they stole away to a walk among decpl}-- 
 
244 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 leaved trees, and the serpent arm crawled round her 
 waist, and he pressed her to his heart, and kissed 
 her mouth and eyes, and looked up to the saddening 
 sky, and swore to her that he would be true, ami 
 would strive for her, and would try to make her 
 happy. When he said this his eyes filled with t^ars ; 
 and she wondered at him, but adored him, and was 
 calmly very liappy. 
 
 The poetical have no right to complain of the 
 above matter-of-fact account of an event which 
 doubtless is susceptible of poetical treatment. It 
 could do no harm to make our lovers talk the tradi- 
 tional ecstatic idiotcy in vogue, at any rate from the 
 time of Mr, Sliakesi>eare to that of Mr, Alexander 
 Smith, But this is a report, not a poem. It is 
 doubtful if Mr. Shakespeare addressed Anne Hath- 
 away in the manner that Mr. Romeo addressed Miss 
 Juliet ; though, clearly, the man who could conceive 
 Eomeo and Juliet, had the ]X)etical materials in him 
 with which to explode in a very passable frenzy. 
 Anne Hathaway would not have understood it ; so he 
 probably said, after a few kisses, that her eyes 
 were good, and that it would be convenient to put the 
 banns up. 
 
A TRUE-LOVE STORY. 245 
 
 Disingenuous and well-behaved young persons 
 win not credit that a young lady could behave so 
 absurdly as Miss Dasert (the second) is represented 
 to have done. They must however consider, that " the 
 young party " was quite unaccustomed to love-making, 
 and had been brought up to think honestly, and to 
 tell the truth. Making all allowances for the Italian 
 nature of Juliet, they do not believe that a young lady 
 could ever have been so rapidly affectionate as Juliet 
 ^was ; and they have some reason for their distrust on 
 the point, since the authentic Shakespeare makes the 
 nurse and mama talk grossness to the young lady, and 
 gives us an impression that she foreknows her functions 
 as a spouse ; while she herself confesses her conviction, 
 that the process of declaration and acceptance was 
 generally much slower than she and Eomeo made it. 
 Shakespeare has not made Juliet innocent, and it 
 is only an innocent girl would be so extremely 
 silly as the poet tells us she was. This must be Miss 
 Dasert's excuse. She knew nothing of the art or of 
 the statistics of love — no mother, grandmother, elder 
 sister, or female friends were there, in her case, to 
 render her knowlecloreable. Is it incredible that 
 tliere might be a woman under twenty years of age 
 
246 FRIENDS OF BOHEMLV. 
 
 with a soul unsoiled by any speculation either as to 
 the sentiment or the sensation of love ? 
 
 Minna, being sent to look for her young lady, found 
 her seated on a garden seat in the remotest corner 
 of the garden, leaning her head on the shoulder 
 of her lover. Minna w^as thunderstruck ; but, in giv- 
 ing the old lady's summons, suppressed all comment. 
 Minna, like all women, was charmed that her 
 mistress had a " Schatz" (a Beloved); but Minna had 
 had many in her prosperous time, and knew that 
 this swift besieij-ino; was amiinst all the rules. 
 
 *'Ah, mama !" exclaimed the young lady, after she 
 had said her prayers at the maternal knee, and w^as 
 setting her pretty head on the pillow. '^I am so 
 happy ! He is so handsome, and kind, and wise, 
 mama — I should like to sleep all night with my 
 head on his shoulder ! " 
 
 " Oh, my dear Mary ! you must not say that till 
 you are married ; and you must not be certain that I 
 can give you to him : you may have to wait — he is 
 very young." 
 
 '• Dear mama, you must let me say, now as ever, 
 the thoughts that come into my head. I only want 
 to have him with me. To be married, and to live in a 
 
A TRUE-LOVE STORY. 247 
 
 house of our own together, that is not what I care for — 
 I can wait. But you must let me have him with me 
 always — him and you. Dear mama, I love you, I 
 think, more now, that I love him, too." 
 
 And the old lady philosophised, as well as she could, 
 about the tender passion, and the duties of a young 
 maid suffering from it ; but tlie truth is, she knew 
 very httle about it, and thus she did no good to her 
 daughter. They were such a very innocent pair : — 
 and the eldest was, on the whole, by far the most 
 flurried and excited by this new development in their 
 lives. 
 
 There are young females, even in excellent circles, 
 who do accept and plunge into passion for the first 
 smooth-faced or smooth-spoken gentleman that ad- 
 dresses himself to their hearts ; and such young ladies 
 might be disposed to make excuses for this tenderly 
 bred and sweetly spoiled child. Miss Dasert. But it 
 so happens in her favour, that she had no less than 
 seven very good offers ; not to mention the bad ones 
 from two successive singing-masters, who, deceived by 
 that gentle pliant nature, thought that it was without 
 will. She had refused them all, quietly, ^vithout 
 understanding what they felt, or affected to feel ; and 
 
248 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 only now and then experiencing some regret, because 
 of the incessant talk of her mama about the necessity 
 of settUng in life. But her mama always told her, 
 in her old-maiden romantic manner, that marriage 
 without love was a sin ; and the young lady had been 
 waiting patiently for the divine visit of passion. 
 
 The Misses Gobus would consider that one so 
 innocent must be a fool. When they did meet her, 
 they said so ; for she didn't understand their coarse 
 theories at all, and didn't blush when an impropriety 
 was said : not knowing, poor girl, the catalogue of 
 improprieties. Girls who have had boarding-schools, 
 French governesses, French novels, elder sisters, and 
 flirtations since their fourteenth year with young 
 gentlemen in their fourteenth year, set down simpli- 
 city and idiotcy as identical mental phenomena. 
 
 Miss Dasert had never bought shoes or dresses for 
 herself, or cooked or bought meats, or made any sort 
 of worldly, mercantile, or domestic calculation. She 
 had been brought up like a pet, a plaything : most 
 uselessly no doubt ; and, when she lost her mama, was 
 very helpless on earth : all the more so from her 
 fortune. 
 
 These flicts explain the unfavourable impressions 
 
A tuue-loat: stoky. 249 
 
 slie produced on smart women, in England, France, 
 Germany, and Italy, wlio, at the same time, were not 
 quite so pretty as she was. They likewise explain 
 why elderly men could not understand her at all, and 
 never will ; and why the boy who made love to her in 
 a childish way, won her at once. And yet, from some 
 points of view, she had pretensions to considerable 
 cleverness. x\ll the accomplishments of a modern 
 lady had been mastered ; several instruments ; all the 
 right languages, including Latin. Taste, memory, 
 and sensibility distinguished her. She had read all the 
 books that her aunt would allow her to read, and they 
 had been very numerous, and had given great insight 
 into literature and human affairs. She could draw 
 exquisitely, though she could not caricature. Her 
 love of flowers had led her into much study of 
 botany, and she knew so far the theory of mamage 
 — the espousals of petals. Had she been a school- 
 girlj she would have been the boast of professors, but 
 her mama was her governess, and never boasted ; and 
 Saxon was the first to discover the resources of her 
 intellect, as he was the only one who had ever touched 
 the treasure of her heart. She wanted the manner of 
 society ; could only sing in a room ; and when she 
 
250 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 sang, thouglit merely of giving simple pleasure. For 
 she was not a young lady who sought friendships or 
 alliances, who giggled and flattered. So I suppose 
 Miss Gobus — who would think it indelicate to read 
 the Bible, and has Paul de Kock by heart — is right, 
 and that Mary Dasert is a fool. 
 
M^iEELVGE AGxUNST THE MODE. 251 
 
 CHAPTER XXYIII. 
 
 MARRIAGE AGAINST THE MODE. 
 
 Beechton is a pretty place: the prettiest in that 
 ugly county, Stafford. To be sure there are only 600 
 acres of it. park and all ; but it is in a ring fence, it is 
 undulating land, unlike the flat country generally: and 
 it is wooded — over-wooded, people say — with emerald 
 green beech now, beech of every colour by and bye. 
 The little park, once so in reality, that encircles the 
 small square stone house, is laid out as a garden — a 
 fragrant, various, English garden — from which are 
 gathered daily, countless posies and nosegays ; which 
 in our shocking Gallicism we call bouquets. 
 
 At work in the garden there is a lady about thirty 
 years of age, thin, almost attenuated. Her hands are 
 covered with horticultural gauntlets ; but these arc a 
 defence against prickles, and not against the sun, for, 
 see, that old straw bonnet has allowed a great deal of 
 
2j2 friends of BOHEMIA. 
 
 freckling on the deadly white skin. The lady has 
 quiet grey eyes. 
 
 Entering at the neat lodge gate — Minna is there 
 with several children, whose " ]\Iuttersprache,'' how- 
 ever, is that of their father John, the elderly British 
 coachman, to whom Minna has been married — rides, 
 on a noble bay, a gamekeeping looking man. He 
 has a coarse Scotch cap on his head, which brings 
 out his countenance fully. It is an embrowned, 
 healthy, but not happy face ; it is full of knots and 
 lines ; a little ill-tempered. Minna curtsies as she 
 opens the gate that the bay would perhaps prefer to 
 leap : this gentleman is an old friend of ^linna's. 
 It is Mr. Saxon Worn ton, who, in the fulness of time, 
 lias succeeded to Wornton Hall property, a very 
 splendid property. He is a great man in the county, 
 as great as Lord Linchpin or Lord Ploughby ; for 
 he, too, is to be a peer one day — Baron Slumberton, 
 of Slumberton — in the next county. 
 
 You suppose he has jilted Mary and married some 
 one else ? a natural supposition about a man. But 
 not at all. He had been a very wild young man in 
 his day. He had travelled, like better persons, in 
 Boliemia : taking kindly to its encampments, its pot- 
 
MARRIAGE AGAIXST THE MODE. 253 
 
 au-feuy its deficiency of dinner service, and its lap of 
 beauty. But he had sown liis wild oats — the Jews 
 getting more than the tithes. He had been ambi- 
 tious, and had tried a short parliament as county town 
 member ; but had made for his home in disgust, partly 
 caused by finding that public speaking was not his vo- 
 cation — he therefore contemning government by talk. 
 He had taken of late to doing his duty as a country 
 gentleman ; as a sagacious and sympathetic landlord ; 
 as an anxiously kind employer ; as a discreet and tem- 
 perate magistrate ; and he was tolerably satisfied 
 with his function and his station on earth. He took 
 in BeWs Life ; and sport appeased his energies, as it 
 does those of a mass of Englishmen, who, if not so 
 employed, would he devoting their turbulent and 
 excitahle emotions to politics, and playing the deuce 
 with the constitution. 
 
 But he had never changed towards Mary Dasert, 
 as she had never changed to him. V^hy, then, is their 
 romance not rounded by marriage? Alas ! can you not 
 guess ? Mary Dasert, deceased, had left to her heir- 
 ess a statement of her birth and parentage, to be 
 opened before she married any one. INIary showed 
 this to Saxon Wornton within a week of the wedding- 
 
254 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 day ; wliicli liad been delayed by a quarrel with Lis 
 father, ending in prohibition, touching a better match 
 proj^osed. 
 
 When he liad read the document, she said 
 — " Saxon, I will never marry you." 
 
 He knew her now. and made no answer. So they 
 had startled Staffordshire by breaking off the mar- 
 riage, and yet by maintaining close intimacy. Thus 
 they bad lived four years. 
 
 Mary had become a county character, like her 
 lover; she effected social organizations of all sorts, 
 that did great good, and gave much comfort — 
 schools, hospitals, reformatories, emigration funds. 
 The people adored her; though all the clergymen, out 
 of whose hands she strangely kept these organizations, 
 were not profuse in praises of her. She was \eTj 
 independent. She subscribed to the Teaser, and read 
 German and French books that utterly routed the 
 clergymen. On the whole, she and Saxon led 
 healthy human lives ; and tlie world did not lose 
 that the happiness of this odd couple was not per- 
 fected. 
 
 Dismounting, and giving his horse to a groom, 
 Saxon strolled towards Mary. 
 
MARRIAGE AGAINST THE MODE. 255 
 
 " Mary, I have come to consult you." 
 
 " You do that very often, Saxon, but seldom do 
 what I advise." 
 
 He undid a knot or two of his face, smiling, and 
 switched away some rosebuds with his heavy whip. 
 She took the whip out of his hands. 
 
 Another knot or two gave way. 
 
 '• Why, in this case, Mary, you are likely to be 
 wiser than I. There's a woman in the business." 
 
 Yery visible were the freckles, as she alternately 
 paled and blushed. 
 
 " It's this. Some ladies, living in Brixton, near 
 London, have written to me, as a relative, to say that 
 a Mrs. Dwyorts, who is a daughter of old Lord Slum- 
 berton, whom I am to succeed to — and who, by the bye, 
 wanted to get money from me — that this young lady 
 has run away from her husband, to the care of those 
 ladies, who are also relatives, at Brixton ; and they 
 charge, as the reason of her running away, that the 
 husband, Dwyorts, iias a former wife living. It's a 
 bad affair : and as Lord Slumberton is in the West 
 Indies, a governor out there, and there is no time to 
 communicate, they appeal to me, as what they call the 
 head of the family; though I never met any of them." 
 
256 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 " What do they want you to do ? " 
 
 ^' They ask only for my advice. I suppose they 
 want a prosecution of the scoundrel/' 
 
 " Well, I suppose you must go up. Poor woman — 
 what a blow for one born and bred in the conven- 
 tional class ! " 
 
 " Well, hadn't you better come with me?" 
 
 '•I! what could I do?" 
 
 " Why, you see, the young lady may want — the 
 fact is, Mary, I think you understand bruised hearts, 
 and you could bring her back here and hide her till 
 we hear from her silly old sire." 
 
 " Very well. But might they not think it an 
 intrusion ? " 
 
 " We can see that." 
 
 '"' When shall we go ?"' 
 
 '•' There's a train at four this afternoon." 
 
 " I'll meet you at the station." 
 
 She gave him back his whip and kissed him, and 
 he went off ; and at four they started in a cowpe for 
 London, and talked about county business and some 
 new books ; and projected a tour together in Ger- 
 many, taking the broken Mrs. Diego Dwyorts with 
 them. 
 
CONTILiSTS IN TOILETS. 257 
 
 CHAPTEB XXIX. 
 
 CONTRASTS IX TOILETS. 
 
 When Mr. John Wortley, not having been long 
 in bed in his sumptuous mansion in Park Lane, was 
 roused by the Misses Hobson's express, he certainly 
 cursed and swore in a manner suggestive that in his 
 time he had seen very wild life indeed. But it was 
 calm, concentrated swearing ; and, ha\ang requested 
 a few buckets of water to be put into his shower 
 bath, he dressed and got on horseback, cleanly look- 
 ing and equable, and went down towards Brixton ; 
 dazzling every one on his way by the brightness of 
 his linen and the effulgence of his shirt studs. 
 
 Wlien he got to tiie villa, the old ladies were 
 sitting in a high state of expectancy. Xea was up- 
 stairs, sobbing, and longing to be with her sister — to 
 have her sister with her. 
 
 Mr. John Wortley listened to what they had to 
 tell him, and then whistled a nigger melody. 
 
 VOL. I. s 
 
258 FRIEXDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 '• John — John, don't whistle on a Sunday." 
 
 The less scrupulous Clara asked — " And now, 
 what shall we do, John?" 
 
 " Keep it quiet, mam." 
 
 " What, let such a villain escape?" 
 
 ^' I don't say Yes or No. But the young woman is 
 excited just now. So are you. You might regret 
 bringing the law in, if you acted in a huny. Give 
 her time to think. It's an affair for her family. Her 
 governor's a tip-top chap. Write to him. Mean- 
 while, I'll go and keep IMaster Diego quiet. You 
 see it may be managed. Diego says that the other 
 Imarriage was not a regular one." 
 
 '' What, you knew it, then?" 
 
 "I did, late last night, when the first wife came 
 into a room where we were dining." 
 
 "Oh! what's she like?" 
 
 " AYhy, she's a beauty — that's what she is. Why 
 he couldn't keep to such a one, /don't know." 
 
 " And she doesn't know that she also is betrayed?" 
 
 ^•' Doesn't she, though ? Ay, all about it : and 
 Itakes it cool." 
 
 " Why, she must be an improper woman." 
 
 " I don't know. It's all a matter of temper. 
 
CONTRASTS IX TOILETS. 259 
 
 Besides, Diego sticks to it, the first marriage was no 
 marriage at all; and it may all be settled. Send for 
 the relatives ; and I'll see Diego and the first wife. 
 Write at once." 
 
 A clear-headed vounu^ fellow this. 
 
 " And — give me some breakfast.'' 
 
 Clara and Bertha talked about the relatives as 
 Jack walked out of the room and went to order his 
 own breakfast. The servant girls giggled gi-eatly at 
 and with him in the kitchen, and on the spot he 
 undertook to be the godfather of all their children, 
 when these blessings arrived. 
 
 " The only relatives of hers that we know^," said 
 Clara, as he returned, " are an aunt, living at Hampton 
 Court, and the Wornton in Staffordshhe, who suc- 
 ceeds to Lord Slumbertons title." 
 
 '' The last will do well. But bring the other 
 in for form's sake." 
 
 And he proceeded to eat a very effective breakfast. 
 The old ladies were not altogether unhappy in the 
 excited activity of the sad event. And poor Nea 
 still sobbed. 
 
 The aunt from Hampton Court came down on her 
 in great state in a hired fly ; rated her, in stiff 
 
260 FraENDS of bohemia. 
 
 English, for her indecorous marriage ; abused her 
 brother, Lord Slumberton, with, that stately sense of 
 superiority which an old woman naturally acquires 
 who has outlived desires, and finds things go on com- 
 fortably in the great Palace of the Peerage's Paupers, 
 while there is understood to be a good deal of con- 
 fusion going on outside ; and then began to talk of 
 her own marriage, some forty years previously, with 
 the Honourable Mr, Mull, who appeared to have been 
 addicted to snuff much more than to his wife. 
 
 " And what do you advise should be done ? " asked 
 Clara, as the Honourable Mrs. IMull, having paid a 
 visit sufficiently long, left Xea's room to nibble a 
 luncheon, and ])repare for a return to the 'No Work 
 House, in the genteel fly. 
 
 " Oh ! madam, don't consult me ! I wash my 
 hands of the business. I am sufficiently disgraced 
 already. Publicity is not to my taste, I assure you. 
 They did not consult me about the marriage. I wash 
 my hands of it. You can write to my brother, and 
 ask him. But it is distinctly understood that I wash 
 my hands of it. Quite. Oh no ! I have no place to 
 receive my niece ; and as you are so kind, and don't 
 wash your hands of it, as I do, you will no doubt 
 
CONTRASTS IN TOILETS. 261 
 
 retain her here until my brother answers your letter. 
 I suppose he cannot wash his hands of it. But you 
 may tell him that I do." 
 
 And she took a napkin, as she set about eating, 
 as if to dry the hands after the complete lavation. 
 A dreadful old woman the Honourable Mrs. Mull ; 
 toothless, tottering to eternity, but still intensely 
 selfish, unsympathetic, and mth all her staggery 
 soul in the meal that she now chewed. Drive her 
 back fast, badly-liveried driver of the genteel fly : — 
 assuredly she is of no use outside the Pauper 
 Palace. Her gentility is so frightfully perfected, that 
 humanity can get nothing out of her. But don't 
 jolt her, driver, as she slumbers uneasily on the seat, 
 hard to her fleshless age — no, and don't smoke ; the 
 whiffs would get in between the crevices of the 
 clattering glass window, and titillate her into activity 
 tliat would inform on you with your master, dependent 
 on genteel connection. Land her gingerly at the 
 Pauper Palace ; and oh ! domestic there, take 
 care of her. Help her up the stairs to her own 
 cosy cell. Kemove her Indian shawl, costly covering 
 of that withered frame ; take off her front, and give 
 air to her heated scalp ; exchange those easy shoes 
 
2G2 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 for easier slippers ; let her rest on the sofa ; give- 
 her refreshing Bohea ; listen, maid, with deference 
 to her cross gossip and garrulous complaints ; 
 put her to bed, to her downy bed, in good time ; mix 
 her negus nicely; hush, as she doses. For, surely, 
 God has some purpose in having such beings on the 
 face of the earth ; — and tenderness to the inscrutable. 
 Mystically perfunctory perhaps is the Hon. Mrs. 
 Mull. 
 
 She lived a pious life, according to the Decalogue. 
 Well off, she repeated the eighth commandment with 
 unction. The seventh she gave out with a clear 
 conscience — at her age, with safety. She was quite 
 satisfied with herself " After all," she said, '^ I think 
 the drive to Brixton did me good ; I slept well after 
 it." Besides, she had something to talk about to the 
 other genteel pauper old ladies; and the Hon. Mrs. 
 Mull began to get invitations to tea parties. 
 
 When Mr. Saxon Wornton, afterwards introducing 
 Miss Dasert, made Nea's acquaintance, he found that 
 the best counsel he could give was to wait for advices 
 from Lord Slumberton. But Nea, understood by 
 and understanding Mary, eagerly agreed to go and 
 wait for the letters, down to Beechton. The Misses 
 
CONTRASTS IN TOILETS. 263 
 
 Hobson suggested that it was very odd that Miss 
 Dasert should live unprotected and alone in a 
 country-house ; but they did not make much resistance, 
 the doctor telling them that Xea needed change of air 
 and scene. 
 
 Saxon remained in town, and saw a good deal of 
 Mr. Wortley. Very indelicately, that gentleman in- 
 vited Therese to dinner one day that Saxon dined 
 with him. Men, ho^veverJ easily get over these things. 
 Saxon was delighted with Therese, and took her to 
 Greenwich and Richmond. 
 
 The club — patent machine for hatching canards — 
 talked a great deal untruly about Diego Dwyorts and 
 the story of his bigamy ; and Lord Slumberton's name 
 got into it, and took the story to other clubs ; and 
 the Quidnuncs exclaimed, as usual, T\Tio would have 
 thought it ? " Stick no bills here," ought to be 
 written on the inside walls of clubs. London, by 
 means of the clubs, lives in public. As the metro- 
 polis expands, town concentrates. Canards are the 
 media of exchange in clubs : you can't expect to 
 get a story unless you give one ; and thus every 
 thing becomes known about every body. One result 
 of this is, that satire is dying out. You meet every 
 
264 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 body, and cannot langh at any one. A great incon- 
 venience ! 
 
 Pleasant are niggers ; for if we had no niggers we 
 should have no sugar. And we should have had no 
 nisr^i^ers but for Ham's sense of humour : for he, the 
 
 DO ' 
 
 first satirist, was cursed ! In these days, a Ham gets 
 into a club — and advises his father about wines and 
 clothes. 
 
MEN OF BUSINESS. 265 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 MEN OF BUSINESS. 
 
 When Mr. John Wortley called that Sunday at 
 Mr. Diego Dwyorts's house, in Round Square, that 
 gentleman was still in bed ; but there was commotion 
 in the servants' hall at the absence of the lady of the 
 liouse. 
 
 Jack listened to their representations, and walked 
 up-stairs ; entered the room pointed out to him, and 
 locked the door. Diego awoke and stared stupidly. 
 
 " Feel that some one has been putting pickles in 
 your mouth over night, don't you ? Exactly. Like 
 hock and soda water, eh? I'll ring: I suppose you 
 have got it ? Tea instead ? well, that's better. And 
 now get up and take a bath, for I want to talk to 
 
 you." 
 
 The only satisfaction we have in being made of 
 clay is, that we can keep our exterior pure and 
 polished as a porcelain cup. Diego washed away 
 
2G6 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 dissipation, and reappeared rosy and sensuously 
 strong. ]\Ir. Wortley lolled on a couch, smoking, 
 and picking to pieces, in a moralizing sort of way, 
 the fragmentary bonnet torn from Nea's locks that 
 early morning. 
 
 " Now, Jack, what's the matter ? " 
 " Nothing much. Your wife has run away." 
 He bounded out of the chair into which he had 
 thrown himself. 
 
 Hoarse and ruf]^o:ed came the words — " You have 
 done this ! " 
 
 Jack had in his time walked up to a panther. He 
 put Diego down, and told all he knew. 
 
 " So, I think she'll keep quiet : and now you must 
 make arrangements. Ill go, if you like, and see 
 't'other, the pale-face squaw in Frith Street, and get 
 her, if I can, to sign a declaration that the marriage 
 with her was not the regular thing. Money '11 do it : 
 so you must settle with your father what hell 
 stand." 
 
 " He'll pay nothing. He is in difficulties." 
 " Well, I know lie has overdone the thing a little ; 
 but perhaps he'll turn the corner. If there is a blow- 
 up about you in the newspapers, it would harm him 
 
MEN OF BUSINESS. 267 
 
 and his credit ; and he must try and get her off with 
 a few thousands. Come. I'll lend 'em on his 
 security." 
 
 Let it be recollected how sudden had been Diego's 
 knowledge of such a thing as want of money, and his 
 I age may be conceived while undergoing this pecuniary 
 patronage. 
 
 " By the bye, Jack, you are young to have made 
 such a mass of money — how did you manage it ? " 
 
 The two men interchanged looks which left them 
 enemies. 
 
 " That's my business, Mr. Dwyorts. If your 
 governor clears the corner by the Spec I put him up 
 to, — and backed with £100,000 on the mortgage of 
 the Irish estate, — you'll now guess that I got my tin by 
 keen trade. Howsomever, that's not the point. You 
 see, I came to you because the old ladies sent for me, 
 to ask my ad\dce ; and precious surprised I was to 
 find myself some sort of a relation, in a roundabout 
 way, to your wife. I've given you my advice, as well 
 as them. I never keep back my ad\ice from any 
 body. Ever}^ one's always in a fluster, and lose their 
 heads in scrapes. Now, I'm always cool, and can take 
 sensible views." 
 
2G8 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 "My dear Woiiley, accept my sincere thanks. 
 Yes ! I must take your advice. k*ee Therese " 
 
 "That's the pale-face?" 
 
 " In Frith Street. I'll write to my father. He is 
 in Liverpool. It must come to his ears when old 
 Slumberton explodes ; so I better begin. But Therese 
 won't, I fear, take money. You must work upon her 
 generosity." 
 
 Diego Dwyorts had been told by his father, that 
 the life of a Prince had ended : he must begin at 
 trade ; and he had been dabbling of late in specula- 
 tions. Self-reliant and sanguine, he thought he saw 
 his way. His father had refused him money, and he 
 was hard pressed for funds to go into the city with 
 next day. Wlien Jack went off, Diego walked many 
 hours about the dressing-room, calculating his posi- 
 tion. He ended by writing two letters ; one to Nea, 
 entreating her mercy, in case Therese refused an 
 acknowledgment of the illegality of the former mar- 
 riage ; and another to his father, bluntly stating the 
 case. Then he took out a bill stamp, and across the 
 foot of it he wrote the name, " John Wortley." If 
 a certain speculation succeeded, he would take up this 
 bill ; if it didn't, he would fly to America. 
 
MEN OF BUSINESS. 269 
 
 This decided, he went to the club and dined, 
 calmly. 
 
 Mr. Diego Dwyorts had very white teeth — and 
 society was not to know that they were very tartary 
 behind. 
 
270 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 KEEPING UP APPEARANCES. 
 
 It is understood to be a great sight to see a good 
 man struggling with adversity. It seems to me that, 
 whether he is good or bad, the spectacle of a combat 
 of that sort is tenderly interesting. 
 
 Of course, there are different species of wolves, 
 according to the doors they are allotted to. Little 
 Eed Eidinghood's is vaguely lupine : something in 
 the dark, with a harsh voice and a horrible fanir. 
 Mazeppa, for a young man s sins, has his pach. The 
 unromantic wolf at the door of the poor curate or 
 poor clerk, with their parturient wives and nine 
 children — not one of whom would they throw to the 
 yelping monster — their small salaries and large 
 necessities in gentility — he is but a poor cur. The 
 w^olf that sits like a supporter at the great Park gates 
 — he is more heraldic, in or. But in any shape he is 
 an objectionable quadruped ; and God help those, big 
 
KEEPING UP APPEARANCES. 271 
 
 or little, he has run down ! Some day the land may 
 be cleared of him, with other wild beasts. 
 
 Awkward, that case where a gentleman rises in the 
 morning and hears, within one sensation, the rattle of 
 the skeleton in the house, and the bay of the wolf at 
 the door ! St. Anthony look down on him : and, John, 
 remove the razors. 
 
 See lSh\ John Dwyorts coming into Liverpool to 
 business. He is on the top of that nine o'clock 'bus that 
 is carrying merchant princes to 'Change from suburban 
 viUas. That polished red face, with its clear powerful 
 grey eye, is well brought out under the black hat, 
 above the glossy white linen. His arms are folded in 
 easy, strong repose across the Titan chest. Does he 
 not look a respectable man ? As he converses quietly 
 and smilingly with the merchant at his side — it is a 
 little scandal about Tom Fishy, who has left his wife 
 and ran away with Mrs. Towers, the handsome land- 
 lady of the Bricks' Arms — you see that there is a 
 prosperous man, riding happily at golden anchor in 
 the world. It's all right about that craft. 
 
 What piles of letters await Mr. John Dwyorts ! 
 The American mail had come in as he slept at night. 
 He stands at his desk, opens and reads with rapid 
 
272 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 comprehension. In the heap is a letter from Diego : 
 he puts that carefully away, to be looked at last. 
 
 In about an hour he comes to it ; reads it slowly ; 
 puts it down ; reads it again ; walks to the door, locks 
 the door, returns to the letter, and re-reads it 
 
 Affairs were very bad. He had no fortune for 
 Diego. He, in a blunder, had hurried Diego into a 
 crime. Altogether, things were failing. 
 
 The mercliant prince put his head on the desk, and 
 when he lifted it up, he looked older. That gTcat 
 frame had shaken : were those tears ? Not impos- 
 sible. Tears, like frogs, are now and again found 
 latent within stones and oaks. I have seen Fitzroy 
 Kelly cry like the honourable ]Mrs. Smithereens, who 
 weeps at the opera on any occasion ; and nothing is 
 impossible. 
 
 But when Mr. John Dwyorts was on 'Change, 
 shaking hands, he was much as usual. Wlien he 
 got into the express train in the afternoon to go to 
 London, he was much as usual. 
 
 One Manstein, travelling ages ago in Kussia, heard 
 a singular story. The Czar, annoyed at something or 
 other, had a citizen seized, placed in a darkened car- 
 riage, a dungeon on wheels, and driven about the 
 
KEEPING UP APPEAILVNCES. 273 
 
 country — none to speak to Lim the while — for twenty- 
 years ; at the end of which time, to none more unex- 
 pectedly than to himself, he was landed at his own 
 old door again. Whether or not his wife had mar- 
 ried again, his sons had dissipated his store, his friend 
 had written his biography, the corporation put up a 
 statue to him, or the townsfolk missed the statue, the 
 story sayeth not. But I have often thought there are 
 many of us have such careers. 
 
 TOL. L 
 
274 FRIENDS OF BOHE^IIA. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 BOHEMIAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 Brandt Bellars is leading a riant life among men, 
 and books, and papers ; enjoying indolence, the zest of 
 wliich was a consciousness of powers and energies 
 lying idly on the river bank — awaiting the tide that 
 was to come in his affairs. He is very popular and 
 very pleased. He does not do much good in the world ; 
 but then he does not do any harm. The men laugh 
 with him, and the women love him ; and he always 
 pitches a penny out to the organ-grinder. Perhaps 
 he would shew gi'eater benevolence if he made it a 
 fourpenny piece. But, though a careless man, Brandt 
 is not a reckless man. He has the instincts of a 
 genuine gentleman, and is scrupulous in his fallen 
 state to live within his income. So you see he spins 
 that penny out of the window to the Piedmontese 
 musician, because he cannot afford to be more foolish. 
 
 The new Eoman Catholic bishop, Emmett, is in 
 
BOHEMIAN LANGUAGE. 275 
 
 Loudon, on business that the evening papers are not 
 informed about with auy great accuracy ; and he is 
 breakfasting with his young friend, Bellars. 
 
 He broke his egg, and asked for the news. 
 
 " News, father ? Why, what would interest you ? 
 Jog has lost £40,000 by the Derby/' 
 
 " Literature — Politics." 
 
 ^' Oh ! nobody ever thinks about such things. Let's 
 see. Disraeli is writing ^ Sibthorpe, a Political Bio- 
 graphy.' Whately is editing Joe Miller. Lord John 
 Russell has announced a course of lectures on 
 Lithotomy." 
 
 " What is the state of the case about America ? " 
 
 '^ Why, the government of Washington has resolved 
 to attack Utah, and Great Britain is to defend the 
 Mormons. Why not ? We defended the Turks." 
 
 " Be serious ! Is it true that Louis Xapoleon con- 
 templates another coup detat, to marry all the heir- 
 esses in France to the sous-lieutenants ? " 
 
 "Very likely. We'd praise any thing he did in 
 our journals. Among the things you are required to 
 render unto Caasar, is his privilege to be something 
 very different from a Saint. I wish the Pharisees 
 were reconstructed as a profession : we have no one 
 
276 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 iio\v-a-days to arbitrate between what's good and 
 what's bad." 
 
 '' There is some talk of a dissolution being immi- 
 nent." 
 
 '• I'm ready to stand for Oshire." 
 
 " But are you heart and soul with the Independent 
 party.?" 
 
 ^' Honestly. What we want in Ireland is a fair 
 agrarian law, to protect the j^e^sants against the 
 landlords ; perfect religious equality, both churches 
 being disendowed ; these, with the natural develop- 
 ment of the country, under the wise laws of the 
 empire, would content us. But, to obtain these, we 
 must coerce the English government: English public 
 opinion will never meddle in our behalf We must 
 hold aloof then from English parties, maintain an 
 independent party, and watch our opportunities — 
 meanwhile, distinguishing ourselves, if we can, in 
 general debate. This is my policy: will that do, 
 father .?" 
 
 *'' Yes. I am pleased you are frank. I thought 
 you had some republican purposes in your head." 
 
 " Yes — were they possible. But prosaic good go- 
 vernment is all we can get : and I'm loyal." 
 
BOHEMLC^ LANGUAGE. 277 
 
 '' I want to see the Queen, Brandt." 
 
 '^ Come to the Opera to-night. There's essence of 
 England to see there." 
 
 '^ Ay, but beneath all that splendour this England 
 is rotten." 
 
 " You extract perfumes from flower-stalks ; and our 
 afi^ir is with the perfume, not with the stalks. The 
 opera is a nice, concentrated extract from humanity ; 
 gay and grand, with graceful, decked, dainty life : 
 and I hke it. Ah, those ladies ! The best point 
 about the British Constitution is, that the tendency of 
 the oligarchy is to produce the finest women in the 
 world." 
 
 " I'll show you as much beauty among the peasant 
 girls in Ireland.'* 
 
 " Better constitutions, perhaps ; but beauty — no ! 
 The world is but a rough material in the mass ; here 
 and there worked up. God rewards cultivation. 
 There's the plain and the garden. In the plain, the 
 flowers are pretty and fragi'ant. In the garden, 
 affluently fine. Civilisation is manure ; — product the 
 Opera. You'll come .?" 
 
 '^ I will. But what am I to do till four o'clock, 
 when I'm to meet members at the House .^" 
 
278 FKIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 *« We'll go to the Exhibitions." 
 
 They strolled into the streets. Brandt had studied 
 London with care, and was a good guide in the 
 great capital. 
 
 " If you were to stand at this corner for an hour, 
 you'd sec two-thirds of the celebrities of England pass 
 to or from the city, or from the courts, to or from the 
 west end. See, there are beggars — a Laocoon group — 
 entreating a banker. Grim of Lombard-street, for a 
 copper, and he won't give it ; and do you know why ? 
 He's a great patron of the Drama, particularly of 
 Miss Hugger and Mrs. Mugger ; but what he objects 
 to in these beggars is the professional whine, and the 
 artificial arrangement of the father and his children — 
 as if mendicancy mustn't have its arts. If you'll 
 watch those beggars (they are out now and brisk, 
 because they know this is the time when the police- 
 man is taking his beer into custody), they'll annoy a 
 hundred other people paying fortunes to the poor- 
 rates. It's capital fun to watch beggars." 
 
 " You're an unfeeling young man. You never 
 were poor yourself" 
 
 " Oh yes ! I assure you. I was once kept waiting 
 at Dover for a week, for a remittance to enable me to 
 
BOHEMIAN LANGUAGE. 279 
 
 pay my bill and the railway train. It was agony, 
 that poverty ; though the ' Ship ' has very good 
 sherry. One good thing came of the affliction. 
 There was no book in the house but the Bible, and I 
 read it nearly thi'ough — for the first time : actually 
 nearly through, and would have finished it, only a 
 man quarrelled w^ith me, and we had a duel." 
 
 " Tell me who some of these people are that are 
 passing." 
 
 " With pleasure. Do you see this stout gentleman 
 coming along? That's Mr. Jacetick, the renowned 
 parliamentary agent. He buys and sells England for 
 the Whigs. He would not do it for the Tories ; he's 
 a party man. When you want to get into parliament 
 on liberal principles, you go to Jacetick, and he says — 
 * It will cost you £3000.' And you give him a 
 cheque ; and he lands you, if he can (and he generally 
 does what he undertakes), on the floor of the House of 
 Commons, not eager to take the oaths, but frightfully 
 anxious to get to a seat. He's the broker of our national 
 disgrace — of our English decadence. He ought to be 
 a villain? Well, he isn't. He says, on all occasions, 
 that it's a shameful system, and that he's sick of it, and 
 that he wishes it done away with. What would you 
 
280 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 have ? It's his business to return members, and he does 
 return members ' as instructed/ and by the well under- 
 stood means of the day. He's an honest man. He would 
 scorn to go into the House of Commons himself: he 
 knoivs it. Catch it ever attacking him, in its most 
 frantic purity-periods : he's got half of it in his pocket, 
 and knows a variety of things about the other half 
 He's for the ballot. Why, do you think.? The 
 Christian says, 'Deliver us from temptation.' The 
 profounder parliamentary agent says — ' Bender sin 
 profitless.' His theory is, that you wouldn't give a 
 bribe to a man if you were not sure to know in tlie 
 end which way he voted. A low view of England, 
 isn't it ? Yet he does not look sad — walks proudly. 
 See, the beggar has attacked him : a beggar can never 
 stand : he looks about for the policeman, and will 
 report the policeman to Bayard — I mean Commissioner 
 Mayne." 
 
 " WTio are those over-jewelled men, driven so 
 dangerously past in that Hansom cab ? " 
 
 '* Socrates and Alcibiades — two great Greeks in the 
 city. They have promised the cabman five shillings 
 extra to catch a train : they are off to Constantinople 
 on some great speculation by the Dover mail. 
 
BOHEMIAN LANGUAGE. 2S1 
 
 English merclicaDts would Lave taken a cab in time, 
 and been at the station a quarter of an hour too soon. 
 But five shillings extra represents the system by 
 which the Greeks are beating the British in every 
 trade. The five shillings does not fall on individual 
 shoulders ; it is charged to a great Greek guild, 
 numbering more members than Athens had citizens, 
 and spread over Europe, and reconrpering the whole 
 of the Mediterannean trade, certainly. Their secret 
 is organization. The competitive Briton, sticking to 
 his small individuality, and with his old-world faith 
 in ' connections,' wonders why Plato, a Greek corn- 
 merchant on the same office floor, can drive a mistress 
 in a splendid mail phaeton. They work together, the 
 Greeks. They live together, too, in London. And 
 they are all sensualists: they all spend the money 
 they make — and they spend it in splendid vices. 
 They beat the wealthiest of our aristocracy out of 
 the field among the sellers of crack wines, crack 
 horses, crack ' femnies erdretenues.^ They are * queer 
 fellows ' even in trade ; which only half our traders 
 are ; but, as a guild, they are, like our corporations, 
 without conscience as individuals. Living in a 
 foreign capital, where the public opinion is not their 
 
282 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 public opinion, and envied, hated, and denounced, 
 because of their opinions in favour of the Kussian 
 emperor's policy, they do not scruple to traffic in us, 
 and exceed us, and humiliate us. They tried to 
 prevent the war. But, as they couldn't, they have 
 made more money out of it than our traders have. 
 They supplied the army they wished to see conquered. 
 Socrates can't read, and Alcibiades is very ugly. But 
 Socrates is unmarried, and gets good invitations ; and 
 Alcibiades is famous for his cigars, having bought 
 up one whole year's famous growth of Cabanas. 
 Aspasia smokes them at his rooms." 
 
 "Who's that tall pale man the dirty little man 
 is talking to .^" 
 
 "That's Blemish, the great railway personage. 
 The little dirty man is a lawyer's clerk, who has just 
 served some notice of action on him. Singular career, 
 Blemish's! When those glorious facts, railways — 
 which advance civilization, annihilate time, and so 
 on, and which are now all rotten concerns, a dead loss 
 of fifty per cent, to the original proprietors ; which 
 have created in London a district of villainy — the 
 railway engineers' district in Westminster — more 
 really foul than Alsatia ever was ; which have proved 
 
BOIIEMIAX L^VXGUAGE. 283 
 
 that, apart from liis geographical positioa and faculty 
 as a sailor, the Briton really is rather a simpleton, 
 incapable of practicality — when railways fii'st came 
 up, Blemish bought a bog on a coast. Fact I Hav- 
 ino^ bouo^ht the bo!2:, he advertised that the water con- 
 stituted a natural facility for the construction of docks, 
 and that docks, and railways to the docks, advanced 
 civilization. It was a hit. Blemish became chair- 
 man of the railway, and sold himself his own land; 
 chairman of the docks, and sold himself his own 
 swamps, and was rich. His character suffered, but 
 that did not prevent him going into new speculations ; 
 and he's in every thing. They are beginning to look 
 shy at his bills; but he'll turn up all right. My 
 belief is that he has buried his treasure, and, if he 
 goes through Basin ghall Street, will buy a province 
 in America or Turkey. 
 
 Blemish only cares about material pleasures. He's 
 an M.P., and they cut him rather about the House — 
 he has done such odd things. He doesn't care. He 
 lounges, with his hands in his pockets, about the 
 lobbies, and winks at you, and dines with Socrates, 
 and is a thoroughly happy man. I have met him. 
 I never met an abler man — pure, genuine, masterly 
 
284 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 brain. Though very unscrupulous, he is very gene- 
 rous. He would lie awake of a night to ^ do' you 
 out of a ten-pound note, and he would lend you £500 
 to-morrow. At his own parties — a great house in 
 Langham Place, where there are no men-servants, 
 but flocks of pretty female servants, in ribboned 
 little French caps — he gives you wine that cost ten 
 pounds a dozen ; and he perspires with agony of ap- 
 prehension when playing whist at a pound a point. 
 His only weakness is for marrying a peeress in her 
 own right, and he has over and over again instructed 
 his solicitor to look out for one: age no disquali- 
 fication." 
 
 " Who's that ? A bishop, surely." 
 
 " The Bishop of Bay. He rises at five every morn- 
 ing, and is never in bed before midnight, and will go 
 into no society. What do you think his occupation 
 is? Getting subscriptions — every bishop has a 
 natural tendency to get subscriptions — for a Juvenile 
 Reformatory. Arrange about the young pickpockets, 
 and all will be riglit with his country, and after all 
 these centuries the Redeemer will get attended to on 
 the earth. But he won't stick long to that : he has 
 a new philanthropy every year. His last was to 
 
BOIIEMIAX LAXGUAGE. 285 
 
 collect ticket-of-leave men, and marry tliem to widows 
 over forty years of age, and emigrate them to 
 Australia — hoping that the counteracting influence, 
 you understand, would induce the colony to receive 
 them. He regTcts the divisions in his church ; but 
 does not conceal his opinions, that if nobody made a 
 row about a schism when it occurs, the schism would 
 soon be forgotten. He is not popular with his clergy ; 
 but you bishops can't expect that. They say he 
 knows nothing of Greek, and he says it is much more 
 to the purpose to know the statistics of the Birming- 
 ham jail. 
 
 *'Look at that humiliated object, crawling along 
 with his bent back, showing the bones protruding so 
 as to endanger the skin and the cotton shirt. That's 
 a Chinaman, you see by the Tartar face ; picking up 
 a penny a day from Strand passengers who knew 
 him in liis heyday ; for he's had a heyday, and 
 was a hero of the Strand. He came over in the 
 junk that used to be such a sight in the Thames, and 
 when the junk was a novelty and paid, the Chinese 
 crew lived in fine style. This was the comic man, 
 and was quite a lion of the day with the cabmen and 
 women. But the junk has broken up and is gone ; 
 
286 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 and you see Jolm Chinaman, who formerly had plenty 
 of money, and spent it freely, and was barbered daily 
 for twopence into shininess, and dressed in all the 
 colours of Manchester and was happy, has sunk in the 
 world. That's the usual fate of the man about town : 
 after a year or two, you'll find tliem all very much 
 in the condition of John Chinaman. There ought 
 to be a society for decayed men about town." 
 
 "Who's that.?" 
 
 "A judge. Doesn't he seem complacent? He is 
 famous for improper adventures: and all improper 
 stories raised in London are invariably connected 
 with his name. But it is edifying to hear him sen- 
 tence a prisoner to death. I told him so once when 
 I met him at dinner, and he said — ^ Ah ! touched 
 the chords of your heart, did it .? ' A pleasant man. 
 The spring assizes have told a dreadful tale of the 
 depravity, the crime, the moral squalour, of our 
 British population. But he has quite recovered it, 
 you see, and has been jesting this morning, as 
 usual, on the bench at Westminster : of course, he's 
 very sorry ; but he takes the world as he finds it. 
 Why should not there be bells on the black cap — 
 out of court ? 
 
BOHEMIAN L.SJNGUAGE. 287 
 
 " There's the Duke of Beadleland. He lives in 
 No. 1, Decencies Terrace. An uprightj admirable man, 
 who always wins the cattle club prizes. He has been 
 raising his rents lately, in consequence of the extra- 
 vagant conduct of the Marquis of Bumble, his eldest 
 son, and many a hearth on his broad estates has been 
 made sad tliis year. But evidently now he has had 
 a most satisfactory interview with ]\Ir. Coutts, and 
 the Duchess is bringing out two daughters, the fair 
 Ladies Laces, this next season. See, he gives that 
 beggar a copper, and rubs the fingers of his glove 
 together, shaking away the momentary touch of the 
 mendicant. 
 
 " Here's a man ! That's Shylock, the theatrical 
 man, who is a blessing to London. They say he is 
 worth £100,000 — and yet when I went, ten years 
 ago, to see a friend in Cursitor-street, Shylock was 
 a bailiff. I dare not give you an idea of what 
 Shylock has gone through. Aspasia says she used 
 to know him as ^an agent' He kept ^Night- 
 houses.' He was the proprietor of that Juridical 
 Burlesque — the ' Wehmgericht.' He was the Long- 
 mans of unsightly literature in Diabolus-noster Eow. 
 What wasn't he ? Any thing to turn a penny — the 
 
288 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 dirtier the better: it weighed more. He now pro- 
 vides elegant entertainments for London ; lectures 
 on Shakespeare and is partial to musical glasses, 
 and has Wilhelmina Skeggs as a bloomer in the bar 
 of a Strand tavern. He says that, if the bishops 
 would put it in his hands, he'd make religion ' the 
 popular go,' and fill the churches, and bring 'em 
 down, sir. So he would. He offered the Censor 
 of Plays (a Marquis !) a £50 note, and to put him 
 on the free list, to be allowed to bring out a play 
 of Dumas Fils. He wants to know why he isn't 
 allowed to play Mrs. Behn's di^amas. ' What we 
 wants, shir,' he says, ' is raal life.' 
 
 " There's Mr. Crowner, a veritable London man, as 
 well known and as much part of the metropolis as 
 Temple Bar, a famous man in London, and out- 
 side London unknown. For we have our parish 
 heroes, just as Little Peddlington has. Crowner has 
 lately got up a Commission of Chemists, and has 
 proved that all our tradesmen adulterate all their 
 goods. That ought to suggest a revolution, ought it 
 not ? But it hasn't made much sensation ; and 
 Crowner hasn't been assaulted or poisoned. The fact 
 Isj we expect to be swindled in Eogland. Our con- 
 
BOHEMIAN LANGUAGE. 289 
 
 stitutioDj in which nothing is what it says it is, 
 prepares us for tliat. We do not like what Shylock 
 calls 'tlie raal thing.' A House of Commons 
 really representing the people, and a sovereign really 
 having power, would disgust us. When we ask for 
 coffee, it is understood that we mean ^ with a little 
 chicory.' When we say a Briton never shall be slave, 
 we mean that he shall never be turned black — that is 
 all. It is a cant against the poor tradesman. The 
 British tradesman, like the rest of us, sets to work in 
 the spirit of the British Constitution. Ali Baba, in 
 Britain, takes for granted, when he goes to market, 
 that there is a great proportion of thief in each jar. 
 
 Adulteration is self-defence. Sham begins and 
 sham ends. The sham sovereign who has, or is sup- 
 posed to have, no power, goes with sham beef-eaters 
 and sham yeomen to open with a sham speech a 
 sham parliament ; a sham sword-bearer on one 
 side of her, and a Lord Chancellor with sham hair on 
 his head on the other. Peers there have a sham 
 costume on ; and some of the Peeresses have sham 
 hips, sham heels, sham cheeks. They come and go, 
 all there, in carriages emblazoned with sham animals, 
 couchant and rampant over mottoes that are shams, 
 
 VOL. I. u 
 
290 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 and that nobody acts up to. The Lord Mayor s show, 
 and his men in armourj and his barge, and his 
 Temple Bar keys, are shams : and he's a sham, for he 
 pretends to be a result of civil and religious liberty ; 
 while the real truth is. not that the Jews have got up 
 to be Lord Mayors, but that the Lord Mayoralty, 
 whom scarcely any citizen will take, has gone down 
 to the Jews.* Our Cathedrals are shams ; we can t get 
 into them without paying, and we wouldn't go into 
 them if they were costless. Our be-pewed churches of 
 the creed of human equality are shams ; our be-epi- 
 taphed churchyards are shams. Our church bells are 
 shams ; the neighbourhood uses them as dinner bells 
 and luncheon bells. And nobody is ashamed of 
 sham. Look into the window of that female garment 
 warehouse. Look at the ostentatious display of 
 ^ silk hose ' that are cotton to within six inches of the 
 instep ; at the bustles, and the crinolines, and the 
 frizzes to swell the hair out. All we Bachelors 
 get to women's toilet tables when we choose, by 
 looking in at these windows. I've stood by the 
 hour at this shop-door to watch women entering 
 
 * This was written in reference to the excellent Mayoralty of 
 Mr. Salomons. 
 
BOHEMIAN LANGUAGE. 291 
 
 to purchase shams ; and I never saw one lady blush 
 
 yet." 
 
 '' Who is that over-dressed old woman in that 
 shining brougham ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Carey, who deals in chickens. She has a 
 grand mansion in Pimlico, which the Earl of Harridan 
 bought for her. She is rich; those jewels about her 
 are real. Like The Times, she has correspondents in 
 all parts of the world to pro\^de her with fresh 
 canards, fit for a jaded market of old Marquises. 
 Watch her pass Northumberland House. There is 
 a recess there in the wall, made by the bricking up 
 of a door, and there is an old woman in rags, stand- 
 ing there, having crept within the bar, and selling 
 dirty apples to unappeased little boys. Doesn't that 
 wretched figure look a dismal ' supporter ' at the 
 side of the porch of the Percies ? Does it not signify 
 a good deal of the veritable supporters of modem 
 Ducal houses ? Well, there is a legend that that old 
 woman is the sister of Mrs. Carey. They began life 
 together as beauties, in the same trade ; but, you see, 
 talents are divided in families. Mrs. Carey gives the 
 apple — old symbol of love! — decked out on straw- 
 berry-leaves to the most beautiful ; her sister, Bet, 
 
292 FRIENDS OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 sells apples to flat-nosed, frank little boys, and 
 they very often take advantage of her barred-in 
 condition to run away without paying. Her booth 
 suffers like the rest of the booths in the Fair ; 
 but the county court avails her not. Poor old 
 woman ! I'll give her a copper next time I pass. 
 She has been avs^ully wicked, no doubt ; but I 
 dare say has suffered enough. If I were Duke Dives 
 I wouldn't have Mrs. Lazarus at the gate, but take 
 her in, and give her a corner to warm in, and a bone 
 to gnaw. Or I'd give her into custody; of course, 
 we know best : that the workhouse would be the best 
 place for her. Yet she prefers, in a cold, drizzly 
 day, that prison there, where she earns twopence 
 a- day ! It's hard to manage the poor. 
 
 ^' There's a maniac, though he looks so quiet. His 
 hobby is an odd one. He has been now to see the 
 Committee of Exeter Hall, and has come away furious 
 because they will not give him a room for a meeting. 
 He is a friend of the savage, and he wants to get up 
 a meeting for the conversion of the missionaries. 
 Blasphemous, isn't it ? " 
 
 " How is it you know all these people ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I am a member of the society of the Friends 
 
BOHEMIAN LA^'GUAGE. 203 
 
 of Bohemia ; it's our business to collect all such facts, 
 in order to establish arguments for the restoration and 
 independence of Bohemia. Until the delusion of the 
 power of humbug is dissipated, and Bohemia again 
 influences the politics as well as the literature and 
 art of the world, we shall never have a proper state 
 of things. Shall have great pleasure in introducing 
 to you Perdita, our queen — a direct descendant, T 
 assure you, of the Perdita who married Florizel, a 
 Prince of Bohemia, in Queen Hermione's time." 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 UMITU, ELDER, AXD CO., 65, COBNHILI- 
 
NEW NOVELS-JUST PUBLISHED. 
 
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RECENT NOVELS BY POPULAR AUTHORS. 
 
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 2.— TENDER AND TRUE. By the Author of " Clara Morison." 2 Vols. 
 
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 1 
 
February^ 1857. 
 
 31 a(HlaUD«i[ 
 
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 NEW AND STANDARD WOEKS, 
 
 PCBLISHED BY 
 
 SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 
 
 65, CORNHLLL, LO^^DON. 
 
 Jit i\\t jjrijss. 
 
 I. 
 
 MRS. GASKELL'S MEMOIRS OF CURRER BELL. 
 
 Preparing for Publication, in Two Volumes, Post 8i'o, with a Portrait, 
 
 THE LIFE OF CHAELOTTE BEONTE, 
 
 Author of "Jane Eyee," "SniELEY," " Villette," &c. 
 
 By MES. GASKELL, 
 
 Author of «' Mary Barton," " Euth," " North and South." 
 
 II. 
 DISCOVERIES IN KERTCH AND THE CRIMEA. 
 
 Nearly leady, ill One Handsome Volume, Imperial Quarto, with numerous Illustrations, 
 including Ten Coloured Fac- Similes of Relics of Antique Art, 
 
 ANTIQUITIES OF KEETCH, 
 
 AXD EESEAECHES IN THE CIMMEEIAN BOSPHOEUS. 
 
 By DUNCAN McPIIEESON, M.D., of the Madras Army, 
 
 Fellow of the Eoyal Geographical Society, ]\Iember of the Archaeological 
 
 Institute, Inspector-General of Hospitals to the late Turkish Contingent, 
 
 and Author of " Two Years in China." 
 
 Price Thirty Shillings to Subscribers ordy. 
 
 The Price will be raised to Two Guineas on the day of Publication. 
 
 ■■ * 
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 III. 
 MR. RUSKIN ON DRAWING. 
 
 Shortly will be published, in %vo, with Illustrations by the Author. 
 
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 By JOHN EUSKIN, M.A., 
 
 LUthor of " Modern Pamters," " Stones of Venice," " ^even Lamps of 
 
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Works Published by 
 
 THE LIFE AND COERESPONDENCE OF 
 SIR JOHN MALCOLM, G.C.B. 
 
 By JOHX WILLIAM KAYE, 
 Two Volumes, %vo. With Portrait, Price 36s. cloth. 
 
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 LIFE AND SERMONS OF DR. JOHN 
 TAULER, OF Strasburg (1340). 
 
 Translated from the German, with Notices of Tauler's Life and Times, 
 including some Account of the " Friends of God," 
 
 By Miss SUSAXNA WINKWORTH. 
 
 And a Preface by the Eev. CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
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Smif/f, Elder and Co. 3 
 
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Works Published hy 
 
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 XL 
 
 THE EUROPEAN REVOLUTIONS OF 1848. 
 
 By EDAVARD CAYLEY. 
 
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 " Mr. Cayley has produced a book which is in many respects good, which might have bet 
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 the author. It is also in the main practical and sound." — Times. 
 
 XII. 
 
 SIGNS OF THE TIMES: or, The Dangers; 
 
 TO Religious Liberty in the Feesent Day. 
 
 By the CHEVALIEK BUXSEN. 
 Translated by Miss Susanna Winkwoeth. 
 
 One Volume f ^vo, price 16s. cloth. 
 
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 xm. 
 ROUND THE FIRE: Six STORiEst 
 FOR Young Readers. \ 
 
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 If 
 
 I 
 
Smith, ^ Icier and Co. 
 
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 Imperial 8ro, icith Tliirtij-five Illustrations engraved on Steel, 
 and 116 Woodcuts, drawn by the Author, price 21. lOs. cloth. 
 
 * * * Considered as an illustrated volume, this is the most remarkable which Mr. Ruskin has 
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 ieelmg, and keen power of expression are the qualities which go to the making of an artist, and 
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 " The present volume of Mr. Ruskin's elaborate work treats chiefly of mountain scenery, and 
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 ie earnest denunciation of cant, fomi irresistible attractions. You may quarrel with tlie critic, 
 ut you cannot fail to admire the writer and respect the man. High thoughts, clothed in elo- 
 uent language, are the characteristics of Mr. Ruskin's productions. **«**«» 
 he present volume contains the most connected exposition of the author's theory which he has 
 fit given to the world." — Daily News. 
 
 " All art is one, and Mr. Ruskin writes of painting with the ever present consciousness of 
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 lanent charm to his writings. Interesting as they are to painters, they almost equally fascinate 
 le general public, because in them may be read rare criticisms of natural appearances and of 
 tistic representations. * * * We must all feel subdued by his eloquence, enlightened by 
 s novel views, stimulated by his thoughts, instructed by his accurate observations of nature. 
 ich a writer is really a national possession. He adds to our store of knowledge and enjoy- 
 ent." — Leader. 
 
 III. 
 
 MODERN PAINTERS, Yol. IIL 
 
 OF MANY THINGS. 
 
 With Eighteen Illustrations drawn hy the Author, and 
 
 engraved on Steel, price 38s. cloth. 
 
 " This book may be taken up with equal pleasure whether the reader be acquainted or not 
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 )ry of human development — every one who has a tinge of literature or philosophy, will find 
 nething that is for him in this volume." — Westminster Review. 
 
 * Mr. Ruskin's third volume of ' Modem Painters' will be hailed vrith interest and curiosity, 
 not with submissive attention, by the Art- world of England. » » » Mr. Ruskin is in 
 Bsession of a clear and penetrating mind ; lie is undeniably practical in his fundamental ideas ; 
 U of the deepest reverence for all that appears to him beautiful and holy, and, though owning 
 
 very strong preferences, founding those preferences on reason. * » » His style is, as 
 nal, clear, bold, and racy. Mr. Ruskin is one of the first ^vTiters of the day." — Economist. 
 " ITie present volume, viewed as a literary achievement, is the highest and most striking 
 idence of the author's abilities that has yet been published. It shows the maturity of his 
 wers of thought, and the perfection of his grace of stj'le." — Leader. 
 
 * All, it is to be hoped, will read the book for themselves. They will find it well worth a 
 refill perusal. This third volume fully realizes the expectations we had formed of it." — 
 iurday Review. 
 
6 Works Published by 
 
 IV. 
 
 MODEEN PAINTEES. 
 
 Imperial Svo. Vol. I. Fifth Edition, I8s. cloth. 
 
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 critics will learn to admire, and mere admirers will learn how to criticise : thus a public will be 
 educated." — Blackirood's Magazine. 
 
 " A generous and impassioned review of the works of living painters. A hearty and earnest 
 work, full of deep thought, and developing great and striking truths in art." — British Quarterly 
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 "A very extraordinary and delightful book, full of truth and goodness, of power and 
 beautj'." — North British Review. 
 
 THE STONES'OF VENICE. 
 
 Now complete in Three Volumes, Imperial Svo, with Fifty-three Plates ai^ 
 
 numerous Woodcuts, draicn hy the Author. 
 
 Price 51. I5s. 6d., in embossed cloth, with top edge gilt. 
 
 EACH VOLUME MAY BE HAD SEPARATELY, VIZ.— 
 Vol. I. The Foundations, with 21 Plates, price 21. 2s. 
 Vol. II. The Sea Stories, with 20 Plates, price 21. 2s. 
 Vol. m. The Fall, with 12 Plates, price 11. lis. 6d. . 
 
 " This book is one which, perhaps, no other man could have written, and one for which the 
 world ought to be and will be thankful. It is in the highest degree eloquent, acute, stimulaii' 
 to thought, and fertile in suggestion. It shows a power of practical criticism which, when fix 
 on a definite object, nothing absurd or evil can withstand ; and a power of appreciation whiei 
 has restored treasures of beauty to mankind. It will, we are convinced, elevate taste anr 
 intellect, raise the tone of moral feeling, kindle benevolence towards men, and increase the lov. ! 
 and fear of God." — Times. . 
 
 " The ' Stones of Venice' is the production of an earnest, religious, progressive, and infonne* 
 mind. The author of this essay on architecture has condensed into it a poetic apprehension, tb! 
 fruit of awe of God, and delight in nature; a knowledge, love, and just estimate of art; f\ 
 holding fast to fact and repudiation of hearsay ; an historic breadth, and a fearless challenge e 
 existing social problems, whose union we know not where to find paralleled." — Spectator. 
 
 " No one who has visited Venice can read this book without having a richer glow throwi 
 over his remembrances of that city , and for those who have not, Mr. Ruskin paints it with a 
 firmness of outline and vividness of colouring that will bring it before the imagination witb 
 the force of reality." — Literary Gazette. 
 
 " ThLs work shows that Mr. Ruskin's powers of composition and criticism were never ll 
 greater force. His eloquence is as rich, his enthusiasm as hearty, his sj-mpathy for all that if 
 high and noble in art as keen as ever. The book, like all he writes, is manly and high-minded 
 and, as usual, keeps the attention alive to the last." — Guardian. 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE SEVEN LAMPS OF ARCHITECTUEE. 
 
 Second Edition, with Fourteen Plates drawn by the Author. 
 Imperial Svo, 11. Is. cloth. 
 
 "By the 'Seven Lamps of Architecture,' we understand Mr. Ruskin to mean the sever 
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 the architect, wlio would deserve tlie name. The politician, the moralist, the divine, will fiai 
 in it ample store of instructive matter, as well as the artist. The author of tlus work belong! | 
 to a class of thinkers of whom we have too few among us." — Examiner. ! 
 
 "ilr. Ruskin's bfjok bears so unmistakeably the marks of keen and accurate observation,© 
 a true and subtle judgment and refined sense of beauty, joined with so much earnestness, « 
 noble a sense of the purposes and business of art, and such a command of rich and glowinj 
 language, that it cannot but tell powerfully in producing a more religious view of the uses 
 architecture, and a deeper insight into its artistic principles." — Guardian. 
 
 " A lively, poetical, and thoughtful book ; rich in refined criticism and glowing eloquence | 
 Mr. Ruskin's poetry is always to the purpose of his doctrines, and always the vehicle of acot< 
 thotight and profound feeling." — Eraser's Magazine. 
 
Sinifh, Elder and Co. 
 
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 VII. 
 
 LECTURES ON ARCHITECTURE AND PAINTING. 
 
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 will command public attention. His style is terse, vigorous, and sparkling, and his book is both 
 animated and attractive." — Economist. 
 
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 and the most learned technical criticism in which the heart and the senses own no interest." — 
 Spectator. 
 
 vm, 
 NOTES ON THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES EXHIBITED 
 AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY, and the SOCIETY OF 
 PAINTERS IN WATER COLOURS. No. II.— 1856. 
 
 Sixth Edition^ ivith Postscript. 8vo, price 6d. 
 IX. 
 
 PRE-RAPHAELITISM. 
 
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 X. 
 
 THE OPENING OF THE CRYSTAL PALACE; 
 
 Considered in some of its relations to the Prospects of Art. 
 
 8yo, price Is., sewed. 
 
 " An earnest and eloquent appeal for the preservation of the ancient monuments of Gothic 
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 XI. 
 
 THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIYER; 
 
 OR, THE BLACK BROTHERS. 
 
 Third Edition., with 22 Illustrations hy Hichard Doyle. 25. 6^. 
 
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 XII. 
 
 EXAMPLES OF THE ARCHITECTURE OF VENICE, 
 
 SELECTED AKD DRAWN TO MEASUREMENT FROM THE EDIFICES. 
 
 In Parts of Folio Imperial size., each containing Five Plates^ and a short 
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 PARTS I. TO ni. AKE PUBLISHED. 
 
 Fifty India Proofs only are taken on Atlas Folio, price 21. 2s. each Part. 
 
8 Works Published by 
 
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 I I 
 
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Smithy Elder and Co. 
 
 LECTURES ON the ENGLISH HUMOURISTS 
 
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 WUTHERING HEIGHTS and AGNES GREY. 
 
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10 . Works PuhlisJted by 
 
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 THE EYE OF ST. MARK: a Romance of Venice. 
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 OLIVER CROMWELL : T Story of the Civil Wars. 
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Smith, Elder and Co, 1 1 
 
 TENDER a"n D TRUE. 
 
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 " A novel far above the average. It is charmingly written, has sustained and continued 
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 VIII. 
 
 YOUNG SINGLETON. By Talbot Gwynne, 
 
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 " Power of description, dramatic force, and ready invention, give vitality to the story." — Press. 
 
 IX. 
 
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fr^M 
 
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